Meanwhile, health returned to me. We stayed at Pisa until I was convalescent, then moved to the sea. His poem and my thoughts occupied us severally; they were good and peaceful days. Now and again the heart rebelled against the severity of the spirit, but, take it all in all, a great calm was upon me. One evening in September, Gabriel and I were leaning out of my window; it was almost dark; the occasional footfall of a passenger fell on the stones of our quiet street; some men were singing in the trattoria round the corner; we two leant there in silence, counting the stars as they came. "Gabriel," said I, "I have had a letter from Constance. I am afraid she is not very happy at Graysmill; her mother worries her; she sounds lonely and not over well. Shall we go home a while?" Gabriel shifted his feet, and turned the latch of the shutter round and round. "No," he replied; "I think not;" I mean, if you feel you want to see Constance, go, Emilia, only don't leave me too long. I had rather stay here. I have been thinking it over of late, and I see no reason why I should ever return to England." "But, dearest one," said I, "your father!" "I have thought of that. I long to see him, and Jane, too. You go home, Emilia, and bring them back with you. We four can live out here in Italy forever, live and die here." "But Constance?" said I, then. There was a long silence. The latch of the shutter whirled round and round. "Oh, Constance," said he; "yes, it's hard on Constance. She will have to live with her mother and your step-uncle, I suppose." "No," I replied; "I should never allow that. But we can arrange about Constance when we see her; we can talk it over together. I cannot go without you, Gabriel. There is no reason why we should stay there long,--only come with me you must." He held out for some days, but in the end I conquered. We passed through Florence on the way, and there beside my mother's grave I put forth the first, the only prayer I ever made,--a wordless yearning towards the Inconceivable, a prayer for strength and the Light of Truth. * * * * * We reached Graysmill on the nineteenth of September. My impatience was so great that, in spite of Gabriel's displeasure at what he called my rashness, I would not stay in London on the way, but we travelled straight down, reaching Fletcher's Hall at midnight. Aunt Caroline was down to receive us, for I had sent a telegram from Dover; upstairs, my dear old woman was sitting up in bed with sweet, wrinkled smiles beneath her frilled night-cap. I was very glad to be home again; my heart felt warm. I sent Aunt Caroline to bed, much against her will, and then Gabriel and I sat down to drink the tea he had wished for, beside the fire in the breakfast-room. Gabriel was very white, his eyes shone all too brightly; again and again I saw him put his hand to his brow, a trick he had when he was nervous.