The beauty of the scene, which in her struggle had seemed to weaken and unnerve her, stole now into her heart and comforted her; and all the time there rang in her ears the message that the bells had brought her “Who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross.” “Taking a siesta?” said a voice above her. She looked up and saw her father. “I've rather a headache,” she replied. “Enough to give you one, my child, to lie there in the sun without an umbrella,” he said, putting up his own to shelter her. “Such a May noonday in Italy might give you a sunstroke. What was your doctor thinking of to allow it?” “Brian? Oh, he has gone over to those hills; we are not to wait for him, he wanted a walk.” “Quite right,” said Raeburn. “I don't think he ought to waste his holiday in Italian cities, he wants fresh air and exercise after his London life. Where's your handkerchief?” He took it to the little stream, put aside the overhanging bushes, dipped it in the water, and bringing it back laid it on her burning forehead. “How you spoil me, PADRE MIO,” she said with a little laugh that was sadder than tears; and as she spoke she slipped down to a lower step and rested her head on his knee, drawing down one of his strong hands to shade her eyes. He talked of his sketch, of his word-skirmish with the basket women, of the view from the amphitheatre; but she did not much hear what he said, she was looking at the hand that shaded her eyes. That strong hand which had toiled for her when she was a helpless baby, the hand to which she had clung when every out her support had been wrenched away by death, the hand which she had held in hers when she thought he was dying, and the children had sung of “Life's long day and death's dark night.” All at once she drew it down and pressed it to her lips with a child's loving reverence. Then she sat up with a sudden return of energy. “There, now, let us go home,” she exclaimed. “My head aches a little still, but we won't let it spoil our last day but one in Florence. Didn't we talk of San Miniato for this afternoon?” It was something of a relief to find, on returning, an invitation to dinner for that evening which Raeburn could not well refuse. Erica kept up bravely through the afternoon, but when she was once more alone her physical powers gave way. She was lying on her bed sick and faint and weary, and with the peculiarly desolate feeling which comes to most people when they are ill in a hotel with all the unheeding bustle going on around them. Then came a knock at her door. “Entrate,” she said quickly, welcoming any fresh voice which would divert her mind from the weary longing for her mother. A sort of wild hope sprung up within her that some woman friend would be sent to her, that Gladys Farrant, or old Mrs. Osmond, or her secularist friend Mrs. MacNaughton, whom she loved best of all, would suddenly find themselves in Florence and come to her in her need.