At Lucie's side I stood in silence, gazing down upon the gay scene below. In those people's eyes were always dreams, and in the memories there was always greatness. A writer has asked with deep truth, who, having known fair Tuscany, can forsake her for lesser love? Who, having once abode with her, can turn their faces from the rising sun and set the darkness of the Pisan mountains betwixt herself and them? Yes. I had been back again in Tuscany for those few brief hours only, yet the glamour of Italy had again fallen upon me, that same glamour that holds so many of the English-speaking race--irrevocably compelling them to return again and again to those amethystine hills and mystical depths of seven-chorded light--the land that is grey-green with sloes and rich with trailing vines, the land of art and antiquity, of youth and of loveliness. "And your father went on from Pisa?" I said at last, turning to my neat-waisted little companion. "He did not come home with you?" "No. He has some urgent business down in Rome, and sent me back here to wait for him." "When does he arrive?" "He does not know. His business is very uncertain always. Sometimes when he goes away he's absent only three days, and at other times three months. Dear old dad is awfully tiresome. He never writes, and Marietta and I wait and wait, and wonder what's become of him." "Is he staying with friends in Rome?" "With Dr Gavazzi, a great friend of ours." "You left Studland very suddenly," I said. "Because of a telegram. We left at once, with hardly an hour to pack up. But how did you know we had gone to Italy?" "I called after you had left, and your aunt told me. I wanted to speak to you, Miss Miller," I added, turning to her seriously. "I came here to Leghorn purposely to see you." "It's surely a long way to travel," she said, turning her soft dark eyes upon mine and regarding me with wonder. "Yes. But the reason I am here is to consult you regarding something which very closely concerns myself--regarding Ella." "Ah! It was strange that she left us so suddenly," she remarked, "and stranger still the events of that night. I wonder who attacked her? She recognised her assailant, otherwise she would have said something to me. I've thought over it several times. The whole thing is an utter enigma. She evidently left us because she feared that her assailant would either call to see her, or perhaps make another attempt upon her." "Then she said nothing to you?" "Absolutely not a word, even though when she came in she was half fainting. I naturally concluded that you and she had had some words, and therefore I made no inquiry." "We had no words, Miss Miller," I said, in a low, serious voice. "Our hearts were too full of tragedy for that." "Of tragedy?" she cried. "What do you mean?" "Ella is already engaged to be married." "Engaged?" she cried. "Why, I thought she was to be yours? I was congratulating you both!"