, through the budding trees.
"Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose
there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But
there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper,
ashamed that the same work eternally through both."

No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the
carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill.
A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty
olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road,
still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which
stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet,
covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of
Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended
it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to
business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen
that view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards
had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had
he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And
Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had
become equally enthusiastic.

But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your
head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting. And
the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest.

The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep
together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions.
Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss
Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the
drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in
common, were left to each other.

The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper
that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio
Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson
what his profession was, and he had answered "the railway." She was very
sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a
dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned
the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not
very much hurt at her asking him.

"The railway!" gas