se allied
himself with the great. M. Alexandre brought his welcome with him, in his
delightful recitations from the poets. Mr. Lytton, having accepted Mrs.
Browning's invitation given to him on his Bellosguardo terrace, now
appeared; and the Storys and the Brownings organized a _festa_, in true
Italian spirit, in an excursion they should all make to Prato Fiortito.

Prato Fiortito is six miles from Bagni di Lucca, perpendicularly up and
down, "but such a vision of divine scenery," said Mrs. Browning. High
among the mountains, Bagni di Lucca is yet surrounded by higher peaks of
the Apennines. The journey to Prato Fiortito is like going up and down a
wall, the only path for the donkeys being in the beds of the torrents that
cut their way down in the spring.

Here, after "glorious climbing," in which Mrs. Browning distinguished
herself no less than the others, they arrived at the little old church,
set amid majestic limestone mountains and embowered in purple shade. Here
they feasted, Penini overcome with delight, and on shawls spread under the
great chestnut trees Mrs. Browning and Mrs. Story were made luxuriously
comfortable, while they all talked and read, M. Alexandre reciting from
the French dramatists, and Lytton reading from his "Clytemnestra." The
luncheon was adorned by a mass of wild strawberries, picked on the spot,
by Browning, Story, Lytton, and Alexandre, while the ladies co-operated in
the industry at this honestly earned feast by assisting to hull the
berries. The bottle of cream and package of sugar tucked away in the
picnic basket added all that heart could desire to this ambrosial
luncheon. Mrs. Story, whom Mrs. Browning described as "a sympathetic,
graceful woman, fresh and innocent in face and thought," was a most
agreeable companion; and she and Mrs. Browning frequently exchanged
feminine gossip over basins of strawberries and milk in each other's
houses, for strawberries abounded in these hills. "If a tree is felled in
the forests," said Mrs. Browning, "strawberries spring up just as
mushrooms might, and the peasants sell them for just nothing."

One night when the Brownings were having tea with the Storys, the talk
turned on Hawthorne. Story, of course, knew the great romancer, whom the
Brownings had not then met and about whom they were curious. "Hawthorne is
a man who talks with a pen," said Story; "he does not open socially to his
intimate friends any more than he does to strangers. It isn't his