I shall, the instant I find one with the beauty of an Italian,
the grace of a French girl, the truth and tenderness of a German, the
health of an Englishwoman, and--'

'Draw it mild, my boy,' broke in Uncle Bill: 'here she comes!'

Caper and his uncle were standing, as the latter spoke, under the group
of stone pines, from whose feet there was a lovely view of the Albanian
snow-capped mountains, and they saw coming toward them two ladies. There
was the freshness of the morning in their cheeks, and though one was
older than the other, joy-bringing years had passed so kindly with her,
that if Caper had not known she was the mother of the younger lady--they
would have passed for sisters. When he first saw them, the latter was
gathering a few violets; when she rose, he saw the face of all others he
most longed to see.

He had first seen her the life of a gay party at Interlachen; then alone
in Florence, with her mother for companion, patiently copying the Bella
di Tiziano in the Pitti palace; then in Venice, one sparkling morning,
as he stepped from his gondola on the marble steps of a church, he met
her again: this time he had rendered himself of assistance to the mother
and daughter, in procuring admittance for them to the church, which was
closed to the public for repairs, and could only be seen by an especial
permit, which Caper fortunately had obtained. They were grateful for his
attention, and when, a few days afterward, he met them in company with
other of his American friends, and received a formal introduction, the
acquaintance proved one of the most delightful he had made in Europe,
rendering his stay in Venice marked by the rose-colored light of a new
love, warming each scene that passed before his dreamy gaze. But other
cities, other faces: memory slept to awake again with renewed strength
at the first flash of light from the eyes of Ida Buren, there, over the
spring violets of the Villa Borghese.

The meeting between Mrs. Buren, her daughter, and Caper, was marked, on
the part of the ladies, with that cordiality which the truly well bred
show instinctively to those who merit it--to those who, brave and loyal,
prove, by word and look, that theirs is the right to stand within the
circle of true politeness and courtesy.

'And so,' Mrs. Buren concluded her greeting, 'we are here in Rome,
picking violets with the dew on them, and waiting for the nightingales
to sing before we leave for Naples.'

'And forget,'