Edith. "I cannot feel as if travel were doing her good.
She is changing so; she was always odd, but then she was always happy.
Now she has her moods, and there is a look in her eye I am afraid of. It
is almost savage. You would think the beauty in Rome would delight her
nature, for she craves beauty and poetry in everything. I don't believe
the theatre is good for her. Albert, suppose we give up our tickets for
Thursday night."

"But you want particularly to see that play, Edith."

"I can easily give it up for Mae's sake. It would be cruel to go without
her, and I think excitement is bad for her."

"You are very generous, Edith, and right, too, I dare say. I wish my
little sister could see pleasure and duty through your steadier, clearer
eyes."

Then the steady, clear eyes dropped suddenly, and the two forgot all
about Mae, and rolled contentedly off, behind the limping Italian
horse. And the red-cheeked vetturino with the flower in his button-hole,
whistled a love-song, and thought of his Piametta, I suppose.

Meantime, Mae, left to herself, grew penitent and reckless by turns,
blushed alternately with shame and with quick pulse-beats, as she
remembered Norman Mann's face, or the officer's smile. She wondered
where he lived, and whether she would see him soon again. Poor child!
She was really innocent, and only dimly surmised how he would haunt her
hereafter. Would he look well in citizen's clothes? How would Norman
Mann seem in his uniform? She wished she had a jacket cut like his. And
so on in an indolent way. But penitence was getting the better of her,
and after vainly trying to read or write, she settled herself down for
a cry. To think that she, Mae Madden, could have acted so absurdly. She
never would forgive herself, never. Then she cried some more, a good
deal more.

About four in the afternoon a very bright sunbeam peeped through her
closed blinds, and she brushed away her tears, and peace came back to
her small heart, and she felt like a New England valley after a shower,
very fresh and clean, and goodly,--just a trifle subdued, however.

She would go to church. She had heard that there was lovely music at
vespers, in the little church at the foot of Capo le Case. St. Andrea
delle Frate, was it? It wasn't very far away. She could say her prayers
and repent entirely and wholly. So she dressed rapidly, singing the
familiar old Te Deum joyously all the while, and off she started.

The air was cool and