thought of it touched her
inexpressibly, seemed to her, as indeed it was, the shadow of that
Divine Love which had loved her eternally had waited for her through
long years had served her and shielded her, though she never recognized
its existence till at length, in one flash of light, the revelation had
come to her, and she had learned the glory of Love, the murky gloom of
those past misunderstandings.

Those were wonderful days that they spent together at Florence, the sort
of days that come but once in a life time; for the joy of dawn is quite
distinct from the bright noon day or the calm evening, distinct, too,
from that second and grander dawn which awaits us in the Unseen when the
night of life is over. Together they wandered through the long corridors
of the Uffizzi; together they returned again and again to the Tribune,
or traversed that interminable passage across the river which leads to
the Pitti Gallery, or roamed about among the old squares and palaces
which are haunted by so many memories. And every day Brian meant to
speak, but could not because the peace, and restfulness, and glamour of
the present was so perfect, and perhaps because, unconsciously, he felt
that these were "halcyon days."

On Sunday he made up his mind that he certainly would speak before the
day was over. He went with Erica to see the old monastery of San Marco
before morning service at the English church. But, though they were
alone together, he could not bring himself to speak there. They
wandered from cell to cell, looking at those wonderful frescoes of the
Crucifixion in each of which Fra Angelico seemed to gain some fresh
thought, some new view of his inexhaustible subject. And Brian, watching
Erica, thought how that old master would have delighted in the pure face
and perfect coloring, in the short auburn hair which was in itself a
halo, but could not somehow just then draw her thoughts away from the
frescoes. Together they stood in the little cells occupied once by
Savonarola; looked at the strange, stern face which Bastianini chiseled
so effectively; stood by the old wooden desk where Savonarola had
written and read, saying very little to one another, but each conscious
that the silence was one of perfect understanding and sympathy. Then
came the service in a hideous church, which yet seemed beautiful to
them, with indifferent singing, which was somehow sweeter to them than
the singing of a trained choir elsewhere.

But, on