uble me again. It was the only
day on which we could see the Palace of the Caesars, and would I be so
good as to permit him to meet us there? I hastily penciled a few words:
"I am waiting for Dr. Valery. I shall probably stay with my sick friend
to-day, and Miss St. Clair will not go out without me," and sent the
line by Vincenzo, happy to be rid of the importunate boy for this time.

Two hours later, when the doctor had pronounced my friend better, and I
had promised Helen a walk amid the ruins of the Palatine, which I did
not like to leave Rome without seeing, I went down to the roll, coffee
and eggs which constitute an Italian breakfast, and there sat the count
as vigilant as a sentinel. "You will go?" said he with a smile.

"I think we may," curtly.

"I shall perhaps meet you there."

When we reached the Farnese gate he was waiting there, which made the
"perhaps" superfluous. We had a long ramble over the lonely hill,
stretching out like a green New England pasture, but where from time to
time we came unexpectedly upon flights of steps which led to massive
substructures of stone, foundations of ancient palaces, and to excavated
halls paved with mosaics and lined with frescoes more beautiful than
those of Pompeii. There were many statues, more or less mutilated, and
stately brick arches laden with a wealth of flowering shrubs, and here
and there thickets of tall dark cypress trees, harmonious with ruins. My
young companions were rather silent, but I fancy their thoughts were not
engrossed with old historic lore. I made a conscientious effort to force
mine into the ruts of association which I had supposed to be inevitable
in such a spot, but the bright sunshine, the delicate blue of the
distant Campagna, the living gladness of earth and air were too strong
for me, and I inwardly applauded a lively American girl who interrupted
her droning guide with the incisive "I don't care a snap for Caesar."

On reaching the gate after our three hours' ramble I consigned Miss St.
Clair to some friends who were waiting for her, and stepped into the
count's carriage. He seemed to feel bound in honor not to speak of love
to Miss St. Clair since the revelation of the Sistine Chapel, but he
must have a little solace in talking to me about it. "It would be easy,"
said he, "if she were not _fiancee_, but that makes it difficult--very
difficult indeed. I am glad it is not going to be for three years: that
is a long time, a very long t