s May itself, only wanting the
fireflies and the violets. One most have felt the languor of an Italian
summer, with its closed-shutter existence, its long days of reclusion,
without exercise, without prospect, almost without light, to feel the
intense delight a bright month of November can bring, with its pathways
dry, its rivulets clear, its skies cloudless and blue,--to be able to be
about again, to take a fast canter or a brisk walk, is enjoyment
great as the first glow of convalescence after sickness. Never are the
olive-trees more silvery; never does the leafy fig, or the dark foliage
of the orange, contrast so richly with its golden fruit. To enjoy all
these was reason enough why the Heathcotes should linger there; at
least, they said that was their reason, and they believed it. Layton,
with his pupil, had established himself in the little city of Lucca,
a sort of deserted, God-forgotten old place, with tumble-down palaces,
with strange iron "grilles" and quaint old armorial shields over them;
he said they had gone there to study, and _he_ believed it.

Mr. O'Shea was still a denizen of the Panini Hotel at the Bagni,--from
choice, he said, but _he_ did not believe it; the Morgans had gone back
to Wales; Mr. Mosely to Bond Street; and Quackinboss was off to "do"
his Etruscan cities, the "pottery, and the rest of it;" and so were they
all scattered, Mrs. Penthony Morris and Clara being, however, still at
the villa, only waiting for letters to set out for Egypt. Her visit
had been prolonged by only the very greatest persuasions. "She knew
well--too bitterly did she know--what a blank would life become to her
when she had quitted the dear villa." "What a dreary awaking was in
store for them." "What a sad reverse to poor Clara's bright picture of
existence." "The dear child used to fancy it could be all like this!"
"Better meet the misery at once than wait till they could not
find strength to tear themselves away." Such-like were the sentiments
uttered, sometimes tearfully, sometimes in a sort of playful sadness,
always very gracefully, by the softest of voices, accompanied by the
most downcast of long-fringed eyelids.

"I am sure I don't know how May will manage to live without her," said
Charles, who, be it confessed, was thinking far more of his own
sorrows than his cousin's; while he added, in a tone of well-assumed
indifference, "We shall all miss her!"

"Miss her," broke in Sir William; "by George! her departur