The note of a nightingale bubbled up from the olives; and the scent of a bean-field in flower flooded the salon.
Miss Foster sprang to her feet and followed Mrs.Burgoyne.She hung over the balcony while her companion pointed here and there, to the line of the Appian Way,--to those faint streaks in the darkness that marked the distant city--to the dim blue of the Etrurian mountains .-- Presently, however, she drew herself erect, and Mrs.Burgoyne fancied that she shivered.
'Ah! this is a hill-air,' she said, and she took from her arm a light evening cloak, and threw it round Miss Foster.
'Oh, I am not cold!--It wasn't that!' 'What was it ?' said Mrs.Burgoyne pleasantly.

'That you feel Italy too much for you?
Ah! you must get used to that.' Lucy Foster drew a long breath--a breath of emotion.

She was grateful for being understood.

But she could not express herself.
Mrs.Burgoyne looked at her curiously.
'Did you read a good deal about it before you came ?' 'Well, I read some--we have a good town library--and Uncle Ben gave me two or three books--but of course it wasn't like Boston.

Ours is a little place.' 'And you were pleased to come ?' The girl hesitated.
'Yes'-- she said simply.