"I ought to do the same for them without that motive," thought she; "but should I ?" Though her call had not been very long, it seemed so to Flora, who had latterly been little accustomed to solitude.

She had no heart for books or drawing.

She sat listlessly watching the crowd on Monte Pincio;--children chasing each other, or toddling about with nurses in bright-red jackets; carriages going round and round, ever and anon bringing into the sunshine gleams of gay Roman scarfs, or bright autumnal ribbons fluttering in the breeze.

She had enjoyed few things more than joining that fashionable promenade to overlook the city in the changing glories of sunset.

But now she cared not for it.