It was a morning of exceeding beauty. On the mean and solitary front of
the Casa dei Spiriti there shone a splendor of light; the lagoon was
azure and gold; the main-land a mist of trees in their spring leaf;
while far away the cypresses of San Francesco, the slender tower of
Torcello, and the long line of Murano--and farther still the majestic
wall of silver Alps--greeted the eyes that loved them, as the ear is
soothed by the notes of a glorious and yet familiar music.
Amid the crowd of gondolas that covered the shallow stretch of lagoon
between the northernmost houses of Venice and the island graveyard,
there was one which held two ladies. Alice Wensleydale was there against
her will, and her pinched and tragic face showed her repulsion and
irritation. She had endeavored in vain to dissuade Kitty from coming;
but in the end she had insisted on accompanying her. Possibly, as the
boat glided over the water amid a crowd of laughing, chattering
Italians, the silent Englishwoman was asking herself what was to be the
future of the trust she had taken on herself. Kitty in her extremity had
remembered her half-sister's promise, and had thrown herself upon it.
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