Margaret's parting with Captain Daniel was characteristic of them both. When she offered to pay for her passage, the captain refused, at first politely, and then almost roughly and sternly.
"Why, Miss Leslie, sakes alive!" he exclaimed, "I'd rather see the Rose at the bottom of the sea than me or my men should take a shilling piece from you; and all I say is, if you want to pleasure us, why, when you're tired of Italy and I—talians, drop a line to Captain Daniel of Falmouth, and the Rose shall come and fetch you away, and be proud to do it."
Margaret could scarcely speak, but she managed to get out a few words of thanks, and the captain, almost crushing her hand—now very thin and white—turned to go, but he stopped at the last moment to add a word.
"And, Miss Leslie, don't be afeared of me and my men a-cackling. There's not a man as can't keep his own counsel, and there's not a man as wouldn't rather be strung up at the yard-arm than admit that he'd ever set eyes on you! No, miss, so far as the Rose is concerned, your whereabouts is as safe as if we didn't know."
Then he went, and Margaret was, indeed, left alone in the world without a friend!
Captain Daniel had engaged a room for her at the hotel, but to Margaret, whose wounded heart ached for quiet and solitude, the busy seaport seemed noisy and intrusive, and the next day she started for Florence.
Fortunately, she had some money with her; not a large sum, but the captain's hospitality had left it intact, and Mrs. Day had promised to send on the notes which Margaret had left behind directly Margaret sent her an address.
For the present, for a few months at any rate, she was secure from the dread attacks of that most malignant of foes—poverty. And she had her art; and she was in Florence, the Florence of painters and poets, the Flower City of the old world. The captain, who seemed as well acquainted with inland places as he was with the sea-board, had recommended her to a quiet little hotel overlooking the best view in Florence; and there, in a little room near the sky, Margaret found the solitude and quiet which she so much needed.
One morning, the third after her arrival, she roused herself sufficiently to go into the town and purchase some painting materials, and carrying them to a quiet spot commanding a view of the Arno and the wooded slopes above it, began to paint.
At first her hand trembled and her eyes were dim, for at every stroke of her brush the past came crowding back upon her, and she could almost fancy that Blair was lying by her side, and that she could hear his loving voice and bright laugh; but after a time she gained strength, and was gradually losing herself in her work—the work which alone could bring her "surcease from sorrow," when she heard voices near her, and looking up saw a young girl coming quickly along the path. She was a beautiful girl of about seventeen, with the frank open face of sorrowless childhood, and the springy step of youth and health. The day was hot, and she had taken off her hat which was swinging in her hand. Margaret had seen her before the girl had noticed Margaret sitting almost hidden behind a bush, and she came on, singing merrily and swinging her straw hat to the tune.