"Yes, Anton was a good boy; his mother had a long tongue, but she was very industrious—industrious with tongue and fingers alike," he said, and then he laughed heartily, and two or three men standing near joined in.
At last all was settled, and Angelo Battista was to bring up a written document that evening to the Villa Firenze, and bring little Anton with him, to make the needful declaration required in such cases by the notary, that he agreed to the terms proposed.
Canon Percival left San Remo the next day, saying that Coldchester Cathedral could not get on without him. He was so cheery and so kind, the children all lamented his loss.
But now golden days came for them all, as Mrs. Acheson got, as Ingleby expressed it, "nearer well" than she had been for years. She took long drives in the neighbourhood, and they visited several old Italian towns, such as Taggia and Poggio.
The road to them led along the busy shore of the blue Mediterranean, and then through silvery olive groves, where flowers of every brilliant colour were springing.
And when May came, and the swallows twittered on the roofs of the villas, and were seen consulting for their flight northward, the whole party set off with them, homewards.
Canon Percival met them at Paris, and they stayed there a week, and saw many of its wonders—the beautiful pictures in the Louvre, and the noble galleries at Versailles, where the fountains play, and the long, smooth avenues which lead to La Petite Trianon, which are full of memories of poor Marie Antoinette.
Nothing made more impression on the children than the sight of her boudoir in the palace at Versailles, where whoever looks up at the glass panels sees, by their peculiar arrangement in one corner, the whole figure without the head. It is said the young girl Dauphiness glanced up at this, and starting back with horror, said—"Ah! J'ai perdu ma tête!" A strange coincidence, certainly, when one remembers how her head was taken off by the cruel guillotine in later years—the bright hair grey, the head bowed with sorrow, and the heart torn with grief for her husband, who had preceded her, and still more for the children she left behind.
At last the time came to cross the Channel once more, and the passage was calm, and the children enjoyed the short voyage.
At Folkestone a very great surprise awaited Dorothy. She hardly knew whether she was dreaming or awake when in the waiting-room at the station she saw a man in a fisherman's blouse with a white dog in his arms.