Then the horn sounded, and every one said good-by to me, and I kissed them all, including Mr. Hemmingway, who wiped his eyes and blew his nose as he said good-by. Then Miss Meek, and Sam and I followed our facchino down the platform and went through the gates that took us to our train. We got a compartment that was rather crowded because it had one Englishman in it, and they travel with enough scenery for an Uncle Tom’s Cabin Company; but, after he had moved his portable bath and his camp stool and his tea basket, there was enough room for us, and we all settled and began to have a very nice time.
My heart ached as we went out of Florence, and I couldn’t look back. I loved it so.
“You’ll be coming back on the run one of these fine days,” said Miss Meek, who seemed to feel all I felt.
“I hope so,” I said.
“And how could you help it, with your friends up the Fiesole way? Mr. Wake told me that you were going to visit them out there within a year or so. Told me so when he arranged for me to take you to Genoa and put you on the boat, don’t you know—”
“Well, that’s awfully nice,” I said, and Sam said he thought so too.
Then—the flying landscape.
White oxen dragging creaking carts. . . . Little clusters of houses in pastel tones. . . . White roads that circled terraced hills and groves of olive trees.
“Of course,” I said, “I want to see my people—” and I did want to, so much that my eyes filled as I thought of it.
“Of course,” said Miss Meek.