The days that followed were full of pleasure; and Dolly kept to her resolution, not to spoil the present by care about the future.  Indeed, the balmy air and the genial light and all the wealth that nature has bestowed upon southern Italy, were a help to such a resolution.  The infinite lavish fulness of the present quite laughed at the idea of barrenness or want anywhere in time to come.  Dolly knew that was nature’s subtle flattery, not to be trusted, and yet she willingly admitted the flattery.  Nothing should spoil these days.

One evening she and Christina were sitting again on the bank, wondering at the marvellous sunset panorama.

“How difficult it is, looking at this,” said Dolly, “to believe that there is want and misery in the world.”

“Why should you believe it?” said Christina.  “I don’t think there is, except where people have brought it upon themselves.”

“People bring it upon other people.  But to look at this, one would say it was impossible.  And this is how the world was meant to be, I suppose.”

“What do you mean? how?” said Christina.  “It is rich to hear you talk.”

“Oh, look at it, Christina!  Look at the colours and the lights and the sparkle everywhere, the perfect wealth of loveliness in form as well as colour; and if you think a minute you will know that He who made it all meant people to be happy, and meant them to be as full of happiness as the earth is full of beauty.”

“I don’t see ‘lights’ and ‘colours’ so much as you do, Dolly; I am not an artist; but if God meant them to be happy, why aren’t they happy?”

“Sin,” said Dolly.

“What’s the use of thinking about it?  You and I cannot help it.”

“Christina, that is not true.  We can help some of it.”

“By giving money, you mean?  Well, we do, whenever we see occasion; but there is no end of the cheatery.”

“Giving money will not take away the world’s misery, Christina.”

“What will, then?  It will do a good deal.”

“It will do a good deal, but it does not touch the root of the trouble.”

“What does, Dolly? ­you dreamer.”

“The knowledge of Christ.”

“Well, it is the business of clergymen and missionaries to give them that.”

“Prove it.”

“Why, that’s what they are for.”

“Do you think there are enough of them to preach the good news to every creature?”

“Well, then, there ought to be more.”

“And in the meantime? ­Tell me, Christina, to whom was that command given, to preach the gospel to every creature?”

“To the apostles, of course!”

“Twelve men?  Or eleven men, rather.  They could not.  No, it was given to all the disciples; and so, Christina, it was given to you, and to me.”

“To preach the gospel!” said Christina.

“That is, just to tell the good news.”

“And to whom do you propose we should tell it?”

“The command says, everybody.”

“How can you and I do that, Dolly?”

“That is just what I am studying, Christina.  I do not quite know.  But when I look out on all this wonderful beauty, and see what it means, and think how miserable the world is, ­just the very opposite, ­I feel that I must do it, somehow or other.”

Christina lifted her arms above her head and clapped her hands together.  “Mad, mad!” she exclaimed ­“you are just gone mad, Dolly.  Oh, I wish you’d get married, and forget all your whimsies.  The right sort of man would make you forget them.  Haven’t you found the right sort of man yet?”

“The right sort of man would help me carry them out.”

“It must be my Sandie, then; there isn’t another match for you in extravagant ideas in all this world.  What does Mr. St. Leger think of them?”

“I never asked him.  I suppose he would take very much your view.”

“And you don’t care what view he takes?” said Christina, looking sharply at her.

“Not in the least.  Except for his own sake.”

The one drawback upon the perfect felicity of this visit was, that the said Sandie did not appear.  They could not wait for him; they went on the most charming of excursions, by sea and land, wishing for him; in which wish Dolly heartily shared.  It had been one of the pleasures she had promised herself in coming to the Thayers’ that she should see Mr. Shubrick again.  He had interested her singularly, and even taken not a little hold of her fancy.  So she was honestly disappointed when at last a note came from him, saying that he found it impossible to join the party.

“That means just that he has something on hand that he calls ’duty’ ­which anybody else would put off or hand over,” said Christina, pouting.

“Duty is a very good reason,” said Dolly.  “Don’t you see, you are sure of Mr. Shubrick, that in any case he will not do what he thinks wrong?  I think you ought to be a very happy woman, Christina.”

But the excursions were made without Mr. Shubrick’s social or material help.  They went to Capri; they visited the grottoes; nay, they made a party to go up Vesuvius.  All that was to be seen, they saw; and, as Christina declared, they left nothing undone that they could do.  Then came the breaking up.

“Are you expecting to go back to that stuffy little place at Sorrento?” Mr. Copley asked.  It was the evening before their departure, and all the party were sitting, scattered about upon the verandah.

“Father!” cried Dolly.  “It is the airiest, floweriest, sunniest, brightest, most delightful altogether house, that ever took lodgers in!”

“It certainly wasn’t stuffy, Mr. Copley,” said his wife.

“Dolly likes it because you couldn’t get a glass of good wine in the house.  Whatever the rest of humanity like, she makes war upon.  I conclude you are reckoning upon going back there, my wife and daughter?”

“Are not you, Mr. Copley?” his wife asked.

“I must be excused.”

“Then where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Home!” exclaimed Mrs. Copley.  “Do you mean home? Boston?”

“A Boston woman thinks Boston is the centre of the universe, you may notice,” said Mr. Copley, turning to Mr. Thayer.  “It’s a curious peculiarity.  No matter what other cities on the face of the earth you show her, her soul turns back to Boston.”

“Don’t say anything against Boston,” said Mrs. Thayer; “it’s a good little place.  I know, when Mr. Thayer first carried me there, it took me a while to get accustomed to it; ­things on a different scale, you know, and looked at from a different point of view; but I soon found admirers, and then friends.  Oh, I assure you, Boston and I were very fond of each other in those days; and though I lost my claims to admiration a long time ago, I have kept my friends.”

“I have no doubt the admirers are still there too,” said Mr. Copley.  “Does Mrs. Thayer mean to say she has no admirers?  I profess myself one!”

“Christina takes the admiration now-a-days.  I am contented with that.”

“And so you conquer by proxy.”

“Mr. Copley,” here put in his wife, “if you do not mean America by ‘home,’ what do you mean? and where are you going?”

“Where my home has been for a number of years.  England ­London.”

“But you have given up your office?”

“I am half sorry, that is a fact.”

“Then what should you do in London?”

“My dear, of the many hundred thousands who call London their home, very few have an office.”

“But they have business of some kind?”

“That is a Boston notion.  Did you ever observe, Thayer, that a Massachusetts man has no idea of life without business?  It is the reason why he is in the world, to him; it never occurs to him that play might be occasionally useful.  I declare!  I believe they don’t know the meaning of the word in America; it has dropped out, like a forgotten art.”

“But, father,” Dolly spoke up now, “if you are going to London, mother and I cannot possibly go to Sorrento.”

“I don’t quite see the logic of that.”

“Why, we cannot be here in Italy quite alone.”

“I’ll leave you St. Leger to take care of you and bring you back; as he took you away.”

“I should be very happy to fall in with that plan,” said Lawrence slowly; “but I fear I cannot make it out.  I have been making arrangements to go into Greece, seeing that I am so near it.  And I may quite possibly spend another winter in Rome.”

There was a pause, and when Mr. Copley spoke again there was another sound in his voice.  It was not his will to betray it, but Dolly heard the chagrin and disappointment.

“Well,” said he, “such independent travellers as you two ladies can do pretty comfortably alone in that paragon of lodging-houses.”

“But not make the journey home alone, father.”

“When are you coming?”

“When you do, of course,” said his wife.

Dolly knew it must be so and not otherwise.  She sat still and down-hearted, looking abroad over the bay of Naples, over all the shores of which the moonlight was quivering or lying in still floods of calm beauty.  From this, ay, and from everything that was like this, in either its fairness or its tranquillity, she must go.  There had been a little lull in her cares since they came to Sorrento; the lull was over.  Back to London! ­And that meant, back to everything from which she had hoped to escape.  How fondly she had hoped, once her father was away from the scene of his habits and temptations, he could be saved to himself and his family; and perhaps even lured back to America where he would be comparatively safe.  Now where was that hope, or any other?  Suddenly Dolly changed her place and sat down close beside Mr. Copley.

“Father, I wish you would take us back to our real old home ­back to Roxbury!”

“Can’t do it, my pet.”

“But, father, why not?  What should keep you in England?”

“Business.”

“Now that you are out of the office?”

“Yes.  Do you think all business is confined to the consuls’ offices?  A few other people have something to do.”

Dolly heard no tone of hope-giving in her father’s words.  She ceased and sat silent, leaning upon his knee as she was and looking off into the moonlight.  Mrs. Thayer and Mr. St. Leger were carrying on a lively discourse about people and things unknown to her; Mr. Thayer was smoking; Mrs. Copley was silent and sorry and cast-down, like herself, she knew.  Dolly’s eye went roving through the moonlight as if it were never going to see moonlight again; and her heart was taking up the old question, and feeling it too heavy to carry, how should she save her father from his temptation?  Under the pressure Dolly’s heart felt very low; until again those words came and lifted her up, ­“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” After that the sweet moonbeams seemed to be full of those words.  I am not alone, thought Dolly, I am not forgotten; and He does not mean that I should be crushed, or hurt, by this arrangement of things, which I strove so to hinder.  I will not be one of the “little faith” people.  I will just trust the Lord ­my Lord.  What I cannot do, He can; and His ways are wonderful and past finding out.

So she was quieted.  And yet as she sat there it came over Dolly’s mind, as things will, quite unbidden; it came over her to think how life would go on here, in Italy, with Christina, after she was gone.  When the lovely Italian chapter of her own life was closed up and ended, when she would be far away out of sight of Vesuvius, in the fogs of London, the sun of Naples would still be shining on the Thayers’ villa.  They would go sailing on blue water, or floating over the gold and purple reflections which sometimes seemed to fill both water and air; they would see the white shafts of Paestum, yes, it would be soon cool enough for that; or if they must wait for Paestum, there were enough old monasteries and ruined castles and beauties of the like sort to keep them busy for many a day.  Beauties which Dolly and Mr. Thayer loved.  Nobody else in the house loved them.  Christina had hardly an eye for them; and St. Leger, if he looked, did not care for what he saw.  Nevertheless, they three would go picnicking through the wonderful old land, where every step was on monumental splendour or historical ashes, and the sights would be before them; whether they had eyes to see or no.  For Dolly it was all done.  She was glad she had had so much and enjoyed so much; and that enjoyment had given memory such a treasure of things to keep, that were hers for all time, and could be looked at in memory’s chambers whenever she pleased.  Yet she could not see the moonlight on the bay of Naples this evening for the last time, and remember towards what she was turning her face, without some tears coming that nobody saw ­tears that were salt and hot.

The journey home was a contrast to the way by which they had come.  It pleased Mr. Copley to go by sea from Naples to Marseilles, and from thence through France as fast as the ground could be passed over, till they reached Dover.  And although those were not the days of lightning travel, yet travelling continually, the effect was of one swift, confused rush between Naples and London.  Instead of the leisurely, winding course pursued to Dresden, and from Dresden to Venice, deviating at will from the shortest or the most obvious route, stopping at will at any point where the fancy took them, dawdling, speculating, enjoying, getting good out of every step of the way, ­this journey was a sort of flash from the one end of it to the other, with nothing seen or remembered between but the one item of fatigue.  So it came about, that when they found themselves in a London lodging-house, and Mrs. Copley and Dolly sat down and looked at each other, they had the feeling of having left Sorrento last evening, and of being dazed with the sudden transition from Sorrento and sunshine to London and smoke.

“Well!” said Mr. Copley, rubbing his hands, “here we are!”

“I don’t feel as if I was anywhere,” said his wife.  “My head’s in a whirl.  Is this the way you like to travel, Frank?”

“The purpose of travelling, my dear,” said Mr. Copley, still rubbing his hands ­it must have been with satisfaction, for it could not have been with cold ­“the purpose of travel is ­to get over the ground.”

“It wasn’t my purpose when I went away.”

“No ­but when you came back.”

“It wasn’t my purpose anyway,” said Mrs. Copley.  “I should never stir from my place if I had to move the way you have kept me moving.  My head is in a whirl.”

“I’ll take hold and turn it round the other way.”

“I think it is quite likely you will!  I should like to know what you mean to do with us, now you have got us here.”

“Keep you here.”

“What are you going to do with yourself, Mr. Copley?”

“There are always so many uses that I can make of myself, more than I have time for, that I cannot tell which I shall take hold of first.”

With which utterance he quitted the room, almost before it was fairly out of his mouth.  The two left behind sat and looked at the room, and then at each other.

“What are we going to do now, Dolly?” Mrs. Copley asked in evidently dismayed uncertainty.

“I don’t know, mother.”

“How long do you suppose your father will be contented to stay in this house?”

“I have no means of guessing, mother.  I don’t know why we are here at all.”

“We had to go somewhere, I suppose, when we came to London ­just for the first; but I can’t stay here, Dolly!”

“Of course not, mother.”

“Then where are we going to?  It is all very well to say ’of course not;’ but where can we go, Dolly?”

“I have been thinking about it, mother, dear, but I have not found out yet.  If we knew how long father wanted to stay in London” ­

“It is no use asking that.  I can tell you beforehand.  He don’t know himself.  But it is my belief he’ll find something or other to make him want to stay here the rest of his life.”

“O mother, I hope not!”

“It is no use speaking to him about it, Dolly.  Even if he knew, he would not own it, but that’s my belief; and I can’t bear London, Dolly.  A very few days of this noise and darkness would just put me back where I was before we went away.  I know it would.”

“This is a darker day than common; they are not all so.”

“They are all like gloom itself, compared to where we have been.  I tell you, Dolly, I cannot stand it.  After Sorrento, I cannot bear this.”

“It’s my belief, mother, you want home and Roxbury air.  Why don’t you represent that to father, forcibly?”

“Dolly, I never put myself in the way of your father’s pleasure.  He must take his pleasure; and he likes London.  How he can, I don’t see; but he does, and so do a great many other people; it may be a want of taste in me; I daresay it is; but I shall not put myself in the way of his pleasure.  I’ll stand it as long as I can, and when I cannot stand it any longer, I’ll die.  It will come to an end some time.”

“Mother, don’t talk so!  We’ll coax father to finish up his business and go home to Roxbury.  I am quite setting my heart on it.  Only you have patience a little, and don’t lose courage.  I’ll talk to father as soon as I get a chance.”

“What a dirty place this is!” was Mrs. Copley’s next remark.

“Yes.  It is not like the rocks and the sea.  A great city must be more or less so, I suppose.”

“I believe great cities are a mistake.  I believe they were not meant to be built.  They don’t agree with me, anyway.  Well, I’ll lie down on that old sofa there ­it’s hard enough to have been one of Job’s troubles ­and see if I can get to sleep.”

Dolly drew a soft shawl over her, and sat down to keep watch alone.  The familiar London sounds were not cheering to the ears which had been so lately listening to the lap of the waves and the rustling of the myrtle branches.  And the dingy though comfortable London lodging-house was a poor exchange for the bay of Sorrento and the bright rooms full of the scents of orange flowers and roses and carnations.  Dolly gave way a little and felt very down-hearted.  Not merely for this change of her outside world, indeed; Dolly was not so weak; only in this case the outward symbolised the inward, and gave fitting form and imagery for it.  The grime and confusion of London streets, to Dolly’s fancy, were like the evil ways which she saw close upon her; and as roses and myrtles, so looked a fair family life of love and right-doing.  Why not? ­when He, who is Love itself and Righteousness immaculate, declares of Himself, ­“I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.”  I do not think those words occurred to Dolly that night, but other Bible words did, after a while.  Promises of the life that shall be over all the earth one day, when the wilderness and the desert places shall be no longer desolate or barren, but shall “rejoice and blossom as the rose;” when to the Lord’s people, “the sun shall no longer be their light by day, neither for brightness shall the moon give light” to them; when “sorrow and sighing shall flee away,” and “the days of their mourning shall be ended.”  The words were like a lovely chime of bells, ­or like the breath from a whole garden of roses and orange flowers, ­or like the sunset light on the bay of Naples; or anything else most majestic, sweet, and fair.  What if there were shadowed places to go through first? ­And a region of shadow Dolly surely knew she had entered now.  She longed for her father to come home; she wanted to consult with him about their arrangements, and so arrive at some certainty respecting what she had to do and expect.  But Dolly knew that an early coming home was scarce to be hoped for; and she providently roused her mother at ten o’clock, and persuaded her to go to bed.  Then Dolly waited alone in truth, with not even her sleeping mother’s company; very sad at heart, and clutching, as a lame man does his stick, at some of the words of comfort she knew.  “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me.”  The case was not quite so bad, nor so good, with her as that; but the words were a strong staff to lean upon, nevertheless.  And those others:  “Because he hath set his love upon Me, therefore will I deliver him; I will set him on high, because he hath known My name.  He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble;"...  And, “There shall no evil happen to the just.”  Dolly stayed her heart on such words, while she waited for her father’s coming.  As it grew later and yet later she doubted whether she ought to wait.  She was waiting however when he came, between twelve and one, but nearer the latter.  She listened to his step on the stair, and knew all was not right; and when he opened the door, she saw.  Her father had surely been taking wine or something; his face was flushed, his eyes were excited, and his manner was wandering.

“Dolly! ­What are you here for?”

“I waited for you, father.  I wanted to have a talk with you.  But it’s too late now,” Dolly said, trembling.

“Too late ­yes, of course.  Go to bed.  That’s the thing for you.  London is a great place, Dolly!”

Alas!  His expression of satisfaction was echoed in her heart by an anathema.  It was no time then to say anything.  Dolly went to bed and cried herself to sleep, longing for that sunshiny time of which it is promised to the Lord’s people ­“Thy sun shall no more go down by day;” and thankful beyond all power of words to express, even then in her sorrow, that another sun had even already risen upon her, in the warm light of which no utter darkness was possible.

It was a day or two before, with her best watching, she could catch an opportunity to speak to her father.  The second morning Mrs. Copley had headache and staid in bed, and Dolly and Mr. Copley were at breakfast alone.

“How long, father, do you think you may find affairs to keep you in England?” Dolly began with her father’s first cup of coffee.

“As long as I like, my dear.  There is no limit.  In England there are always things going on to keep a man alive, and to keep him busy.”

“Isn’t that true in America equally?”

“I don’t think so.  I never found it so.  Oh, there is enough to do there; but you don’t find the same facilities, nor the same men to work with; and you don’t know what to do with your money there when you have got it.  England is the place! for a man who wants to live and to enjoy life.”

“It isn’t for a woman,” said Dolly.  “At least, not for one woman.  Father, don’t you know mother is longing to go home, to Roxbury?”

“Dolly, she is longing for something or other impossible, every day of her life.”

“But it would do her a great deal of good to be back there.”

“It would do me a great deal of harm.”

There was a pause here during which Dolly meditated, and Mr. Copley buttered pieces of toast and swallowed them with ominous despatch.  Dolly saw he would be soon through his breakfast at that rate.

“But, father,” she began again, “are we to spend all the rest of our lives in England?”

“My dear, I don’t know anything about the future.  I never look ahead.  The day is as much as I can see through.  I advise you to follow my example.”

“What are mother and I to do, then?  We cannot stay permanently here, in this house.”

“What’s the matter with it?”

“Nothing, as a lodging-house; but mother would not thrive or be happy in a London lodging-house.”

“People’s happiness is in their own power.  It does not depend upon place.  All the clergymen will tell you so.  You must talk to your mother, Dolly.”

“Father, I talked to you at Sorrento; but I remember you thought you could not live there.”

“That was Sorrento; but London! ­London is the greatest city in the world.  Every taste may be suited in London.”

“You know the air does not agree with mother.  She will not be well if we keep her here,” said Dolly anxiously; for she saw the last piece of toast on its way.

“Nonsense!  That is fancy.”

“If it is fancy, it is just as good as reality.  She was pining when we were here before, until we went down to Brierley; and she will lose all she has gained in her travelling if we keep her here now.”

“Well ­I’ll see what I can do,” said Mr. Copley, rising from the table.  “When is St. Leger coming back?”

“How should I know?  I know nothing at all of his purposes but what he told us.”

“Have you thrown him over?”

“I never took him up.”

“Then you are more of a goose than I thought you.  He’ll be caught by that fair friend of yours, before he gets out of Italy.  Good morning!”

Mr. Copley hurried away; and Dolly was left to her doubts.  What could so interest and hold him in a place where he had no official business, where his home was not, and he had no natural associations?  Was it the attraction of mere pleasure, or was it pleasure under that mischievous, false face of gain, which men delight in and call speculation.  And from speculation proper, carried on among the business haunts of men, there is not such a very wide step in the nature of things to the green level of the gaming-table.  True, many men indulge in the one variety who have a horror of the other; but Dolly’s father, she knew, had a horror of neither.  Stocks, or dice, what did it matter? and in both varieties the men who played with him, she knew too, would help their play with wine.  Against these combined powers, what was she?  And what was to become of them all?

Part of the question was answered at dinner that evening.  Mr. Copley announced that Brierley Cottage was unoccupied and that he had retaken it for them.

“Brierley!” cried Mrs. Copley.  “Brierley!  Are we going back there again!  Frank, do you mean that we are to spend all our lives apart in future?”

“Not at all, my dear!  If you will be so good as to stay with me, I shall be very happy.”

“In London!  But you know very well I cannot live in London.”

“Then you can go down to Brierley.”

“And how often shall you come there?”

“When the chinks of business are wide enough to let me slip through.”

“Business!  All you live for is business.  Mr. Copley, what do you expect is to become of Dolly, shut up in a cottage down in the country?”

“How is she to get married, you mean? She expects a fairy prince to come along one of these days; and of course he could find her at Brierley as easily as anywhere.  It makes no difference in a fairy tale.  In fact, the unlikely places are just the ones where the princes turn up.”

“You will not be serious!” sighed Mrs. Copley.

“Serious?  I am nothing but serious.  The regular suitor, proposed by the parents, has offered himself and been rejected; and now there is nothing to do but to wait for the fairy prince.”

Poor Mrs. Copley gave it up.  Her husband’s words were always too quick for her.

Brierley was afterwards discussed between her and Dolly.  The proposal was welcome to neither of them.  Yet London would not do for Mrs. Copley; she grew impatient of it more and more.  And so, within a week after their arrival, they left it and went down again to their old home in the country.  It felt like going to prison, Mrs. Copley said.  Though the country was still full of summer’s wealth and beauty; and it was impossible not to feel the momentary delight of the change from London.  The little garden was crowded with flowers, the fields all around rich in grass and grain; the great trees of the park standing in their unchanged regal beauty; the air sweet as air could be, without orange blossoms.  And yet it seemed to the two ladies, when Mr. Copley left them again after taking them down to the cottage, that they were shut off and shut up in a respectable and very eligible prison, from whence escape was doubtful.