Marmie said that it seemed to have been raining forever, and Rose and Ruth both felt that she was far from exaggerating.  
“But anyhow, spring’s coming,” Ruth added, when she and Rose were discussing this interminable rain. “See, the snow down in the corner by the fence has gone, and that was the last patch we could see from the house. But Dad says the cellar’ll be flooded if it doesn’t let up soon.”
 
“Look at the perfect river that’s rushing down there behind the barn! Suppose it doesn’t stop raining for weeks and weeks. I wonder if lakes begin that way?”
 
“No, rain-lakes always soak away into the ground after it stops raining. Real lakes soak up from way down deep. Some of them haven’t any bottom at all.”
 
“Oh, Rose! Then they must go right through to China.”
 
“Yep, that’s what they do, I guess. Wouldn’t it be great to dive right through and come up in China?”
 
“D’you s’pose the fairy could do that?”
 
“Of course. Fairies can do anything.”
 
“Now how do you know what fairies can or cannot do, young lady?” It was the voice of Honeysqueak.
 
The girls whirled round from the window, through the of which they had been observing the steady downpour for the last half hour, for the voice came from behind them. But of course they saw nothing.
 
“You darling fairy! Did you get wet coming here?”
 
The fairy laughed. “Here you are one minute saying I can do anything, and the next wondering whether I got wet because it’s rainy outside. Of course I didn’t.”
 
“How can you help it?”
 
“The earliest lessons they give young fairies are in raindrops. Why, there is more room between raindrops if you know where to find it, than there is between a rose and its .”
 
The girls laughed. “But that’s different,” they said.
 
“Maybe,” agreed the fairy. “Anyway, there’s no difficulty in keeping dry out in the rain if you can see as far as your nose and jump as far as your wing-spread.”
 
Neither Rose nor Ruth was quite sure she understood what the fairy meant, but they thought they ought not to ask too many questions, 223so they only said “Oh,” and wished they too had wings.
 
“If you aren’t too busy watching the rain to come with me,” continued the fairy, “I’d like to take you to see a little friend of mine, called Romola. She lives in Florence, and is rather a child.”
 
“I know who you mean,” said Ruth. “Marmie read us about her and Tito last summer in the long evenings, and once Marmie was in Florence too, and she says that some day when we’re big we shall go to Italy.”
 
“Well, I’m going to take you there now, only it’s a far-back Italy, for you’ll remember that we must visit the fifteenth century as well as Florence if we want to find Romola.”
 
“Yes. What fun that will be! How good you are to us, dear fairy. You’re sure it doesn’t tire you to take us so far?”
 
The fairy laughed; and her laugh was as wonderful as sunlight on water. “You forget that all I have to do is to take you through the Magic Gate,” she explained. “So give me your hands and we’ll be off.”
 
Just as Rose was thinking that the fairy’s hand, in spite of being so small, felt very firm and strong, and Ruth that it was softer than the inside of a tulip-petal, the journey was over, and the girls opened their eyes to find themselves before a sombre stone building pierced with small windows, and none too many of these. 224A huge door faced them, hung on large hinges, and just as they blinked in the sudden of the scene, these doors swung slowly open, showing a stone inner court. A young girl stood within the open doors.
 
Though she was younger than when Rose and Ruth had met her before, in the book, there was no mistaking her, with her marvellous red-gold hair, like tiny waves flooded with the sunset, and falling far down below her shoulders. Tall and slight, clad in a straight-hanging black gown square at the throat, she looked pale and shining, almost as though there were a light within her.
 
“Romola!” exclaimed both the girls together.
 
“Oh, this is good,” the girl answered, coming forward with a smile and outstretched hands. “Will you come up first and see my father, and then go with me on an errand I must do that will take me on the other bank of the Arno?”
 
“That will be great,” said Rose. “How is your father, Romola?”
 
Romola shook her head sadly. “The blind are blind,” she replied. “But come.”
They crossed the court and mounted several flights of stairs, and paused at a door while Romola lifted the . Inside was a short passage which brought them to a large room, lofty but dusky, crowded with shelves full of huge books, with and statues and pictures, with tables and great carved chairs and dim hangings. Seated near the one narrow window was a man, whose long white hair was covered with a black cap, and who was wrapped in a dark, flowing garment that reached to his feet. He looked like a picture the girls had once found in a book, the portrait of some one called Dr. Faustus, though his face was kinder, and his eyes were closed.
 
“Father, here are the two friends I told you of,” said Romola, as the three young girls advanced.
 
“I give you welcome, my children,” returned the old man, gravely. “My daughter is going to the other side of Florence with a manuscript of mine that must be delivered into the hand of a scholar there, as she has perhaps told you. Maso, my serving man, will accompany her, but I shall be glad if you too will be of the party, for Florence is a city whose streets are safer the more companions you have.”
 
The two girls were only too eager to be off into the excitement of the streets from this somewhat sad and stern dominated by the blind old scholar, so they thanked Messer Bardo shyly, bade him good-bye, and made their way out, while Romola over her father for an instant to be sure that there was nothing he wanted.
 
Maso, a smiling old fellow, dressed in a sort of , black, as were most of the garments worn by the Florentines, and carrying in his hand a 226stout stave, waited for his mistress and her guests at the street door.
 
“We will cross by the old bridge, Maso,” Romola told him. “And we must waste no time, for these are troublesome times, and my father will not be at ease until we are safe back once more.”
 
“What can happen to us?” asked Rose.
 
“One can never tell but that some street fight will break out—Florence is filled with fierce men,” answered Romola, as they set out down the narrow street that ran beside the river.
 
It was a perfect day, softly radiant, and all the city looked and ruddy, as though the sun of many centuries had soaked into the walls of the houses. Here and there, from a high balcony, a splendid bit of colour was given by a piece of silk or rich flung over the railing. The crowd that jostled each other along the centre of the street, for there were no sidewalks, seemed energetic and voluble. Now and then a slipped past silently, dressed in a brown or black habit, or more often in a white woollen tunic reaching to his feet over which was thrown a black, full cloak. Now and then a couple of men on horseback, or some one driving a donkey, shoved the foot passers by aside, very rudely, Ruth and Rose thought.
 
“They might be more careful,” exclaimed Rose, in some , when one tall man on a fine black horse almost knocked her over before she could 227flatten herself against the side of a house to get out of his way. He heard her furious , and laughed.
 
Maso looked anxious, and Romola shook her head. “You mustn’t get in the way of the Medici,” she remarked. “But here is the bridge, and the other bank is not so crowded.”
 
“Who are the Medici?” Ruth wanted to know. “And was he one?”
 
“They are the rulers of Florence, and he was one of their house. See, here comes a company of men-at-arms, and the great Duke himself. We are in luck, Maso, to see so goodly a sight.”
 
Maso nodded, and Rose and Ruth agreed. For it was truly a fine company that came through the narrow street. There were some ten men in the party, the leader riding a coal-black horse and his on shining bays. This leader was a splendid object, clad in a sort of tunic of chain mail, with a helmet on his head that left his dark and beautiful face exposed, a face at once thoughtful, proud and fierce. A jewelled sword hung at his side, and jewels flashed from his horse’s trappings. He was laughing at something said by one of his train, yet the laugh did not lighten his stern expression.
 
“Who is he?” whispered Rose, staring with all her eyes.
 
“Lorenzo the Magnificent,” returned Romola, 228“Duke of Florence. A goodly sight, but a wicked man.”
 
At this moment the stopped just beside the three girls, and Lorenzo bent his eyes upon them.
 
“Here be three fair lilies,” he called. “What do you on the streets of Florence without ?” he added, urging his horse close to the girls, and giving them a smiling glance. They shrank back against the wall, Rose feeling a sudden terror at the bold-eyed look, Ruth her sister’s hand, half in excitement, half in fear, Romola answering firmly:
 
“Nay, my lord the Duke, we are escorted by my father’s old servant here, since my father, being blind, cannot himself guard us from insul............