CHAPTER I

There were not many people in the great gallery that rainy December afternoon. It was too early in the season for the crowd of English and American tourists which in the late winter and early spring fill Florence to overflowing, and the few people who sauntered about looking at the pictures were for the most part native Florentines out for an afternoon holiday. The men all wore their overcoats, and the women kept their furs--if they were fortunate enough to possess any--wrapped closely about them, but it was bitterly cold in the gallery, which is only warmed by the bright Italian sun, and on cold, rainy days often feels like a great stone vault.

The twins were not so fortunate as to have any furs; neither were their winter jackets as warm as they might have been if clothes had not been so expensive, but they were accustomed to the cold galleries, and although they both shivered more than once, it did not occur to either of them to mention the fact. The twins were only eleven, but they knew the great picture galleries of Florence much better than many older people. Ever since they could remember, their mother had taken them with her to the galleries, and they had wandered about looking at the wonderful pictures, or played "sitting still games" in a corner, always talking softly for fear of disturbing people who came to look, or, like their mother, to copy the great masterpieces of the world. They were very poor, for Mummy's pictures sold for a mere trifle at the print shops, and they lived in three little rooms at the top of an old building, the windows of which looked out upon the Duomo; the great cathedral, which has been the pride of Florence for centuries. Once, long ago, when their father was alive, they had lived in Rome, and their father had painted pictures which sold for much more money than poor little Mummy's pictures did; but after her husband's death Mummy had brought the children to Florence, because living there was cheaper than in Rome. The twins themselves did not particularly mind being poor, and if it had not been for Mummy's anxious face, and the fears they sometimes heard her express about the future, they would have been quite happy and contented. As for education, clothes, and all those other tiresome things, which seemed to trouble Mummy so much, they were matters of the most supreme indifference to the twins. They were quite happy in their three little rooms, where Mummy did the cooking on a tiny stove, and which were so cold in winter, that they often went to bed right after supper, for the purpose of keeping warm, and so hot on summer nights that they sometimes carried their beds out on the roof, in the faint hope of catching a little breeze from the river half a mile away.

Twins are supposed to resemble each other so closely that sometimes their own families cannot tell them apart, but this was not the case with Jill and Lill, for Jill was fully half a head taller than Lill, and looked at least two years older. Lill was a small, fair child, with a delicate, refined little face, and big innocent eyes, that had an odd appealing look in them. She had been a delicate baby, and even now was far from strong, while Jill had never had an ailment in her life, and was as plump and rosy as if she had been fed on new-laid eggs and country cream ever since she was born. They had never been separated for a day in their lives, and if Jill's love for her twin sister had a touch of motherliness in it, and Lill looked up to Jill with a kind of adoring admiration, their affection was none the less strong for that.

When the twins were born, their father, who was an artist, and somewhat romantic, had declared their names must sound alike.

"One is to be Lilian for your mother," he said, "but it would never do to call the other Jane, for my little sister who died. Who ever heard of twins being Lilian and Jane? They wouldn't harmonize at all."

"We might call little Janie, Jill," suggested Mummy, who had an imagination. "I remember once reading a book called 'Jack and Jill,' and Jill's real name was Jane."

"That will do," said Mr. Dinsmore, laughing. "Jill and Lill, nothing could be better."

So Jill and Lill, the twins had been called ever since.

To most little American and English girls, the life they led would have seemed very dull and forlorn indeed, but Jill and Lill had never known any other. They were not yet six when their kind, merry young father had died of the cruel Roman fever, which so often attacks imprudent foreigners in the hot Italian summer, and they had come to live in the tiny apartment in Florence, where good Signor and Signora Paloni--the landlord and his wife--had taken the two little Americans into their kind, elderly hearts, and petted and made much of them ever since. Poor little Mummy had been quite heart-broken at the death of her husband, whom she had loved very dearly, but the children's lives must not be saddened; and so, being a brave little woman, she assumed a cheerfulness she was very far from feeling, and it was only seldom that Jill and Lill saw the tired, wistful look in her eyes, that they had learned to know meant Mummy was discouraged.

On several mornings of each week, summer and winter, Mummy went to one of the great galleries, for which Florence is famous, and there she sat for hours, making her poor little copies of the great pictures. She did not like to leave the children alone all day, so she generally brought them with her, and on fine days they would take their lunch--consisting of a roll and a cake of chocolate apiece--out into the gardens, where the fountains played and the birds sang in summer, and which were the twins' only idea of what the country was like. Lately Mummy had been fortunate in obtaining some drawing pupils in a large boarding-school kept by an English woman, and three afternoons in the week she spent teaching little English and French girls how to draw.

But on this stormy December day there had been no going into the gardens for lunch. They had eaten their rolls and chocolate on a bench in the gallery, and Mummy had been in a hurry, because she was anxious to finish her picture before leaving, and this was one of the drawing class days. It was not very cheerful spending a whole long day in a place where nobody ever spoke much above a whisper, and although the twins knew and loved many of the beautiful pictures, they had looked at them all so often that there had long ago ceased to be any novelty about it. So after lunch they had retired to a recess by one of the windows, and tried to pass the time by counting the raindrops.

"It's very cold," said Lill, with a little shiver. "I wish there wasn't any cold weather, don't you?"

"I like summer best," Jill admitted, "but then I suppose we should get tired of it if we had it all the time." Jill was noted for a way she had of always making the best of things, and looking on the bright side--a quality she inherited from her brave, cheerful little mother.

"I shouldn't mind winter so much if we had snow here the way they do in America," Lill went on. "I should love sleighing, and skating, and all the nice things Mummy tells about. I wonder if we shall ever go to America."

"Oh, I am sure we shall some day, when Mummy has made a great deal of money."

Lill sighed.

"I'm afraid that won't be for a long time," she said, "unless people pay her much more for her pictures than they do now. Do you think she would like to go?"

"I don't know," said Jill, thoughtfully; "perhaps it would make her sad. I don't think she likes to talk very much about America."

"I wonder why," said Lill. "I should think people would love talking about the places where they used to live, shouldn't you?"

"Yes, unless sad things happened to them there. I think a good many sad things must have happened to Mummy in America. You see, her father and mother both died there, and Uncle George was so angry when she wanted to go away and study art, instead of coming out in society the way all the other girls he knew did. I wonder what 'coming out in society' means."

"I don't know," said Lill, "but I'm glad Mummy didn't do it, for if she had she wouldn't have married father."

"She might have married somebody else, though," said Jill, practically, "and then perhaps Uncle George wouldn't have been so angry."

"I hate Uncle George," remarked Lill, in a tone of decision.

"Mummy says it's wicked to hate people, and perhaps he couldn't help being the way he was. Signor says some people are born disagreeable; perhaps Uncle George was one of them."

"I don't believe he was," said Lill; "or Mummy wouldn't have loved him so much. You know she said she loved him better than any one in the world till she met father, and then of course she loved father best, because she married him, and you always love the person you marry better than anybody else. I don't believe Uncle George was born disagreeable, I believe he was just wicked, and I hate him."

Jill was silent. She had learned from long experience, that there was never any use in arguing with her sister, for when Lill had once made up her mind firmly on a subject, gentle and babyish as she looked, Lill was capable of an amount of obstinacy that was quite a revelation to her friends. There was a moment's silence, and then Lill went on.

"It always makes me hot inside when I think about Uncle George and how cruel he was to Mummy. Just think of his telling her he would never see her again if she married father, and sending back all her letters without reading them. Even when father was ill, and she wrote begging him to send her a little money, he never answered her. I think if I ever saw him I should--I should feel like doing something awful to him."

"I wouldn't think about him at all if it makes you feel like that," said Jill, with a rather troubled glance at her sister's flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. "I know Mummy would hate to have you say such things. She never told us about what Uncle George did, and we wouldn't have known anything about it if we hadn't met that Mrs. Trevor, who used to know her in America, and heard her telling that other lady about it. I don't suppose she would have said all those things if she had known we were sitting on the bench right behind her. She only knew about that letter Mummy wrote when father was ill, because she happened to be in Rome at the same time. It isn't likely we shall ever see Uncle George. Even Mummy has never seen him since she was married, and she never tells us anything about him that isn't nice and kind."

"I can't forget what that lady said, though," said Lill, obstinately. "I keep thinking about it all the time, and it makes me so angry. Mummy is so dear, and sweet, and precious; I don't believe she was ever unkind to any one in her life. Oh, I wish I could meet Uncle George sometime; just to let him see how I hate him!"

"Don't let's talk any more about him," said Jill, soothingly. "Let's talk about Christmas. Don't you wonder what Mummy's going to give us?"

"I think I know, but I won't tell," said Lill, her face brightening. "Oh, I do wish we had money enough to buy her a really beautiful present, but we've only got three francs between us, and one can't buy much with that!"

"We can buy something, though," said cheerful Jill, "and Mummy's sure to love it, whatever it is. She always says it isn't the money we spend for a thing that counts, it's just the thought. Signora says she will take us shopping some day before Christmas."

"I know it's the thought that counts," said Lill, "but I wish we could buy Mummy a nice present just the same. Wouldn't it be beautiful to be rich, and to have a real Christmas tree, the kind they have in America? Think of the parties Mummy used to have when she was a little girl, and all the beautiful presents. O dear, how cold it is here! My feet are almost frozen."

"Let's pretend," suggested Jill, with a sudden inspiration. "We always forget the disagreeable things when we pretend."

Lill agreed, and the twins turned away from the contemplation of the raindrops, and settled themselves on a bench, directly opposite one of Raphael's beautiful Madonnas.

"What shall we be to-day?" inquired Lill. Lill had less imagination than Jill, and generally left the selection and planning of their games to her more enterprising sister.

Jill thought for a moment; then she said:

"Let's pretend we are the two little princes in the Tower of London. I'm sure they must often have been cold, so our being cold, too, will make it seem more real. Pretend it's a cold, dark night, and we haven't had any supper. We are afraid every one has forgotten us, and we won't have anything to eat till morning. Then when we remember that it's really day-time, and that we've just had lunch, we shall feel so nice and comfy inside."

"All right," agreed Lill; "let's begin."

Instantly Jill's whole manner changed. She was no longer the little Twentieth Century American girl, sitting on a bench in the Florence picture gallery, but the little English prince shut up by a cruel uncle in the old tower, patiently awaiting the terrible fate, which has made the two little princes famous in history.

"How dark and cold it is, brother," she began in a low tremulous voice. "I fear our cruel captors have forgotten to bring us any supper, and we shall have to stay here alone in the darkness till the morning."

"Without any food," chimed in Lill, nestling a little closer to her sister. When Lill "pretended" it always seemed very real to her, and for the moment she almost fancied herself really the character she was personating. "And if we have to stay alone in the cold and dark all night, the rats will come, and that will be frightful. Oh, brother, I am afraid--I am afraid!"

"Courage," urged Jill. "Rats cannot hurt us. It is men we have to fear. If our cruel uncle succeeds in carrying out his wicked plan, we shall never see our dear home or our dear mother again. You know it is his intention to have us smothered, and our bodies thrown into the river. We have too many real dangers to fear to think of little things like rats."

"Don't talk about smothering," said Lill, relapsing into her natural voice. "I hate that part of the story; it scares me. I wish they could have been rescued just at the last minute, the way people generally are in stories."

"But this isn't a story, it's English history," protested Jill. "You can't make things in history end happily, because they're true."

"Don't true things ever end happily?" Lill inquired anxiously.

"I suppose they do, sometimes, but the little princes didn't. I wish we could go to London sometime, and see the Tower, and Westminster Abbey, and all the other interesting places."

"What a dreadfully wicked man the little princes' uncle must have been," remarked Lill. "I wonder if most uncles are wicked. I don't think I like uncles, anyway."

"Hush," said Jill, in a warning whisper, and she glanced apprehensively at a gentleman who had paused just in front of them to look at the Raphael. He was a tall gentleman, evidently a tourist, and he was dressed in black with a black band on his hat. How long he had been there the twins did not know, having been too much absorbed in their own affairs to notice, but as Lill pronounced her opinion of uncles, he had suddenly turned from the great picture, and was regarding them rather curiously.

"You mustn't talk so loud," whispered Jill. "I'm afraid we disturbed that gentleman. You know Mummy never lets us disturb people when they are looking at the pictures."

"I don't believe he heard what I said," began Lill. Then she paused abruptly, and grew crimson, as the gentleman quietly took the vacant place on the bench by her side.

"You must excuse me for interrupting you, young ladies," he said in a rather pleasant voice, "but I couldn't help overhearing a little of your conversation, and it has interested me very much. At first I feared from your tones that you were really in trouble of some kind, but I soon found that I was mistaken."

He smiled, and his smile was pleasant, too, though it was sad. His whole expression was sad, and although he was not at all old, there was something in his face that made the twins feel unaccountably sorry for him.

"We were pretending to be the two little princes in the Tower of London," said Jill, feeling that she must offer some explanation; "you know the ones whose cruel uncle had them smothered and thrown into the river."

"Yes, I have heard of them. You seem to have formed a rather poor opinion of uncles in general. May I ask if you often pretend in quite such a realistic fashion?"

"We like to pretend," said Jill, blushing. "It's one of the few things we can do without making a noise, and of course we can't play noisy games in the galleries."

"And why do you choose the galleries for a play-ground? I should think you might find them uncomfortably cold sometimes."

"We don't mind the cold much," said Jill, "we are used to it, you see. We come to the galleries almost every day, because our mother doesn't like to leave us at home alone all day long."

"And may I ask what your mother does in the galleries?" the gentleman inquired, in a tone of evident interest.

[Illustration: "AND MAY I ASK WHAT YOUR MOTHER DOES IN THE GALLERIES?"]

"She copies the pictures," said Jill, and Lill, forgetting her shyness at the mention of her adored mother, added proudly--

"Mummy's very clever. She gives drawing lessons at one of the big schools as well as copying the pictures. Our father painted beautiful pictures, too."

The expression of interest on the stranger's face deepened, and he regarded Lill more attentively. Indeed, he had been looking at Lill all the time Jill was talking.

"Indeed!" he said, and there was a note of real eagerness in his voice. "Now, I wonder if I have ever happened to hear of your father's pictures. Would you mind telling me his name?"

"It was Robert Dinsmore," said Lill, "but he died a long time ago when we lived in Rome."

The gentleman was silent for a moment, and Jill noticed with surprise, that he had grown rather pale, and that the hand resting idly on his knee trembled slightly; but when he spoke again his voice was quite calm.

"No, I don't think I have ever seen any of your father's pictures," he said, "but then I am an American, and this is my first visit to Florence."

"We are Americans, too," said Jill eagerly. "We have never been to America, because our father and mother came to live in Italy before we were born, but we hope we shall go some day; Mummy has told us so much about it."

"And you live here in Florence, I suppose, and your mother sells her copies of the pictures?"

"Oh, yes, that's what she paints them for, but people don't pay very much for them, and so she was very glad to have the drawing class at the English school."

The gentleman rose abruptly.

"Well, perhaps I may want to buy some copies to take back to America with me," he said, "so suppose you give me your mother's address, in case I should take a fancy to look at some of hers."

"She sells hers at the shops," Jill explained, "but she has some at home that the shop people wouldn't take. Perhaps you might like to look at them. We live on the Lungarno Acciasill, at Signor Paloni's. Our apartment is on the top floor."

"Thank you," said the gentleman; "I will remember the address. And your name is Dinsmore, you say?"

"Yes, sir, I am Jane Dinsmore, though every one calls me Jill, and my sister's name is Lilian."

"Lilian," repeated the stranger, and an oddly softened look came into his face. "So they called one of you Lilian."

"I am named for my grandmother," Lill explained. "People always call me Lill, because it rhymes with Jill, and we are twins, but I think Lilian is much prettier."

"So do I," said the gentleman, and he smiled his sad smile again. "I had a little Lilian of my own once, and I am very fond of the name. Is your mother here to-day?"

"Yes," said Jill; "she is copying the _Madonna delta Duca_. Would you like to see her, and ask about the pictures at home?"

"No, no, I don't care to see her. I merely asked out of curiosity. I must be hurrying along now. Good-bye."

"What a nice gentleman!" remarked Jill, as soon as their new acquaintance was out of ear-shot. "I'm afraid he won't come to look at Mummy's pictures, though; he didn't seem much interested."

"I think he was interested," said Lill. "He had such a queer look in his eyes all the time he was talking to us, and wasn't it funny he should have had a little girl named Lilian?"

"I suppose there must be a good many Lilians in the world," returned practical Jill. "I think his little girl is dead, for he looked so sad when he spoke of her, and did you notice the black band on his hat?"

At that moment the twins caught sight of a little woman in a gray dress coming towards them, and instantly the stranger and his affairs were forgotten, as they sprang to their feet and hurried to meet Mummy. Mummy was a very little woman indeed. She was not much taller than Lill, and Jill quite towered over her when they walked in the street together. She looked very young to be the mother of two such big girls, and there was an innocent, almost childlike expression in the blue eyes that were so like Lill's, that all the sorrow and anxiety of years had failed to banish. Mummy had fought her way through more than one fierce battle with fate, but she still kept her simple faith, and believed that people meant to be kind, and that the world was, after all, a very good place. There was only one person the thought of whom could banish the look of sweet serenity from her face, and that was her only brother, to whom she had been devotedly attached, and whose unkind treatment had been the one cup of bitterness in her life.

"You are through early to-day," said Jill, as she and Lill each slipped an arm lovingly round Mummy's waist.

"A little early, but it was so cold I was afraid to keep you here any longer."

"We didn't mind it much," said Jill. "We pretended we were the little princes in the Tower, and being cold made it seem more real, because they must often have been very cold, you know."

Mummy laughed in spite of herself.

"There is nothing like looking on the bright side of things, is there?" she said. "I am glad you enjoyed playing you were the little princes in the Tower, but I can't help wishing you had warmer jackets."

"Lill," whispered Jill, as they dropped behind Mummy for a moment going out of the gallery, "don't say anything about the gentleman."

"Why not?" inquired Lill, in surprise.

"Because perhaps he won't ever come to see the pictures, and if Mummy thinks he's coming, and he doesn't, she'll be so disappointed."