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Irma in Italy: A Travel Story

by Helen Leah Reed · English · Gutenberg #39629 · 378,275 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Irma in Italy: A Travel Story

Author: Helen Leah Reed

Illustrator: W. A. McCullough


        
Release date: May 5, 2012 [eBook #39629]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39629

Credits: Produced by Heather Clark, Kerry Tani and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
        book was produced from scanned images of public domain
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IRMA IN ITALY: A TRAVEL STORY ***




Produced by Heather Clark, Kerry Tani and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)









IRMA IN ITALY




[Illustration: PERUGIA. _Frontispiece_
      (_See page 205._)]




    IRMA IN ITALY

    A TRAVEL STORY

    BY

    HELEN LEAH REED


    AUTHOR OF "THE BRENDA BOOKS," "IRMA AND NAP,"
    "NAPOLEON'S YOUNG NEIGHBOR," ETC.


    ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
    AND FROM DRAWINGS BY WILLIAM A. MCCULLOUGH


    BOSTON

    LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

    1908




    _Copyright_, 1908,
    BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.




    _All rights reserved_


    The Tudor Press
    BOSTON, U. S. A.




    To M. E. F.

    A TRUE TRAVELLER




CONTENTS


                                              PAGE

        I. THE START                             1

       II. THE WESTERN ISLANDS                  19

      III. TOWARD THE CONTINENT                 39

       IV. AWAY FROM GIBRALTAR                  60

        V. ON SHORE                             80

       VI. NAPLES AND ITS NEIGHBORHOOD          98

      VII. CAVA AND BEYOND                     111

     VIII. PAESTUM AND POMPEII                 125

       IX. ROMAN DAYS                          146

        X. A QUEEN AND OTHER SIGHTS            169

       XI. TIVOLI--AND HADRIAN'S VILLA         187

      XII. AN ANCIENT TOWN                     203

     XIII. OLD SIENA--AND NEW FRIENDS          215

      XIV. NAP--AND OTHER THINGS               232

       XV. A LETTER FROM FLORENCE              251

      XVI. A CHANGE IN MARION                  270

     XVII. IN VENICE                           288

    XVIII. EXPLANATIONS                        312




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                              PAGE

    Perugia                         _Frontispiece_

    "I wish I could take them all," she said     6

    Naples. A Street View                       84

    "With one girl clutching her dress,
    she could not move fast"                   132

    Pompeii                                    144

    Near La Trinita, Rome                      170

    Rome. Group on Spanish Steps               170

    Cascades at Tivoli                         188

    Wall of Orvieto                            188

    Spires of Florence                         262

    San Marco, Florence                        262

    Siena. General View with Campanile         292

    Ravenna. Theodoric's Tomb                  292

    "As Irma approached, the girl looked up"   296

    Venice. The Grand Canal                    308

    Venice. A Gondolier                        308




IRMA IN ITALY




CHAPTER I

THE START


"OF course it's great to go to Europe; any one would jump at the chance,
but still----"

As the speaker, a bright-eyed girl of sixteen, paused, her companion,
slightly younger, continued:

"Yes, I know what you mean--it doesn't seem just like Irma to go away
before school closes. Why, if she misses the finals, she may have to
drop from the class next year."

"Probably she expects Italy to help her in her history and Latin."

"Travelling is all very well," responded the other, "but there's
nothing better than regular study. Why, here's Irma coming," she
concluded hastily; "she can speak for herself."

"You are surely gossiping about me," cried Irma pleasantly, as she
approached her two friends seated on the front steps of Gertrude's
house. "You have surely been gossiping, for you stopped talking as soon
as you saw me, and Lucy looks almost guilty."

"Listeners sometimes hear good of themselves," replied Lucy, "but we'll
admit we have been wondering how you made up your mind to run away from
school. I shouldn't have dared."

"My father and mother decided for me, when Aunt Caroline said she must
know at once. There was some one else she would invite, if I couldn't
go. I simply could not give up so good a chance to see Europe. But of
course I am sorry to leave school."

"Now, Irma, no crocodile tears." Gertrude pinched her friend's arm as
she spoke. "Fond as I am--or ought to be--of school, I wouldn't think
twice about leaving it all, if I had a chance to shorten this horrid
winter."

"Winter! And here we are sitting in the open air. In six weeks it will
be May, and you won't find a pleasanter month in Europe than our May,"
protested Lucy.

"We intend to have some fine picnics this spring; you'll lose them if
you go," added Gertrude.

"One can't have everything," sighed Irma. "I know that I must lose some
good things if I go away."

"Examinations, for instance," cried George Belman, who had joined the
group.

"And promotions, perhaps," added John.

"But still," continued George, "I say Irma deserves a change for her
unselfishness in having whooping-cough last summer, just to keep Tessie
company."

"Well, it was considerate in Irma to get over it before school opened;
stand up, dear, and let yourself be counted."

"Oh, Gertrude, how silly you are!" but even while protesting Irma rose
slowly to her feet, and her friends, looking at her, noticed that she
was paler and thinner than she had been a year earlier.

"Come, now," said Lucy, rising, and affectionately slipping her arm
around Irma's waist, "tell us your plans. Gertrude knows them, but I
have heard only rumors."

"I am not quite sure myself about it all. Only I am to sail with Aunt
Caroline and Uncle Jim to Naples by the southern route, and, after going
through Italy, we shall be home in July--and a niece of Aunt Caroline's,
or rather of Uncle Jim's, is going with us."

"You didn't tell _me_ that," interposed Gertrude. "You won't miss us
half as much if you have another girl with you. I begin to be jealous."

"If there were ten other girls in our party I'd miss my friends just as
much," said Irma. "Besides, I'll be too busy to take an interest in mere
girls."

"Busy!" It was George who said this, with a little, mocking laugh.

"Yes, busy; busy sightseeing and reading, and perhaps studying a little.
For you know I must take a special examination in September. How
mortifying if I had to stay behind next year!"

"Then I shall drop behind, too, or at least I should wish to," said
George gallantly.

"Did some one speak of summer?" asked Lucy, rising. "Now that the sun
is low I am half frozen. Come, Irma, I will walk to your door with you,"
and, after a word of farewell to the others, the two friends walked away
together.

Irma, now in her second year in the High School, had really enjoyed her
studies, and she was sure that her ancient history was to be made much
more vivid by her journey, and even the dry hours she had spent on Caesar
would count for much when she reached Italy. It was well, perhaps, that
Irma herself had little to do in preparing for her journey. As it was,
it was hard enough to keep her mind on lessons those last weeks, when
there was so much besides to think of. Still, the March days flew by
swiftly. Irma was to sail from New York the Saturday before Easter,
which this year came very early. A week before she was to start a
steamer trunk arrived from New York, accompanied by a letter from Aunt
Caroline.

"Your mother must have so much to do that I wish to save her a little of
the trouble of shopping," wrote Aunt Caroline, "and I do hope that these
will fit you."

"I can't see that the steamer rug is a very close fit," said Rudolph,
laughing, as Irma held up the warm-looking square of blue and green
plaid. "But the Panama hat's all right,--only the rug and the hat will
look rather queer together."

Into the steamer trunk during the week Irma put many little things that
the girls at school--and indeed some of the boys--gave her as parting
gifts.

"I wish I could take them all," she said, as she stood beside the trunk.
"But there are so many duplicates. I suppose I could use two pinballs
and two brush-holders, but I don't need three needlebooks and half a
dozen toothbrush cases. Oh, dear, and all have been so kind that I wish
they had compared notes first, so that I needn't have so many things I
can't use."

[Illustration: "I WISH I COULD TAKE THEM ALL," SHE SAID.
      (_Page 6._)]

"It's better to have too many than too few," said Tessie sagely.
"Tessie," however, only occasionally, since the ten year old maiden
scorned the diminutive of her earlier years, and insisted that now she
was old enough to be known as "Theresa."

"It's better for you, Theresa," responded Irma, "for some of these
things may find their way to your room. Lucy might let me give you this
needlebook, or at least lend it, for perhaps it wouldn't do to give a
present away."

"Well, I'll borrow it now, to help me remember you when you are gone,"
and Tessie, delighted with her treasure, ran off to her room with it.

During her last days at home Irma realized that Nap was not happy. He
followed her from room to room, and, so far as he could, kept her always
in sight. When she sat down, he lay at her feet with his nose touching
her dress. When she moved she almost stumbled over him; and once, when
she went to close the steamer trunk, there he was inside! He might have
suffered Ginevra's fate, had not Irma happened to look within.

"He truly knows just what you are going to do, and he meant to hide
until the trunk was opened on the ship, so you'd have to take him with
you," cried Tessie.

"Yes," added Chris, "perhaps he thinks that's his only chance of finding
Katie Grimston again. She's still in Europe, isn't she?"

"Well, Katie Grimston shall never have him."

"But she did not give him to you; she wrote she would claim him on her
return."

"Yes, but she isn't here to claim him, and possession is nine points of
the law." Then Irma picked the little creature up and ran away with him.

The boys were very philosophical about their sister's departure.

"If I should stay home they'd be grievously disappointed," Irma confided
to Gertrude. "They are calculating so on the stamps and post cards I am
to collect for them, that I wouldn't dare change my mind."

Mahala's interest, however, made up for the indifference of the boys to
their sister's departure.

"We shall miss you dreadfully," and Mahala sighed heavily, "though it's
a great thing for a person to have the advantage of foreign travel; not
that I'd cross the ocean myself, for what with the danger of meeting
icebergs," she continued cheerfully, "and bursting boilers and all the
other perils of the sea--dear me, I'd feel as if I was taking my life in
my hands to embark on an ocean liner. But I'm glad you're going, Irma.
One of the family ought to have the experience----"

"Of icebergs and bursting boilers," cried Irma. "O Mahala, I am
surprised at you."

"Going to Europe has seemed to me like a dream," continued Irma, turning
to her mother, "but Mahala would change it to a nightmare," and the help
from Aroostook, Maine, withdrew in confusion to the kitchen.

If Irma had thought going to Europe a dream, the dream seemed pretty
nearly true one Saturday morning, when from the deck of the great
steamship she watched the receding dock, until in the crowd she could
barely discern the figure of her father as he stood there waving his
handkerchief. At this moment there were real tears in her eyes, though
she had fully made up her mind not to cry. For the moment a great many
thoughts crowded upon her,--memories of her mother looking from the
window as the coach drove off to the station, of the boys and Tessie
standing at the gate, and Mahala on the steps with Nap in her arms, held
tightly, lest his continued wriggling should at last result in his
running after the carriage.

"It's really very selfish in me to go so far when none of the others
can go," Irma mused, and as the ship moved seaward, she was so lost in
sad thoughts that she hardly heeded Aunt Caroline's "Come, dear. Here is
Marion, whom you haven't met yet."

Turning about, Irma experienced one of the greatest surprises of her
life. Instead of the girl in long skirts whom she expected to see, there
stood by her aunt's side a tall boy, apparently a little older than John
Wall or George Belman. Who could he be? And where was Marian? The boy
had pleasant, brown eyes, but a fretful line about his lips interfered
with the attractiveness of his face.

There was no time for questions. Before Irma could speak, Aunt Caroline
continued, "I do hope you two young people will like each other. Marion,
this is Irma, about whom I have told you so much."

The boy and the girl looked at each other for a moment in silence. Irma
was the first to speak.

"Why--why I thought from your letter that Marion was a girl," she said
awkwardly.

This speech did not better matters. Marion was still silent as he
extended his hand to meet the one that Irma offered him. Then,
acknowledging the introduction with a touch of his hat, he turned on his
heel and walked off.

"Poor boy!" exclaimed Aunt Caroline, as he passed out of sight. "We must
be patient. We must do what we can for him. Had things been different,
he could hardly have come with us. But why did you think Marion a girl?"

"I never heard of a boy named Marian."

"Oh--it's after General Marion. Perhaps my wretched writing made the 'o'
look an 'a'. I didn't refer to our nephew?"

"No, you only said you hoped I'd like Marian, who was the same relation
to Uncle Jim that I am to you," and Irma smiled, remembering that Aunt
Caroline was only an aunt by courtesy,--in other words, an intimate
friend of her mother's.

"Well, we are very fond of Marion--even if he isn't a real nephew--only
we must all make allowances for him," then Aunt Caroline flitted off,
while Irma wondered why allowances must be made for a tall, good-looking
boy, who seemed well able to take care of himself.

Meanwhile, Marion, leaning against a rail at some distance from Irma,
was on the verge of a fit of the blues.

"Thought I was a girl. Oh, yes, I suppose they have told her
everything. Aunt Caroline ought to have had more sense. Anyway, I hate
girls, and I'll try not to see much of this one."

Then Marion, to whom New York Harbor was no novelty, went within, while
Uncle Jim joined Irma, and pointed out many interesting things. The
great city they were leaving looked picturesque to Irma, as she gave its
spires and high buildings a backward glance. The mammoth Liberty,
standing on its little island, held her attention for a moment. Past the
closely built shore of Long Island and the forts on the Westchester
side, they were getting into deeper water, and Irma was straining her
eyes in the direction of Sandy Hook, toward which Uncle Jim was
pointing, when Aunt Caroline hurried up to her: "If you come in now, you
can write a short letter to your mother."

"To my mother?"

"Yes, to send back by the pilot. But you must be quick."

Following her aunt, Irma was soon in the small saloon, where twenty or
thirty persons were writing at small tables or on improvised
lap-tablets. In one corner a ship's officer was tying up bundles of
letters and putting them in the large mail bag that lay beside him.

Irma quickly finished her brief home letter. It was only a word to let
them know she was thinking of them.

As she approached the mail steward, "No, sir, we 'aven't a stamp left,"
she heard him say, "heverybody's been writing. The stamps are hall
gone--hat least the Hamerican."

"Oh, don't we need English stamps?" Irma turned to her aunt.

"No, dear. I am sorry he has no American stamps. I can enclose your
letter with my own to Cousin Fannie, and she'll remail it."

"Oh, but I have stamps. I brought half a dozen with me." An old
gentleman who had vainly asked the steward for a stamp stood near Irma.
She had heard him express annoyance that he must entrust his letter to
the pilot unstamped. "One can seldom trust a friend to put a stamp on a
letter--still less a complete stranger--and this is very important."

"Excuse me," interposed Irma, stepping up to him. She wondered
afterwards how she had dared. "Will you not take one of my stamps?" she
said.

A broad smile brightened the old gentleman's face. "You certainly are
long on stamps, and I am obliged to you for letting me share your
prosperity." Then, stamping his letter, he dropped it into the mail bag.

"I'll take two," said a lady abruptly, approaching Irma, and without so
much as "by your leave," she detached two from Irma's strip of four, and
dropping a nickel into her hand, walked off with a murmured "Thank you."
A second and younger lady then approached.

"Could you let me have two stamps?" she asked politely. "I overheard you
say that you had some."

"Certainly," said Irma, and after thanking her, this applicant, with a
pleasant "Fair exchange is no robbery," slipped into Irma's hand two
Italian stamps. This seemed a much more gracious payment than the
nickel. Later she recalled that the old gentleman had paid her
nothing--and this, she decided, was the most courteous way of all.

The steward had fastened the bag when Marion rushed up to him. "Oh, say,
steward, give me a stamp."

"'Aven't hany, sir."

"Well, you ought to have some."

"Mine are all gone, too," said Irma. "I had half a dozen a few minutes
ago."

"You might have saved some for me," snapped Marion; "why should a girl
write so many letters?"

"I wrote only one," began Irma. "You can give your letter to the pilot."

But Marion's only answer was to tear his letter into fragments. Then he
followed the steward with the bag, and Irma was almost alone in the
deserted saloon.

The letter she had just written was the last word she could send home
for a week. It would be twice as long before she could hear from any of
the family. She began to wish that she had gone back on the pilot boat.
Why, indeed, had she ever left home? She should have waited until they
could all visit Europe together. Now all kinds of things might happen to
Chris or Rudolph or Tessie--or even to her father and mother--and it
might all be over before she could hear a word. She began to be really
unhappy, and again her eyes filled in a desperate feeling of
homesickness.

After this first attack, Irma was, for a time, able to put the family
out of her mind. At the first luncheon on shipboard, which she hardly
tasted, her place at table was between Aunt Caroline and Marion. But at
dinner when Marion appeared he dropped into the seat next to Uncle Jim,
leaving his former place vacant.

"It's only one of Marion's notions," whispered Aunt Caroline. "I fear he
is shy, and doesn't know what to say to you."

Irma was not comfortable in learning that Marion regarded her as a
person to be avoided. "If only Marion had been a friendly girl how much
pleasanter our party would be," she thought.

At first Irma felt she could hardly manage to live in her small
stateroom. But when she had fastened to the wall the linen hold-all her
mother had made, filled with various little things, and had stowed other
small possessions in the drawer under the mirror, she saw the
possibility of adapting herself to her cramped quarters. She soon had a
regular program. She rose with the first morning bugle, and after her
early bath, while Aunt Caroline dozed, dressed quickly.

Then she had a brisk walk on deck before breakfast, which Uncle Jim's
party had at the second table.

Sunday morning--her second day at sea--Irma found a letter by her plate
at breakfast.

"It's from Lucy," she cried, turning it over and over.

"A steamer letter," explained Uncle Jim. "Are you such a landlubber as
not to know that in these days letters follow you regularly on your
voyage?"

A moment later she discerned in a corner, "Care the Purser," and then
she broke the seal.

"What news?" asked Uncle Jim, as she finished.

"All you'd expect from a letter written before I left home. I wonder how
far we are now," she concluded with a sigh.

"Too far for you to swim back," answered Aunt Caroline, reading her
thoughts.

Among the letters that Irma received daily after this, Mahala's was
especially entertaining.

"To dream of a horse," she began, "is a sign of a letter, so I'm
writing because I dreamt of a horse last night, though that isn't the
way it's generally meant to work. Tessie's beginning to live up to many
of the signs I've taught her, and when I told her I hoped your voyage
wouldn't be unlucky because you were leaving Cranston Friday--just after
you started she ran out of the room, and when I went on the steps to see
if she'd gone over to the Flynns', well, just at that very minute
something struck me on the head, and such a mess, all down my face and
over my apron. When I got hold of Tessie she explained that she'd heard
me say that if any one wished on an egg dropped from a second story
window, the wish would come true--if the egg didn't break--but this egg
certainly broke, and I hope it won't cause you ill luck. This wouldn't
require mentioning, only I thought it might make you laugh if you happen
to feel peaked the day you read this letter. We didn't punish Tessie,
because she's feeling kind of bad about you, and she got scared enough
when the egg broke on my head."




CHAPTER II

THE WESTERN ISLANDS


The first day or so of the voyage seemed long to Irma. She could not lie
in a steamer chair, and pretend to read, as Aunt Caroline did. She had
more than a suspicion that her aunt seldom turned the leaves of her
book, and that left to herself she was apt to doze, although each
morning Uncle Jim placed beside her chair a large basket containing
books and magazines.

"Lean back, Irma," Uncle Jim would say, "you are not a real bird that
you need perch on the arm of your chair. Lean back; I will fix your
cushions--as Marion is not here to do this for you," he concluded
mischievously.

"I wonder what Marion does with himself," interposed Aunt Caroline. "We
see him only at meals, and I thought he would be such company for Irma."

"Irma doesn't need him," responded Uncle Jim. "Come, my dear, let us
look at the steerage."

"Don't go below," protested Aunt Caroline. "You don't know what
frightful disease you might catch."

"We'll only look over the railing," and Uncle Jim led Irma to a spot
where she could look down at the steerage passengers, sitting in the sun
on the deck below.

"It's not very crowded," explained Uncle Jim, "on the passage to Europe
at this season. Most of those you see have a free passage because the
authorities fear they may become public charges."

"How hard!"

"No, my dear. Many of them have better food and quarters here than they
ever have on shore."

"Are there many sick among them?"

"The doctor told me of one poor woman who may not live until she
reaches the Azores. She has been working in New Bedford, but when the
doctors told her she could not live long, she was sure the air of the
Western Islands would cure her. So her friends had a raffle, and raised
enough for her passage, and a little more for her to live on after her
arrival here, at least, that's what Marion told me."

"Marion!"

"Yes, he takes a great interest in the steerage. I dare say he knows
those three ferocious-looking desperadoes in the corner."

"Desperadoes!"

"Well, they might be brigands, might they not? at least judging from
their appearance. Most men returning at this season--and not a few of
the women, too--are sent back by our Government because undesirable for
citizenship."

"Oh!" exclaimed Irma. "That explains why so many wear strange clothes.
They are really foreigners."

"Yes. The majority of them have probably never even landed."

As Irma turned away, her interest in the steerage increased rather than
lessened. But when she asked Uncle Jim questions, she found he knew
little about individuals. She wished that Marion would talk to her. She
believed that he could tell her what she wished to know. But as the days
passed Marion did not thaw out. It is true he usually reported the day's
run to Irma, a little ahead of the time when it was marked on the ship's
chart, and if she was not near Aunt Caroline when the steward passed
around with his tea and cakes, he would usually hunt her up. But if she
began to talk to him, he answered in the briefest words, and did not
encourage further conversation.

One day, when he came to the table rather more animated than usual, she
could not help overhearing him describe a visit he had made to the lower
regions of the ship, where he had seen the inner workings of things. She
listened eagerly to his description of the stoking hole with the flames
weirdly lighting up the figures of the busy stokers. This interested her
more than what he told of the machinery and the huge refrigerating
plant.

"The doctor might have asked me, too. It's different from the steerage.
Marion is very selfish, never to think of me. If there were more girls
of my age, I wouldn't care. There isn't a boy in Cranston who would be
so mean."

Soon after this, the day before they reached the Azores, Irma made the
acquaintance of the one girl on board, near her own age. Hitherto Muriel
had looked at her wistfully, not venturing to leave her governess, who
talked French endlessly, as they paced the deck. But now, as Irma was
watching a game of shuffleboard, played by older persons, Muriel
approached and began a conversation, and soon the two were comparing
their present impressions and their future plans.

"I'm awfully tired of Europe," said Muriel. "We go every year, but this
time it may not be so bad, as we are to motor through Italy."

The most of this day the two new friends were together, separating only
to finish the letters that they wished to mail at St. Michael's.

After dinner, when Irma went back to the dining saloon, the mail steward
sat at a table with a scale before him, receiving money for the stamps
he was to put on letters at Ponta Delgada.

"Why, here's my little lady of the stamps," cried a voice in Irma's ear,
and turning, she recognized the little old gentleman, whom she had not
seen since the first day.

Irma returned his greeting, and he went up with her toward the deck.

"It's so mild," she explained, "that my aunt said I might sit outside.
I am so anxious to see land."

"Even if we were nearer shore, there's not moon enough to show an
outline. Why are you so anxious to see land?"

"Because it will be my first foreign country. Except when we sailed from
New York, I had never been out of New England."

"There are worse places to spend one's life in than New England," and
the old gentleman sighed, as he added, "yet in the fifty years since I
left it, I have been back only half a dozen times."

"I suppose you know the Azores," ventured Irma.

"Oh, yes, the country was very primitive in the old days. The interior,
they tell me, has changed little, but the cities are more up to date."

"Cities?"

"Not large cities like ours in America, though Ponta Delgada is the
third largest in Portugal. But there, young ladies of your age dislike
guidebook information, at least out of school."

"Oh, please go on," begged Irma, and for half an hour her new friend
talked delightfully about the Azores and other places.

"Ah, there's Uncle Jim," she exclaimed, as she saw her uncle approaching
under one of the electric lights.

"I never thought of finding you out here alone," cried her uncle.

"Not alone," rejoined Irma, turning to introduce her new friend. But he
had mysteriously disappeared.

"It is high time to come in, if the night air makes you see double,"
said Uncle Jim dryly. But Irma gave no explanations. How could she have
introduced the old gentleman, when she did not know his name?

"Aunt Caroline says please hurry. They are in sight." Thus Marion's
voice and repeated rappings waked Irma the next morning.

"Who are in sight?" she asked sleepily.

"The Azores, of course."

"Oh, dear," cried Irma, forgetting to thank Marion for his trouble.
"Why," she wondered, "did I take this particular morning to oversleep?"
Dressing at lightning speed, after a hurried repast she was soon on
deck. Then, to her disappointment, there was nothing to see. The
islands, wherever they might be, were veiled by a soft mist.

"They have been in sight for hours," some one said. Irma wished she had
asked her steward to call her at dawn. Not until they were well upon
Ponta Delgada did they have their first glimpse of St. Michael's toward
noon, and the warmth of the sun was modified by the thin veil of mist.
Gradually the mist dissolved, and not far away was the green shore, and
behind, a line of low, conical mountains parallel with the coast. Then a
white village appeared, and soon the spires and red roofs of Ponta
Delgada.

Luncheon had been served early, and towards one o'clock the boat
stopped, when still some distance from land. Large rowboats were pushing
out from shore, and one or two tugs carrying the Portuguese flag.

"The tugs are bringing health and customs officers. We can't land until
they have made their examination," Uncle Jim explained.

"How tedious to wait when we shall have so little time at the best!"

"Are we to go in those dreadful little boats?"

"Oh, it's a smooth sea; we'll get there safely enough."

"The town looks decidedly Spanish."

These and many similar remarks floated to Irma's ears. What impressed
her most was the fact that she must descend the steep steps that the
sailors were letting down from the side, and go ashore in a boat.

"It's safe enough," said Aunt Caroline. "Any one is foolish who remains
on the ship. But I am willing to stay here myself."

So Aunt Caroline remained on the boat, and Irma, with Uncle Jim ahead
and Marion behind, went down the long steps cautiously. When she had
taken her seat in the large rowboat, she found herself near Muriel and
her governess. The two girls were soon deep in conversation, while
Marion, some distance away, sat listless and silent.

"Your brother isn't cheerful to-day," said Muriel, as the boat neared
shore.

"He isn't my brother,--far from it," responded Irma, and unluckily at
that moment Marion, rising to be of assistance to the ladies on landing,
was near enough to hear both Muriel's remark and Irma's answer.

"Well, I am very glad not to be her brother," he thought, "and as to
that other girl, she's exactly the kind I don't like." And in this mood
Marion jumped hastily off when the boat pulled up, and running up the
short steps, walked along the quay in solitary sulkiness, with his hands
in his pockets.

"Your cavalier seems to have left you," said Uncle Jim mischievously, as
he helped Irma ashore. "I wonder if he will condescend to join us on our
tour of the town."

When they had pushed their way among the loungers at the wharf, however,
they saw Marion standing near an open carriage, drawn by two underfed
horses.

"How would this suit?" he asked. "The best carriages have been taken.
You know our boat was almost the last."

"Over there are a couple of good automobiles looking for passengers."

For the instant Marion's face clouded. "Oh, of course," added Uncle Jim
hastily. "I had forgotten. That wouldn't do. These horses may prove
better than they look, and as we have no time to lose, let us start."

Before setting off, Uncle Jim turned about to see whether Muriel and
Mademoiselle Potin had found a vehicle. Already they were seated in a
carriage much like the one he had chosen, with horses that looked
equally meek and hungry.

Then Uncle Jim's driver flourished and snapped his whip, and the horses
went off at a lively pace. Irma, indeed, wished they would go more
slowly, that she could get a better idea of the narrow streets. Yet even
as they drove rapidly along she had a definite impression of clean
pavements and small houses, many of them painted in bright colors. After
they had left the little crowd near the wharf, the streets seemed
deserted. Here and there an old man hobbled along, or a woman with a
shawl over her head, or a girl with a large basket of fruit. They met
oddly constructed carts, drawn by donkeys, and once they stopped to buy
fruit from a man who bore a long pole on his shoulders, from one end of
which hung a string of bananas, while from the other dangled a dozen
pineapples.

"Fortunately," said Uncle Jim, "as our time is limited, there are not
many important things to see in Ponta Delgada. We shall be obliged to
look at so many churches in Italy that we can neglect those here."

"I'd like to see the church where Columbus and his sailors gave thanks,
when they landed there after the storm."

"Santa Maria! Miles away!" cried Marion.

"Well," said Irma, slightly snubbed, "even if this isn't the place, it
is interesting to remember that some of these islands had been settled
years and years before America was discovered."

Soon they reached the famous garden, one of the two or three things best
worth seeing in the town. When they walked through the great iron gates
opened by a respectful servitor, at once Irma felt she was in a region
of mystery. The three went along in silence under tall trees whose
branches arched over the broad path.

Turning aside an instant, they gazed down a deep ravine, with banks
moss-grown and covered with ferns. Far below was a little stream, and
here and there the ravine was spanned by rustic bridges. Irma caught a
glimpse of a dark grotto and a carved stone seat.

"It is rather musty here; let us hurry on," suggested Uncle Jim.

"Musty!" protested Irma. "It is like poetry."

"Well, poetry is rather musty sometimes."

Irma could not tell whether or not Marion was in earnest.

Farther in the garden they saw more flowers--waxlike camellias and some
brilliant blossoms that neither she nor her companions could name. But
there were other favorites--fuschias, geraniums, roses, in size and
beauty surpassing anything Irma had ever seen.

"It reminds me of California," said Marion.

"Yes, there is the same soft air combined with the moisture that plants
love. Europe has no finer gardens than one or two of these on St.
Michael's. We'll have no time for another that belonged to Jose de
Cantos. The owner died a few years ago and left it to the public, with
enough money to keep it up. It has bamboo trees and palm trees and
mammoth ferns and the greenhouses are filled with orchids. But we'll
have to leave that for another visit. It is better now to go where we
can get a general view of this part of the island."

In the course of their walk they had met groups of sightseers from the
ship. But when they were ready to go back they had to turn to a group of
old men and women at work on a garden bed, who, with gesticulations,
directed them to the right path.

"Every one seems old here," said Irma, "even the men sweeping leaves
from the paths with their twig brooms look nearly a hundred."

"The young and strong probably emigrate," said Uncle Jim.

On leaving the garden the coachman took them to the "buena vista," a
hill where they had a lovely view of land and water. Far, far as they
could see, stretched fertile farms with comfortable houses and
outbuildings.

"Small farms," explained Uncle Jim, "ought to mean that a good many
people are very well off, and yet it is said that most of the people
here are poor."

When they were in the center of the town again, they sent their
carriage away, and then Irma and Marion hastened to one of the little
shops on the square, where the former bought post cards and the latter
some small silver souvenirs. They rejoined Uncle Jim at the Cathedral
door, but a glance at its tawdry interior contented them. Uncle Jim
filled Irma's arms with flowers bought from one of the young flower
sellers, and when at last they reached the wharf, they were among the
last to embark for the ship. Muriel and Mademoiselle Potin were waiting
for the same boat, and when they compared notes, the two girls found
that they had seen practically the same things, though in a different
order.

During their two or three hours on shore a fresh breeze had sprung up,
and the waves were high. The boat, making her way with difficulty,
sometimes did not seem perfectly under the control of the stalwart
oarsmen. This at least was Irma's opinion, as she sat there trembling.
Even Muriel, the experienced traveller, looked pale, and Irma wondered
how Marion felt, seated near the bow with his face turned resolutely
away from his friends.

"How huge the ship is," exclaimed Muriel, as they drew near the
_Ariadne_, a great black hulk whose keel seemed to touch bottom.

For a moment Irma had a spasm of fear. What if this great, black thing
should tip over some night! How could she make up her mind to live in it
for another week!

Their rowers rested on their oars a few minutes, while other boats just
ahead were putting passengers aboard. Looking to the decks so far above,
Irma recognized Aunt Caroline waving her handkerchief. If only she could
fly up there without any further battling with the waves!

"Come, Irma," said Uncle Jim. "There isn't the least danger. I will stay
on the boat until the last, and you can step just ahead of me."

All the others, even Muriel and Mademoiselle, had gone up the stairs
before Marion. He was just ahead of Irma, and when he had his footing,
he stood a step or two from the bottom, to help Irma. The men had
difficulty in steadying the boat. But one of them held Irma firmly,
until her feet were on a dry step. Then, as Marion extended his hand to
her, she put out hers when, it was hard to tell how it really happened,
Marion's foot slipped, and instead of helping Irma he fell against her,
almost throwing her into the tossing waves.

Irma, however, fortunately kept her presence of mind. Not only did she
grasp the guard rope quickly, but with her other arm she held Marion
firmly. Their feet were wet by the dashing waves, but there was no
further damage. They had had a great fright, though Marion seemed to
suffer the most. When Irma relaxed her hold, she could walk up to the
deck unaided, but Marion had to be supported by a boatman, until Uncle
Jim, closely following, drew his arm through his, and so helped him to
the deck.

Not even Aunt Caroline realized what had happened, when Irma said she
must go to her room to change her wet shoes. This she did quickly, as
she wished to see all she could of the coast of beautiful St. Michael's.

"Tell me now," said Aunt Caroline, from the depths of her chair, "was
going ashore really worth while?"

"Yes, indeed, you shouldn't have missed it."

"Ah, well, I was there years ago, visiting cousins who lived there. But
they are now dead, and everything would be so changed. I am told they
have electric lights, not only in Ponta Delgada, but in the villages
near by, and I don't suppose you met a single woman in the long capote,
with its queer hood, nor even one man in a dark carpuccia."

"Why, yes," responded Irma, smiling, "I met them on some post cards, but
nowhere else."

Irma hastened through her dinner that evening. Marion did not appear,
but the old gentleman came to her, and placed himself in Aunt Caroline's
vacant chair. He entered into a long conversation--or rather a
monologue, since in answer to Irma's brief questions he did most of the
talking.

He told Irma how isolated the islanders were from one another, so that
on Corvo, and one or two of the others, if the crops fail, or there is
any disaster, they signal for help by means of bonfires. Some of them
have mails to Portugal only once in two or three months. Ponta Delgada
is much better off, with boats at least twice a month to Lisbon, and
fairly good communication with other places. "But if I had time,"
continued the old gentleman, "I could find nothing more healthful and
pleasant than a cruise around these nine Western Islands."

"How large are they?" asked Irma abruptly.

"Well, they cover more water than land. St. Mary, St. Michael's nearest
neighbor, is fifty miles away, and Terceira, the next neighbor, is
ninety miles off. But St. Michael's, the largest of them all, is only
thirty-seven miles long by nine broad, and Corvo, the smallest, you
could almost put in your pocket with its four and a half miles of length
and three of breadth. But what they lack in size they make up in
climate."

"Then I don't see why the men are so ready to leave the islands."

"To make money, my child. If Portugal were better off, the islands would
share her prosperity. But they share the political troubles of the
mother country. Many farms produce barely enough for the tenants, who
have to deal with exacting landlords. But some of the large landowners,
especially those who raise pineapples, grow rich. The oranges and
bananas that they send to Lisbon, and their butter and cheese, too, make
money for the producers. But the islands won't be really prosperous
until they have more manufactures."

In his soliloquy, the old gentleman seemed to have forgotten Irma, and
she was on the point of calling his attention to the particularly high
and rugged aspect of the coast they were then passing, when he
continued, "St. Michael's, I believe, has made a good beginning with
carriages and furniture for its own use, and soap and potato alcohol for
export, and in time--but, my dear child, I am boring you to death----"

"Oh, no, but isn't the coast beautiful, with that veil of mist around
the tops of those mountains; what a pity it grows dark."

"What a pity it has grown so damp that I must order you in," said the
old gentleman kindly, and though he was neither uncle nor aunt, and no
real authority, Irma found herself following him within, as she turned
her back to the Western Islands.




CHAPTER III

TOWARD THE CONTINENT


"Aren't you tired of hearing people wonder when we shall arrive at
Gibraltar?"

"They needn't wonder. This is a slow boat, but we have averaged about
three hundred and twenty-five miles every day, so we must get in early
Tuesday unless something unusual happens. A high wind may spring up, but
even then we are pretty certain to come in sight of Gibraltar before
night."

"Oh, I can hardly wait until then," began Irma. "I hope we can go up on
top of the Rock, and down in the dungeons, and everywhere." Muriel, who
was walking with Irma and Marion, looked surprised at her friend's
enthusiasm, and even a trifle bored.

"Don't talk like a school book," she whispered, and Irma, reddening,
glanced up at Marion, to see if he shared Muriel's strange distaste for
history. But he gave no sign.

Since leaving the Azores, Muriel's frank friendliness for Irma had added
much to the pleasure of the two girls. Though they had been brought up
so differently, they had much in common. Muriel's winters were usually
spent there, but she had also travelled widely. She had been educated by
governesses, and yet Irma could but notice that she was less well
informed in history and had less interest in books than many of her own
friends at home. Irma did not compare her own knowledge with Muriel's,
but an impartial critic would probably have decided that, whatever might
be the real merits of the two systems, Irma had profited the more from
the education given her. In modern French and German, however, Muriel
certainly was proficient, and when she complained of Mademoiselle Potin,
Irma would tell her to be thankful that she had so good a chance to
practice French.

Since the day at St. Michael's, Marion had ceased to avoid Irma, and
though he spent little time with her, he was evidently trying to be
friendly. He never referred to his misadventure coming on board. Aunt
Caroline had brought Irma his thanks.

"He is very nervous, as you must have noticed," she said, "and he may be
unable to talk to you about this. For he feels that he has disgraced
himself again; and though he is incorrect in this, still I appreciate
his feelings, and hope you will accept his thanks."

"Why, there's really nothing to thank me for," began Irma.

"Oh, yes, my dear, we all think differently. You certainly have great
presence of mind. Poor Marion."

In spite of Aunt Caroline's sympathetic tones, Irma did not pity Marion.
He was a fine, manly-looking boy, and the sea air had brought color to
his face, while his fretful expression had almost gone.

After the first day or two at sea Irma had begun to make new
acquaintances. Among them was a little girl who greatly reminded her of
Tessie as she had been a few years earlier. So one day she called her to
listen to the steamer letter from Tessie, that she had found under her
plate that morning.

"Dear Irma, when you read this--for I hope Uncle Jim will give my
letter to you--you will be far out on the ocean, where it is very deep,
with no islands or peninsulas in sight, and I hope you will be careful
not to fall overboard. But please look over the edge of the boat once in
a while to see if there are any whales about. Of course, I hope they
won't be large enough to upset your steamboat, but if you see one,
please take a photograph and send it to me, for I never saw a photograph
of a truly, live whale.

"I can't tell you any news, because I am writing this before you leave
home, so you'll be sure to get it. I would feel too badly to write after
you get started.

                        "From your loving Tessie."

The letter interested little Jean very much. She had already heard about
Tessie and Nap, and now she rushed to the edge of the deck, and when
Irma followed her, the child upturned to her a disappointed face.

"I can't see one."

"One what?"

"A whale--and Tessie will be so disappointed. I know she wants that
photograph."

"No matter, I can take your photograph, only you must smile."

So Jean smiled, and the photograph was taken with the camera that Uncle
Jim had given Irma.

"It will be more fun to look for Gibraltar than for whales. To-morrow we
must all have our eyes open."

"What's Gibraltar?"

"The great big rock where we are going to land."

"I don't want to land on a rock," pouted Jean. "I want to go ashore."

"Oh, we'll go ashore, too."

That evening there was a dance on the ship. The upper deck was covered
with canvas, and canvas enclosed the sides. Gay bunting and English and
American flags brightened the improvised ballroom, and most of the
younger passengers, as well as not a few of the elder, spent at least
part of the evening there.

"Hasn't Marion been here?" asked Aunt Caroline, when she and Uncle Jim
appeared on the scene.

"I haven't seen him," responded Irma.

"What a goose he is!" exclaimed Uncle Jim.

"He's very grumpy, isn't he?" commented Muriel, but Irma made no reply.

On Tuesday Irma was on deck early. In the distance a thin dark line
after a time took on height and breadth.

"Cape Trafalgar!" some one exclaimed.

"Europe at last!" thought Irma.

"What do you think of Spain?" asked Uncle Jim, standing beside her.

"It seems to be chiefly brown cliffs. And so few villages! Where are the
cities?"

"You'll find seaports only where there are harbors. They are not
generally found on rocky promontories."

Irma turned about. Yes, the speaker was indeed Marion, whose approach
she had not observed.

"Oh, Cadiz is not so very far to the north there," interposed Uncle Jim,
in an effort to throw oil on the troubled waters, "and we cannot tell
just what lies behind those heights. What is there, Marion? You've been
in Spain."

But Marion had disappeared.

After passing Trafalgar, the _Ariadne_ kept nearer shore. Now there was
a house in sight, again a little white hamlet lying low at the base of
the brown, bare cliffs.

Far ahead the clouds took on new shapes, and did not change. Could that
be the huge bulk of Gibraltar, seen through a mist?

Uncle Jim laughed when Irma put the question to him.

"You are looking in the wrong direction."

"Then it must be Africa. Oh, I wish we might go nearer."

"In that case you might miss the Rock altogether, and take the chance,
too, of being wrecked on a savage coast."

But the Spanish shore gained in interest. Here and there small fishing
boats pushed out. Sometimes steamboats were in sight, smaller than the
_Ariadne_ yet of good size, traders along the coast from London,
perhaps, to Spanish or French ports. Muriel and Irma amused themselves
guessing their nationality, with Uncle Jim as referee. Strange birds
flew overhead. Then a town, grayish rather than white, and a lighthouse
on the height above.

"Tarifa," some one explained, and those who knew said that Gibraltar
could not be far away. Soon Irma, who had kept her face toward the
African shore, was startled by a voice in her ear. "The Pillars of
Hercules are near; people are so busy gathering up their things to go
ashore that I was afraid you might go to your stateroom for something,
and so miss them."

"You are very kind to think of me," said Irma, turning toward Marion,
for it was he who had spoken. "How I wish we were to land at some of
those strange African places."

"Tangiers might be worth while, but I love this distant view of the
mountains."

"Do you know the name of the African pillar?"

"Yes--Abyla! and Gibraltar, formerly known as Calpe, was the other. It's
a pity we won't have time to go to the top of the Rock. The
Carthaginians used to go up there to watch for the Roman ships. The
British officer on guard at the top of the Rock must have a wonderful
view. Some one told me you can see from the Sierra Nevadas in Spain to
the Atlas in Africa. Just think of being perched up there, fourteen
hundred feet above the sea. If only we could have a whole day at
Gibraltar, we might see something, but now----" and the old expression
of discontent settled on Marion's lips.

"Oh, well, we can probably go around the fortifications," responded
Irma, trying to console him.

"The fortifications! Oh, no, there are miles of them, and the galleries
are closed at sundown, so that we couldn't get into them, even if we had
a pass,--I suppose that's what they call it."

"Well, at least we'll see the town itself, and we can't help running
upon some of the garrison, for there are several thousand soldiers and
officers."

"Oh, I dare say, but it isn't the same thing as visiting Gibraltar
decently. Uncle Jim ought to have planned a trip through Spain. It would
be three times more interesting than Italy."

Irma, who had visited neither country, did not contradict Marion. Enough
for her even a short stay at one of the most famous places in the world,
the wonderful fortress that the British had defended and held so bravely
during a four years' siege more than a century ago.

"Marion is a strange boy," thought Irma. "I wonder why he tries to make
himself miserable."

After passing the jagged and mysterious Pillars of Hercules, Irma soon
saw the huge bulk of Gibraltar not far off, and then it seemed but a
short run until they had gained the harbor. Her heart sank when she
found they were to anchor some distance from shore, for though the water
was still and calm, she did not like the small boats. But Uncle Jim
laughed at her fears, assuring her that they would be taken off in a
comfortable tender.

The tender was slow in coming, and during the time of waiting some
passengers fretted and fumed. "If they don't get us in by sunset they
may not let us land at all. There is such a rule."

When others asserted that there was no such rule, some still fretted,
because after five there would be no chance to visit the fortifications.

"Come, Irma," said Uncle Jim, "these lamentations have some foundation
in fact. But Gibraltar's a small town, and we'll improve our two shining
hours, which surely shine with much heat, by getting our bearings here."

"There's plenty to see," responded Irma. "I suppose those are English
warships in their gray coats, and there's a German flag on that great
ocean liner. It seems to be crowded with men, immigrants, I suppose, for
they are packed on the decks like--like----"

"Yes, like flies on flypaper." And Irma smiled at the comparison.

Not far from a great mole that stretched out, hot and bare in the sun,
two clumsy colliers were anchored; here and there little sailboats
darted in and out, and the small steam ferries plied backward and
forward to the distant wooded shore, which Uncle Jim said was Algeciras.
But it was the gray mass of Gibraltar itself that held Irma's attention.
The town side, seen from the harbor, though less steep than the outline
usually seen in pictures, was yet most imposing. Along its great
breadth, lines of fortifications could be discerned, and barracks,
grayish in color, like the rock itself. There were lines of pale brown
houses that some one said were officers' quarters, and an old ruin, the
remains of an ancient Moorish castle.

A number of passengers were to land at Gibraltar to make a tour of
Spain, among them little Jean. Irma had turned for a last good-by to
them, when Aunt Caroline, joining her, told her that people were already
going on board the tender.

"What are your exact sensations, Irma?" whispered Uncle Jim,
mischievously, "on touching your foot to the soil of Europe? You know
you'll wish to be accurate when you record this in your diary. Excuse me
for reminding you."

"Come, come," remonstrated Aunt Caroline. "Irma may have to record her
feelings on finding that every conveyance into the town has been secured
by other passengers, while a frivolous uncle had forgotten his duty."

But even as she spoke, Marion approached them, walking beside a
carriage, to whose driver he was talking.

"Well done, Marion; so you jumped off ahead, and though it's a
queer-looking outfit, it will probably have to suit your critical aunt."

"It's much better than most carriages here," replied Marion, a trifle
indignantly; "some of them have only one horse."

"You are very thoughtful, Marion," said Aunt Caroline, as they took
their places in the brown, canopied phaeton. "No, not now, not now," she
cried, as a tall, dignified Spaniard thrust a basket of flowers toward
her. "Orange blossoms and pansies are almost irresistible, but it is
wiser to wait until we are on our way back to the boat."

Marion's face had brightened at Aunt Caroline's praise, and thus, in
good humor, he chatted pleasantly with Irma as they drove on. So long
was the procession of vehicles ahead of them that their own carriage
went slowly through the narrow street. A Moor in flowing white robes and
huge turban attracted Irma's attention, as she observed him seated in
the doorway of a warehouse on the dock. Farther on they saw a boy of
perhaps seventeen, similarly arrayed, pushing a baby carriage.

"The servant of an English officer," Uncle Jim explained. "Look your
hardest at him, for we shall not see many of his kind after this. It is
now past the hour when the Moorish market closes. After that all Moors
must be out of the town in their homes outside the gates, except those
employed in private families."

As the carriage turned into the long, crooked thoroughfare that is the
chief business street of Gibraltar, the driver pulled up before a small
shop that had a sign "New York Newspapers."

"He knows what we need; run, Marion, and get us the latest news."

"Yes, Aunt Caroline." But there was disappointment on Marion's face when
he returned a few moments later.

"There was another liner in early this morning, and all the latest
papers are gone. They have only the European editions of New York
papers, and the two I could get are a week old."

"No matter, son, you did the best you could."

"These are two or three days later than the last we saw in New York, and
as they have no bad news, or I might say no news at all, we may be
thankful. But we must move on. In this bustling town there's no time to
stand still."

"What interesting shops!" began Irma.

"Oh, they're ugly and dingy," said Marion.

"In Europe we're almost bound to admire the dingy, if not the ugly,"
returned Uncle Jim.

"Where are we going?" asked Aunt Caroline.

"Out to the jumping-off place," said Marion. "That won't take long.
After that we can go shopping, or at least you can."

"There's a great deal I can enjoy," said Irma pleasantly.

Then they drove on past a park where boys were romping on a gravelled
playground, while in another portion officers played cricket. They
passed many soldiers in khaki, and here and there a red coat. A sloping
road led up to a set of officers' quarters, detached houses, shaded by
tropical trees. Here they noticed a girl on horseback, a young girl of
about Irma's age, with her hair hanging in a long braid beneath her
broad, felt hat, and not far from her two or three girls driving.

At the little Trafalgar burying-ground their driver paused a moment that
they might read the inscriptions on some of the monuments, marking the
burial places of many brave English patriots. They had time for a bare
glance at the old Moorish garden across the road.

"This is the jumping-off place," cried Marion, as they came in sight of
the water. At one side was a pool where the soldiers bathed, and near by
the officers' bathing-houses.

"I know that I should be turning back," said Aunt Caroline. "My special
shop is up Gunners' Lane, and when I have been left there, you others
may inspect the town. At the most there isn't much time."

Marion, however, insisted on staying with Aunt Caroline.

"Very well, then. After we have spent all our money on antiques, we'll
meet you in front of the post office. I noticed it as we came along; and
you must surely be there at half past seven."

"Yes, yes," promised Uncle Jim. "Now, my dear," he said, as he and Irma
returned to the main street, "we can let the carriage go, as we shall
probably spend our time passing in and out of these shops."

It was now after six, and the street was thronged. Many were evidently
working people on their way home from their day's labors, but some were
shoppers with baskets on their arms, and others were evidently tourists,
loitering or running in and out of the shops. It was a good-natured
crowd that pushed and jostled and overflowed into the middle of the
street. Among the throng were many sailors from the ships of war.

For some time Uncle Jim with Irma gazed in the windows, and wandered in
and out of the most promising shops. In his shopping he had one
invariable method. No matter what the object, or its cost, he always
offered half the price asked.

"Is it fair," asked Irma timidly, "to beat them down?"

"It's fair to me," he replied. "In this way I stand a chance of getting
things at something near their value."

"How much is that?"

"Usually one half the asking price. Listen."

So Irma listened while a lady near by was bargaining with the Hindu
salesman.

"Never in my life has such a price been known," he protested, as the
lady held up for inspection a spangled Egyptian scarf. The lady advanced
reasons for her price.

"I cannot make my bread," cried the man, "if I throw my goods away." Yet
he thrust the scarf into the lady's hand, and then sold her a second at
the same price, without a word of argument.

"These men are Orientals," explained Uncle Jim, "and this is their way
of doing business. They mark a thing double or treble what they expect
to get, and would be surprised if you should buy without bargaining.
This man probably goes through this process a dozen times a day after an
ocean liner has come into port, and doubtless congratulates himself on
the extent of his trade."

Uncle Jim further explained that things made in India and Egypt were
brought to Gibraltar at small expense, and could be sold for much less
than in America or France or even Spain. So he bought spangled scarfs
and silver belt buckles, and a number of other little things that he
said would exactly suit Aunt Caroline. But Irma bought nothing, tempting
though many things were. Realizing that all Italy lay before her, she
did not care to draw yet on the little hoard that she was saving for
presents for those at home. After they had visited a number of shops,
Irma remembered that she had several letters to post.

"You can't buy stamps at the post office," said Uncle Jim. "That's one
of the peculiarities of Europe. Stamps are sold where you least expect
to find them, usually in a tobacconist's. I will go to the shop over
there and get some."

A moment later, when Uncle Jim returned with the stamps, a gentleman
whom Irma did not know was with him.

"This is my old friend, Gregory," he said, presenting him to Irma. "If
we had not that appointment to meet your aunt and Marion here, I would
take you to the hotel to see Mrs. Gregory. It is impossible for her to
come out, and I am sorry to miss her."

"Yes, and she will be disappointed at not seeing you. But she is
extremely tired, as we arrived on the German liner this morning, and
to-morrow we start on a fatiguing trip through Spain."

"If it would not take more than a quarter of an hour, there is no reason
why you should not go back to the hotel, Uncle Jim. I can wait here, for
Aunt Caroline and Marion may come along at any minute."

After a little thought, Uncle Jim decided that Irma's plan was
practicable. But he wished her to wait in a phaeton, to whose driver he
gave explicit directions not to go more than a block from the
post-office door.

But when after a quarter of an hour neither Uncle Jim nor Aunt Caroline
had appeared, Irma was greatly disturbed.

"I wouldn't make a good Casabianca," she thought.

Some of her friends from the _Ariadne_ passed her, and one or two
stopped to advise her. "They would have been here ten minutes ago, had
they expected to meet you here." "No, they are probably waiting for you
at the landing." Even the driver shared this view, and at a quarter of
eight Irma drove down to the boat escorted by the carriage in which sat
Muriel and her mother and governess.

"You must stay with us," said Muriel, "until you find your aunt. She's
probably on the tender."

But just at this moment a hand was laid on Irma's arm. Turning about,
she saw that the little old gentleman was beside her.

"Excuse me," he said, "but your aunt is over there. She has not yet gone
aboard the tender." As he pointed to the left, Irma saw Aunt Caroline
and Marion under the electric light near the waiting-room. When she had
reached them the old gentleman was nowhere in sight.

"We forgot that we had agreed on the post office," explained Aunt
Caroline, "at least I thought it was the landing. Then we were afraid to
go back, for fear of making matters worse. But what has become of your
uncle?"

Irma's explanation was not particularly soothing to her aunt.

"If he isn't here soon, he will lose his passage on the _Ariadne_. We
must go on, even without him. Some other boat for Naples will come soon.
We can better spend extra time at Naples than wait here."

"But suppose something has happened to him!" suggested Marion.

"I am not afraid. This isn't the first time he has missed boats--but
still----" Aunt Caroline seemed to waver. The last whistle had been
blown when a figure was seen making flying leaps towards the boat. It
was Uncle Jim, who later explained that he had forgotten to look at his
watch until his friend suddenly reminded him that he had but five
minutes in which to reach the boat. Thereupon he had decided that his
only way was to run as if for his life. Almost exhausted, he was
evidently not a fit subject for reproof, and Aunt Caroline merely
expressed her thankfulness that he had not been detained at Gibraltar.




CHAPTER IV

AWAY FROM GIBRALTAR


As the _Ariadne_ steamed away from Gibraltar, the harbor looked very
unlike that of the afternoon. It was now cool, and dark except when lit
by flashes from the searchlights. The warships that had looked so sombre
in the afternoon were now outlined by rows of tiny electric lights, and
myriads of lights twinkled from the town lying along the face of the
Rock.

With so much beauty outside, Irma could not leave the deck of the
_Ariadne_. As she stood there alone, the little old gentleman
approached. "There is to be a sham fight in the harbor to-night. That
accounts for the unusual illumination."

"It is too beautiful for words. I must stay until we see the other face
of the Rock--the picture side."

"I wish I could stay, but I came only to bring you this. It may be of
use to you, as you can have no dinner."

"No dinner! But I wish none."

"Some of your friends, however, may need something more substantial than
the view. The company is saving an honest penny by allowing those who
went ashore to abstain from dinner. It would have been served as usual,
it was ready, the stewards say, if there had been passengers here to eat
it."

"But they were all ashore."

"The passengers coming on at Gibraltar were here. Others could have
been, but they preferred sightseeing at Gibraltar. Consequently they
were punished."

The company's meanness seemed absurd, but as the old gentleman departed,
Irma thanked him warmly for his gift,--a good-sized basket filled with
fruit and cakes.

For some time Irma strained her eyes for a glimpse of the other side of
the Rock. At length, against the sky rose a huge bulk that might have
escaped a less keen vision. Almost instantly a passing cloud darkened
the sky, and the giant became invisible.

When Irma went inside she found a discontented crowd gathered in
passageways and in the library. Loud were the complaints that greeted
her of the company's cruelty in omitting dinner.

"We went ashore without even our usual afternoon tea, and no one had
time to think of food at Gibraltar."

Irma held out her basket. "A fairy godfather visited me," she said, "but
I really do not know just what he gave me. Come, share it with me."

Aunt Caroline looked surprised; Uncle Jim gave an expressive whistle,
while even on Marion's face was an expression of curiosity.

"I do not even know what is in the basket," repeated Irma, "though the
fairy godfather said it held fruit and cakes."

"I should say so," exclaimed Uncle Jim lifting the cover. "What fruit!
And that cake looks as if it had been made in Paris. Just now these are
much more attractive than those spangled scarfs I wrestled for with that
Hindu. By the way, Irma, are these for show or use? They look too good
to eat."

"Try them and see," answered Irma.

"I'd be more eager to eat if I knew the name of the fairy godfather."

"I don't know it myself," said Irma.

"This feast will dull our appetites for the nine o'clock rarebit,"
interposed Uncle Jim, who had made a test of the basket's contents.

"I am sure a fairy godfather wouldn't use poison," and Aunt Caroline
followed Uncle Jim's example.

When Irma turned to offer the basket to Marion, he had left the group.

"Poor boy," exclaimed Aunt Caroline. "He told me he felt very faint. It
seems he had little luncheon. Perhaps we shall find him in the dining
saloon."

But when they descended to the dining saloon, Marion was not there, nor
did they see him again that night. Yet, if she could not share the old
gentleman's gift with Marion, Irma found Muriel most grateful for a
portion. For some time the two girls sat together at one end of the long
table, comparing notes about Gibraltar. They stayed together so late,
indeed, that just before the lights were put out Aunt Caroline appeared.

"Why, Irma, my dear, after this exciting day I should think you would
need rest earlier than usual."

"Perhaps so, Aunt Caroline. But the day has been so exciting that I
cannot feel sleepy."

"It has grown foggy," said Aunt Caroline, as they went to their room.
"I do not like fog, and I am glad that we have but two or three more
nights at sea."

Once in her berth Irma soon slept. She thought indeed that she had been
asleep for hours, when suddenly she woke. It must be morning! But as she
opened her eyes, not a glimmer of light came through the porthole. What
had wakened her? Then she realized that the boat was still. What had
happened? She was conscious of persons walking on the decks above, of
voices far away, even of an occasional shout. Ought she to waken Aunt
Caroline? While her thoughts were running thus, she had jumped from her
berth, and a moment later, in wrapper and moccasins, had made her way to
the deck. A few other passengers were moving about, and a group of
stewards and stewardesses stood at the head of the stairs, as if
awaiting orders.

"What is it?" she cried anxiously. Before her question had been
answered, some one shoved her arm rather roughly. Looking up she saw
that Marion had come up behind her.

"What are you doing here?" he said brusquely. "You will get your death.
It is very cold."

Irma shivered. In spite of her long cape she was half frozen. The night
air was chilly, and it was on this account that Marion pulled her from
the open door.

"Are we in danger? I thought I wouldn't wake Aunt Caroline until I
knew."

At this moment Marion, unfortunately, smiled. He was fully dressed and
wore a long overcoat. With his well-brushed hair he presented a strong
contrast to poor, dishevelled Irma. Naturally, then, she resented his
smile, occasioned, she thought, by her untidy appearance.

"You are a very disagreeable boy," she cried angrily. "I wish I had told
you so long ago." Thereupon Irma turned toward the stewards, among whom
she recognized the man who took care of her stateroom.

"No, Miss, we're not in danger," he answered. "It's foggy, and there was
something wrong about signals, but we stopped just in time to get clear
of a man-of-war. It would have been pretty bad if she had run into us.
So go back to your bed, Miss; it's all right now, and we're starting up
again."

Marion was unhappy as he watched Irma walking downstairs. Evidently he
had in some way offended her; but how? She was an amiable girl; he was
sure of this. Therefore his own offence must have been very serious. "It
is no use," said Marion bitterly, "I cannot expect people to like me. Of
course, she started with a prejudice, and she will never get over it."

Now Irma, when she returned to her berth, though reassured by what the
steward had said, did not at once fall asleep. For a long time she lay
with eyes wide open listening to many strange sounds, some real, some
imaginary. But at last, when a metallic hammering had continued for
hours, as it seemed to her, she was quite sure something had happened to
the boilers, and she drowsily hoped the _Ariadne_ would keep afloat
until morning. It would be so much easier to get off in the lifeboats by
daylight. Then she must have fallen asleep. At least the next thing of
which she was aware was Aunt Caroline's loud whisper to the stewardess.
"We won't disturb her. She can sleep until luncheon."

Aunt Caroline laughed, when Irma, looking through the curtains of her
berth, asked the time.

"Past breakfast time, my dear, but the stewardess will bring you hot
coffee and toast. You will have only a short hour to wait for luncheon."

Thus Irma broke her record of never missing a meal in the dining-room,
and shortened a day that otherwise would have seemed very long, as the
fog did not clear until late afternoon.

All this day Marion spent in a corner of the library. The ship's
collection of books contained nothing very recent, but in it were one or
two old favorites, whom for the time he preferred as companions to any
of his fellow passengers. As to Irma, he tried to put her out of his
mind. The world for him again became a dull, stupid place, and most of
its inhabitants were his enemies.

Strange as it may seem, Irma had soon forgotten her pettishness of the
night before. Her fright, the noises from the boiler room, all had
seemed a kind of nightmare. So on Thursday, which might be their last
full day at sea, she wondered that Marion, who had seemed so friendly at
Gibraltar, should now be so unsocial.

She and Muriel spent much time together. Though they had not been
fortunate enough to see any whales, they did catch sight of a few
porpoises, spouting in the water not far away, and as the day was
particularly sunny, Irma used her camera to advantage. Not only had she
photographed little Jean and her black nurse earlier, and several
passengers whom she best knew, but she caught the captain and several of
the officers going the rounds at morning inspection, and some of the
crew at fire drill.

She even leaned over the railing and turned her camera toward the
steerage. As she steadied her camera, many turned their eyes toward her.
Two or three smiled and waved their hands in a friendly manner.
Altogether there was not a large number. In the spring, the captain had
told her, not many immigrants returned to Europe. Those now going back
to Italy were chiefly those whom the Government had forbidden to land.
Some others, who had been in America a short time, were also sent back
at the public expense, because likely to become public charges.

Muriel and Irma had frequently speculated about the character of
several whom they had seen on the third cabin deck from day to day. One
group of rough men with bright handkerchiefs twisted about their necks,
and caps pulled over their eyes, they called anarchists, and they had
theories about most of the others. Both girls had a strong desire to
make a tour of the steerage quarters, under the guidance of the ship's
doctor. He assured Aunt Caroline that there was no contagious disease.
One poor woman had consumption, and might not live to reach Italy, and
two or three others were in a decline, but there would be no danger for
the young ladies.

But neither Muriel's mother nor Aunt Caroline would consent to let the
girls see more of the third cabin than they could observe from their own
deck.

"I really believe," said Irma, "that Aunt Caroline thinks I will catch
something from these negatives of the steerage. She is so nervous about
it."

"Then I should think she would be unwilling to have Marion spend so much
time there."

"Marion! oh, she doesn't care to have him down there. I remember what
she said when he asked her one day."

"Well, he goes just the same. I heard my mother and Mademoiselle talking
about it only yesterday."

This so surprised Irma that she closed her camera and took no more
pictures.

"I wonder," she said, as if to change the subject, "why that old woman
sits there in the corner with her hands over her face. Those little
girls, I think, must be her grandchildren. Generally she has the baby in
her arms, but the two older girls seem to be taking care of it to-day,
and the oldest isn't here at all. She's about my age. Why, there she is,
sitting by herself, and her eyes are very red, as if she had been
crying."

Later in the day, after Muriel had left her, Irma sat down on a settee
at the uncovered end of the deck where a number of people, old and
young, were playing shuffleboard. Just then the ship's doctor passed,
and she thought it a good time to ask him about the old woman in the
steerage.

"The old woman is downhearted. Her daughter, the mother of the four
girls, died a couple of days ago. She was longing to live until she
reached Italy, was sure, in fact, that once there she would recover. But
from the first I knew her case was hopeless, and we buried her at sea
the night before we touched at Gibraltar."

"Oh," sighed Irma, "it must be hard for the children."

"Yes, very hard. You see it's only a short time since they went out
from Italy. The father had a trade, but a week or two after landing he
was taken ill, and in another week or two had died. Charitable societies
looked after them for a while. They came under the law that requires
those likely to become a public charge to be sent back. They have no
friends in America."

"I suppose they have in Italy."

"Yes, and though probably they, too, are poor, still the family will be
better off there. With no real wage-earner I do not see what they could
do in your country."

"I can't see what they will do in Italy, if they have no money."

"Oh, they have enough to take them up to Fiesole. That is where they
live. But there, you must know something about it; some of the
passengers are taking up a collection for them."

"Why, no! I have heard nothing of it."

"That's strange, for that young man in your party, Marion Horton, is
interested. He's been very good, too, to another steerage passenger, a
young fellow from Bologna, who is paying his own way back. He has taken
Italian lessons from him, I believe."

"You surprise me," said Irma, as the doctor moved away. Could it be
that Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim knew nothing of Marion's doings? Later
others spoke to her about the death of the Italian woman and the needs
of her family, and then Muriel came to say that she had given five
dollars to the fund a Mrs. Brown was gathering, "and do you know that
Marion Horton has charge of it? Isn't it funny he never told you?"

The more Irma thought about it the more certain she became that Marion
hesitated about letting Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim know that he was in
the habit of visiting the steerage. While they had no right, perhaps, to
dictate to a boy of seventeen, still Aunt Caroline had expressed herself
strongly against his going to the third cabin. Evidently he did not wish
her to know that he had disregarded her wishes. What he was unwilling to
tell Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim, he would hardly confide to Irma. It
happened, however, that at dinner that evening Marion himself told the
story of the old grandmother and her young charges. But though he spoke
of the little fund that had been raised, he did not mention his own
interest in it.

"Some one came to me yesterday," said Uncle Jim, when Marion had
finished, "and I made a contribution. I did not know the exact need, but
you have made it now quite clear."

She approached him as he was starting out on deck.

"Here is a dollar; please add it to the fund," said Irma to Marion after
dinner. Marion glanced at her in astonishment. But he did not take her
money. Instead he waved his hand as if to push it away.

"No, no," he replied. "No, we do not need it. We have enough."

Then, without another glance at Irma, he walked away.

"Does he think I offer too little, or does he dislike me so much that he
won't take my money?" But there was no one to answer her question.

It was now Irma's turn to feel hurt. Small as her offering was, the
dollar meant some sacrifice. At least she had taken it from the little
sum she had set aside for presents for the family and Lucy and Gertrude
and other friends. From her it was a larger sum than twenty dollars from
Muriel. So it was trying to have her intended gift treated disdainfully.

That evening, as she sat on deck, wondering if this would really be her
last night at sea, some one dropped into the empty chair beside hers.

"Why so quiet, god-daughter?" It was the voice of the old gentleman, but
how had he learned that she sometimes called him the "fairy godfather?"
She was glad now to see him. She might not have many more of those
pleasant talks with him, unless, perhaps, their paths should cross in
Italy. But she had never ventured to ask him just where he was going.
Now, contrary to his habit, the old gentleman talked less of the
countries he had visited in the past. In some way, before she realized
it, he had turned the conversation in the direction of Marion, and after
he had left her, Irma was conscious that she had given him much more
information than she ought to have given a stranger.

"Yes, yes," he had exclaimed, "I can see just what he is like. Willful
as ever," and with an abrupt "good night" he had hurried away.

"It isn't quite fair that we should all be so pleased at the prospect
of landing," said Uncle Jim Friday morning. "Every one seems to think
the sooner we are in Naples the better. But we've had a fine trip, no
accidents, few seasick, few homesick. Yet here we are with our steamer
trunks packed, almost ready to swim ashore, rather than stay longer on
the _Ariadne_."

"It's human nature, always longing for change. But we might as well
possess our souls in patience. Those who know say it will be late
afternoon before we even catch a glimpse of the Bay of Naples."

"Oh, Aunt Caroline!"

"There, Irma, you are as impatient as the rest of us. It is really true
that we may not land until evening."

Evidently Aunt Caroline spoke with good authority. It was late afternoon
before they saw the rugged heights of Ischia in the distance. They were
at dinner when they actually passed it, and when they entered the lovely
Bay of Naples, the sun had set, and it was too dark to see its actual
beauties clearly. When at last they were anchored, it was as if they
were in fairyland. The city was a semicircle of brilliant lights curving
in front of them. They were surrounded by boats of every size, all of
them carrying lights.

"Must we land again in tenders?" sighed Irma. "Are there no wharves in
Europe?"

A fine mist was falling.

"Before we go ashore it may be a heavy rain," said Uncle Jim. "If you
agree, we can do as the larger number here intend to do. We can sleep on
shipboard, and in the morning make a fresh start."

The others agreed with Uncle Jim, and remained out on deck to watch the
embarkation of those who were going ashore. While they waited, many
little boats pushed near the _Ariadne_. In one a quartette sang the
sweet Neapolitan songs. In another some stringed instruments played a
soft melody. Sometimes the music stopped, while players or singers
scrambled for the coppers thrown to the boats by passengers on deck.
Then, when the music was resumed, the sound of laughter was mingled with
it.

Presently a procession of immigrants passed along the deck, carrying
bundles and baskets. They made their way slowly to the gangway to
descend to the tender.

"I wonder if they are glad to be coming home," whispered Irma to Uncle
Jim.

"No, I fancy most of them prefer America."

Just then, at the sound of laughter behind them, Irma and her uncle
turned about to see a tall Italian stooping to pick some bananas from
the deck. Over his shoulder was a long string of bananas, bought
probably in the Azores. Some that were overripe had fallen to the deck.
Hardly had he picked these up, when two or three others fell--then
others. The poor fellow was in despair. He did not wish to leave them.
But he had no way of carrying them. For besides the string of bananas he
had to take care of his bundle of clothing carried clumsily under the
other arm. While he stood there half dazed, as a companion stooped to
help him, suddenly there was a movement in the group of bystanders. A
brown linen bag was thrown down at his feet, and a voice cried in
Italian, "There, put your bananas in the bag, put them all in and take
the bag home with you."

"Well done, Marion," cried Uncle Jim, for he and Irma had instantly
recognized Marion's voice. "Come here and tell us how you happened to
think of it."

"Oh, it was easy enough to think of the bag. It was the last thing I
put in the tray of my trunk. I was only afraid I couldn't get back with
it in time. I dare say the poor wretch meant to sell those bananas at a
profit when he lands, and I didn't wish to have his trade spoiled."

"But where in the world did you learn the Italian you hurled at him? He
seemed to understand it, too."

"Oh, I knew a few words before I left home, and here on shipboard I have
managed to pick up a few more."

Did Marion speak with embarrassment, or did Irma imagine this because
she had heard of his going to the steerage for lessons?

"_Addio, addio_," cried the owner of the bananas, who had completed his
task of packing the fruit in Marion's bag.

"_Addio, addio_," responded Marion, while the man, as he passed on to
the gangway, poured forth a flood of thanks.

When the tender had steamed off, Irma went below. She needed a good
night's rest, for breakfast was to be at half past seven.

In the misty morning the tender made a quick run to the dock. Just as
they pushed away from the _Ariadne_ Irma heard a voice crying, "Good-by,
god-daughter." It was the little old gentleman. Since evening she had
not seen him, and now she was ashamed that she had not tried to find him
for a word of farewell.

"Good-by, good-by," she cried, waving her handkerchief. But already he
had slipped back out of sight.

"To whom were you calling?" asked Aunt Caroline.

"To the fairy godfather."

"If you were not generally so sensible, sometimes I should think you
quite out of your mind," rejoined Aunt Caroline. "Except for that fruit
at Gibraltar, your fairy godfather would seem a myth. For neither your
uncle nor I ever saw such a person on the _Ariadne_. Did you, Marion?"

"Of course not," replied Marion shortly.

But Irma only smiled. She knew there was such a person.




CHAPTER V

ON SHORE


The arrival at Naples was much less terrible than many persons had
pictured it to Irma and Aunt Caroline. No one attempted to tear their
chatelaine bags from them; the officers of the _dogana_ were perfectly
civil; no one tried to abstract their trunks. It is true there was a
long and apparently needless delay before their trunks were examined and
marked, but they made light of this when once they were in the carriage
on their way to the hotel.

The busy streets through which they first passed were broad and clean.
Electric cars, hardly different from the American type, ran through
them. The men and women on the sidewalks stepped along briskly. Aunt
Caroline and Uncle Jim made constant contrasts between the Naples of the
present and the past.

"The cholera of '84 had one good result; it enabled the city fathers
here to do away with many old slums, and put these new streets in their
place."

Their way eventually led up a broad avenue that mounted to the heights
above the old city. Once or twice, at a turn of the road, they had a
view of the bay, and of Vesuvius in the distance.

"There, there, Irma," cried Uncle Jim, when they first saw the mountain.
"Let your heart beat as rapidly as it will; you now look on one of the
wonders of the world."

Their hotel was on ground so high that they entered it by a subway, and
thence by elevator to the summit of a rock whereon stood the hotel.
While Uncle Jim was securing rooms, the others, by a common impulse,
rushed out on a balcony, of which they had caught a glimpse.

"Yes, this is Naples!" exclaimed Aunt Caroline, looking down on the
lovely bay, clear and blue. "But," she continued, "Vesuvius is certainly
changed--I did not realize that losing the top would so alter him, or
her. What do you call volcanoes, Irma?"

"Them," responded Irma, and even Marion smiled at her promptness.

While they were still looking at the bay and the distant shores of
Sorrento and Amalfi, Irma suddenly felt two hands clasp themselves over
her eyes.

"Don't forget your friends just because you have a volcano to look at,"
and then, unclasping her hands from Irma's eyes, Muriel stepped in
front, where Irma could see her.

Muriel was one of those who had left the _Ariadne_ the night before, and
as she had not mentioned where she should stay in Naples, Irma and her
party were surprised to see her.

"Isn't it great that we should be here together?" continued Muriel,
after the others had said a word or two of greeting. "The only
disagreeable thing is that I am going on to-morrow, for our motor is
here, and mamma does not wish to wait longer in Naples."

So it happened that though they planned to spend part of the next
morning together, this was the last time that Muriel and Irma saw each
other for several weeks.

"It's well we didn't make plans over night," said Irma, when she joined
the others at _dejeuner_ on the morning of her arrival in Naples. "There
seems to be a fine mist in the air; and probably that means rain."

"Then we won't plan a long drive. You can come shopping with me, Irma,"
said Aunt Caroline. "I wish to look for coral."

"I did not know there was so much coral in the world," said Irma, after
they had been out some time. "Where do they get it?"

"From Japan and Sardinia and--oh--several other places."

"But why should it all come here?"

"Because in Naples they know how to cut coral and cameos better than
elsewhere in the world."

"It is beautiful, of course, and there are so many shades of pink, I
shall never know what is meant when any one calls a thing coral
colored."

"You must choose something for yourself," urged Aunt Caroline, "a little
souvenir of Naples;" and when Irma hesitated she selected for her a
string of pale red beads.

"The very light pink are the most valuable," said Aunt Caroline, "but I
will not suggest a change."

From the shops near the water front they drove over to the Galleria
Umberto I, a huge structure with a glass dome that gave plenty of light
to the shops in the arcades on the street level. Here Irma bought two or
three little gifts for some of her friends at home,--just whom does not
matter now.

The afternoon passed quickly, and Irma was pleased when Aunt Caroline
said it would be wiser to get afternoon tea in a restaurant down town.
Irma herself would have enjoyed the open-air restaurants which she had
noted as they drove around, but in the more conventional place that her
aunt chose, they managed to find a few novelties on the menu.

[Illustration: NAPLES. A STREET VIEW.]

Later, they took a drive through some narrow streets, where Irma saw
many of the peculiarities of Neapolitan street life, of which she had
read a little. There were whole families sitting in front of their
dwellings. In some cases mothers were combing the hair of little
children, or changing their clothes, or bending over what Irma called
"cooking-stands," for they certainly could hardly be considered stoves.

"I wonder what they are cooking," she said, "in those queer copper
kettles or pans. I should not know what to call them."

"Snail soup, perhaps," replied Aunt Caroline, "or more probably
macaroni."

The word "macaroni" seemed to catch their coachman's ear, and turning
toward them, he said some words in Italian so rapidly that Aunt Caroline
hardly understood, and then, urging his horse, drove straight on.

"He said something about 'old men,' and 'eating macaroni,' but I have no
idea what he really means, and I do not like the region where he is
taking us."

Finally, after many windings, they passed up a street on which the
houses were poor, but of a rather better type than those they had seen a
short time earlier.

"There must be an institution near by," said Aunt Caroline, after they
had met, one after the other, several old men wearing a blue uniform.

This conjecture proved correct, for at the end of the street they came
upon a large building, evidently a home for old men.

"Why is the driver so anxious to have us go inside? We really must make
him understand. No, no. No, no!" continued Aunt Caroline, and finally,
by repeating "No, no," and using gesticulations more emphatic than his
own, she made him turn about. But he still continued his pantomime of
carrying his hand to his mouth, as if in the act of eating. This he
varied by occasionally pointing toward the windows of the houses he was
passing, where, as their eyes followed the direction of his finger, Irma
and Aunt Caroline saw other blue-coated old men eating at tables close
to the window.

"I begin to understand," said Aunt Caroline, "he wished us to give these
old men money that they could eat macaroni for us. Now we will let him
do what he will. He has some plan."

A moment later he had driven them to an open space at the junction of
two streets, where a man was cooking macaroni in a large copper vessel.
Two or three little boys who had been following the carriage now stepped
up beside the horses, and they, too, made the gesture in imitation of
eating, at the same time crying, "_Soldi, soldi_."

"Oh, yes, I recall it all now," said Aunt Caroline, laughing. "It was
the same when we were here before." Then she threw some coppers to the
little boys, who immediately handed them over to the man at the cooking
stall. He, in his turn, gave each a heaped-up plate of macaroni cooked
with tomato.

"It would be worth three times the price, though I don't know just what
you gave them, Aunt Caroline, to see those boys eat such a quantity, and
it all disappeared in an instant."

"It is one of the accomplishments of the Neapolitan street boy to devour
at lightning speed great plates of macaroni, in return for the _soldi_
of the stranger. Their manner of conveying the macaroni to their mouths
with the sole use of their fingers is indeed a regular circus trick."

"If the same boys repeat the trick many times a day, I should think they
might have indigestion."

"They are willing to suffer, for they love macaroni. The poorest
Neapolitans eat much uncooked food, not only fruits, but fish and raw
vegetables. But the macaroni with _pomo d'oro_ is a real delicacy. Some
of those old men would probably have done the trick as adroitly as the
boys."

The driver, smiling broadly on account of his success, as he turned
about drove again through squalid narrow streets. Those in the carriage
could here look through open doors into the one untidy room, the _basso_
that formed the abiding place often for a large family.

"In warm weather the men of the family usually sleep in the street,"
said Aunt Caroline, "and when you see the dark, windowless room that is
the only home that many thousands can call their own, you cannot wonder
that day and night so many Neapolitans prefer the streets."

Sometimes a wretched beggar would run after the carriage. "We must make
it a rule in Italy to take no notice of these poor creatures.
Fortunately, I am told, they are far less numerous than they used to be,
and the only way to stop begging is for each to refuse alms. Gradually
they are finding other ways of helping the poor here."

"I feel sorrier for the horses here than for the people," responded
Irma. "There are so many of them, and most look half starved, as well as
ill treated."

"The cruelty of the cab men of Naples is known the world over. Cabs are
cheap, and every one drives, and the cabmen not only snap their long
whips freely, but use them viciously, if so inclined. But some one I was
talking with says that a S. P. C. A. has been started here, and already
has accomplished much good."

"But the donkeys here seem much better cared for. I have noticed
several that look almost fat, and they have pompons of bright wool, and
some metal decorations shining on their harness, and altogether they are
quite gay."

"Those queer-shaped bits of metal," said her aunt, "are devices,
sometimes pagan, and sometimes Christian, that the superstitious Italian
wishes his animals to wear to guard against the evil eye or other ills.
But here we are at the hotel."

"Where do you suppose we have been?" asked Uncle Jim, greeting Irma and
her aunt, as they entered their sitting-room. "And what will you give
for what I have for you?"

"Letters, letters! Give them to us quickly."

"Yes, letters. I found them at our bankers, and also obliged him to
honor my letter of credit, but just now I dare say you would rather have
the letters than the money."

The letters, written so soon after their departure, contained little
news. Yet Irma found hers particularly cheering, because they brought
her so closely in touch with the family at home.

"Napoleon," her mother wrote, "was very low spirited the day you left
home, but with the fickleness of his kind, he now wags his tail
hopefully as if he expected you to-morrow. Mahala's grief is mitigated
by her expectation of post cards from strange places, and Tessie is
wondering about presents. The boys, I am sorry to say, do not let your
absence weigh upon them. Baseball is now the one important thing."

Then followed some directions about taking care of herself, and making
the most of her opportunities.

A short letter from Lucy gave her school news, but Irma sighed, because
there was no word from Gertrude.

That evening, as Irma sat on the balcony after dinner, Marion came near
her.

"You were very good to go with Uncle Jim for our letters. It makes home
seem so much nearer, to know that letters can reach me."

"Yes," said Marion, "I suppose so."

"Was there good news in yours, too?" continued Irma, after a moment of
silence.

Without answering, Marion walked forward to the edge of the balcony.

"Shall I ever learn to practice what mother always preaches," thought
Irma, conscience-stricken lest she had disturbed Marion, "not to ask
direct personal questions?"

Marion continued to walk up and down with his hands in his pockets. Then
he stopped directly in front of Irma. "Tell me what was in your
letters," he said abruptly. "I had none."

So surprised was Irma by Marion's interest, that at first she could
hardly reply.

"Yes," he continued, dropping into a chair beside her, "I should like to
hear about some one else's relations."

Then Irma found her voice, and prefacing her remarks with, "There really
was not much news in the letters I had to-day," she soon found herself
telling Marion all about home, about her father and mother, about Tessie
and the boys and Mahala, and last, but not least, about Nap.

Marion listened attentively, occasionally making some comment that
showed he was really interested in what Irma said.

Then, after perhaps half an hour, he rose as abruptly as he had sat
down, and with a hasty "good night," went indoors.

"Yet after all I have told him, he didn't say a word about his own
family. How queer he is!" thought Irma.

"As we have been better than most travellers in going to morning
service," said Uncle Jim, on Sunday, "we will do as they do by driving
this afternoon. I, for one, wish to see the Cathedral, and there are
other churches worth visiting."

Toward the middle of the afternoon, therefore, the four travellers set
forth for the Cathedral dedicated to San Gennaro (St. Januarius), the
patron saint of Naples. In a cross street, on their way, their carriage
drew up to let a funeral procession pass.

It was a typically Neapolitan procession, yet uncommonly gorgeous, with
its white, open-sided hearse, showing a coffin covered with beautiful
flowers. The hearse was drawn by eight horses, their heads decorated
with yellow, and saddlecloths trimmed with gilt. Close to the horses
were a number of priests carrying lighted candles, and after them two or
three carriages heaped with wreaths.

Irma's attention, however, was most attracted by a dozen weird-looking
men in long, loose garments, with dominoes over their faces, with holes
cut out for eyes, that made them almost ghostly.

"Who are they?" she whispered to Aunt Caroline.

"Professional mourners, my dear, and those men in uniform in the last
carriages are probably family servants."

"Oh, yes," interposed Marion, "that is the way the Romans did. It's one
of their old customs handed down--to have a whole retinue of retainers
in the funeral procession."

As they turned into the broad street toward the Cathedral, the sidewalks
were thronged, and in the distance they heard the music of a band.

Aunt Caroline translated briefly the succession of rapid sentences with
which the driver answered her.

"He says there was a special service in the Cathedral to-day. But the
music goes the other way, and we cannot see the procession."

Inside the church, persons of all ages and conditions were walking
about, boys and girls, young men and women, some of whom carried a baby
in arms, bent old men and women, too, and as there was no service then,
when acquaintances met, they stopped for a chat, as if on a street
corner.

"The Cathedral," explained Aunt Caroline, "is dedicated to St.
Januarius, Naples's patron saint, Bishop of Beneventum, whom Diocletian
put to death. Some of his blood, gathered up by a Christian woman, is
preserved in a vessel in his chapel here. The precious relic is locked
up in boxes within boxes, but twice a year it is brought out with great
ceremony. If the blood liquefies quickly, the superstitious people
believe it a favorable omen for the city; if it does not, they are
downcast at the prospect of great misfortunes for the next six months."

At this moment a sacristan swinging his keys offered to lead them to the
Chapel of St. Januarius, and there they saw the tabernacle with the
relics, and the silver bust of the saint and of thirty other saints.
Though the Chapel contained some fine paintings by Domenichino, its
decorations were rather more florid than beautiful.

The crypt under the church was much more interesting, with its great
bronze doors, and marble columns from a Temple of Apollo that once stood
near the site.

But neither Marion nor Irma cared to linger long in the Cathedral.

"Don't sigh," protested Uncle Jim, as Irma took her place in the
carriage. "This is but the first of scores of churches you'll have to
visit in Italy. Luckily Naples has fewer noteworthy pictures than Rome
or Florence, and your aunt cannot help dealing leniently with us here."

"The only church I wish to see in Naples," said Irma, "is the one where
Conradin is buried."

Marion looked up quickly. "Is Conradin one of your heroes, too?"

"His whole story is so sad," replied Irma, "that I have always been
interested in it. Though he was only seventeen when he died, if he had
lived to be old enough, he would probably have become a real hero."

"Can't a boy of seventeen be a real hero?" asked Marion anxiously.

"I did not mean that he couldn't."

"But you said----" began Marion.

"Stop, children. You'll find yourselves quarrelling," interposed Aunt
Caroline. Then she spoke a word or two to the coachman.

"I have asked him," she said, "to drive us to the Conradin monument."

Within the church all admired the beautiful reliefs from Thorwaldsen's
designs, and the statue itself realized all Irma's ideals of a hero. In
the Piazza del Mercato, they saw two fountains marking the spot where
Conradin and Frederic of Baden were beheaded, by order of Charles of
Anjou.

On their way home, as their carriage skirted the poorer section, where
goats and fowls wandered about as freely as the children who were
playing with them, Uncle Jim told amusing stories of goats he had seen
going intelligently from door to door to be milked by regular customers,
in some cases even walking up several pairs of stairs to the right
apartment.

"I have read those very stories myself," said Irma, "so if you wish to
astonish me, please think of something new."

That evening as she sat on the balcony, Marion approached Irma with an
expression even more serious than usual.

"What is your idea of a hero?" he asked abruptly, as he slipped into the
chair beside her.

"Why, the same as everybody's," responded Irma, after a moment's
hesitation. "A man who does a brave thing, without fear of danger, and
without thinking what he will gain from it."

"Can't a boy be a hero?"

"Yes, indeed--and a girl also," she replied.

"But I noticed to-day that you said Conradin, if he had lived, might
have been a hero, but he was seventeen--just my age."

"I was not thinking especially of his age," said Irma. "I only meant
that thus far Conradin had had no chance to show what great things he
could do. But he might have had chances had he lived longer."

"Oh! Then a hero must do great things."

For the moment Irma was puzzled, not understanding the drift of Marion's
questions. Fortunately she was saved the need of replying by the
appearance of Aunt Caroline, and at the same moment Marion, rising from
his chair, walked off without another word.

Together Aunt Caroline and Irma stood for a few minutes, looking from
the bay, where almost opposite them Vesuvius loomed up against the dull
sky, toward the city at their feet, with its square roofs and occasional
towers, with here and there a few palm trees giving a tropical touch.
The long white road wound like a thread up the hill, and for a moment
Irma felt a returning throb of homesickness. She realized how far she
was from home.




CHAPTER VI

NAPLES AND ITS NEIGHBORHOOD


At Naples Irma saw that if she attempted to record half that interested
her, no diary would be large enough, and if she tried to describe things
at length, there would be time for little else. So she made rather brief
notes, which, when she reached home would recall what she had seen, so
that she could then describe at greater length to the family.

A more experienced traveller might have been less interested in the
Royal Palace, but, since it was her first palace, Irma found in it an
air of romance that Uncle Jim was inclined to scoff at. It was a long,
imposing building, with eight statues on the facade, representing the
different dynasties that had governed Naples: Roger the Norman, Frederic
II of Hohenstaufen, Charles I of Anjou, Alphonse I, Charles V, Charles
III of Bourbon, Joachim Murat, and Victor Emanuel.

"Poor Neapolitans!" exclaimed Uncle Jim. "No wonder they are restless,
so often changing rulers, and until now seldom having kings who cared a
farthing for them. Even before these Normans there were Greeks, Oscans,
Romans, Goths, and Byzantines, all to take their turn here in Southern
Italy. Neapolitans are naturally turbulent and troublesome in America.
It will take them some time to learn to govern themselves."

"We are not out to listen to history lectures. We simply wish to see
things," said Aunt Caroline.

"But this palace is in such bad taste. I am trying to divert your minds
from its hideous furnishings."

Though in her secret heart Irma admired the throne room, with its gold
embroidered, crimson velvet furniture, enormous Sevres and Dresden
vases, and its more artistic bronze busts, later, perhaps, what she
remembered best of this visit was the magnificent terrace view of the
harbor and the Arsenal.

"Do the Neapolitans get their love of noise from all those ancestors
you were talking about, Uncle Jim?" she asked, as they drove along the
broad Toledo, where the crack of whips, the braying of donkeys, and the
shouts of hawkers prevented conversation. Uncle Jim raised his hand
deprecatingly, as if an adequate reply were then impossible.

"There," cried Aunt Caroline. "I understand why the people of Naples use
gestures so largely. You know they can carry on long conversations
without a word. By use of their hands they can make themselves
understood above the din of the streets."

"A good theory, if gesture were not as common in the country districts
as in Naples."

Here Marion interrupted. "We might stop at the Catacombs to-day, if you
wish."

"I don't wish," cried Irma decidedly.

Marion looked at her with surprise.

"No Catacombs to-day, only Capo di Monte," returned Aunt Caroline.

Then they drove swiftly past one or two squares containing statues, one
a monument to Dante, and at last, at the Bosco, they showed their
permits. They felt the charm of the gardens around Capo di Monte, laid
out in English style, but they did not linger in the Palace itself;
Marion said the Sword of Scandberg was the one thing he had come to see,
and though he spent a few minutes in the armory, he gave but a passing
glance at the high colored Capo di Monte ware.

"My mother has some of that," he said, as Aunt Caroline called his
attention to a particularly beautiful piece.

"Isn't it very valuable?" asked Irma.

He made no reply. Perhaps he did not hear her. But Irma remembered that
she had never before heard Marion refer to his mother.

That very afternoon, while the others rested, Marion explored the city
by himself, and came back in great spirits. He had been up in the
_lanterna_, or lighthouse, where he had had a magnificent view of the
town, and in the Villa del Popolo, a great open square, he had come upon
one of the public readers who daily gather there at a certain hour, and
read aloud from some of the great poets to a circle of auditors; each of
whom had paid a small price for the privilege of listening. He had
glanced also at the University, which has four thousand students and one
hundred professors.

Of the whole party, Marion, indeed, saw the most of Naples. He went
among the fishermen at the wharves; he inspected the old mediaeval forts,
Castello St. Elmo, so magnificently situated on the heights, Castello
dell' Ovo by the water, and the others. He brought home many little bits
of amusing folklore, gathered from the boatmen, especially regarding
their belief in the evil eye. In his new, friendly mood, he shared the
results of his wanderings, until Irma began to think him a decidedly
entertaining boy.

The visit to the Museum took a whole day, and tired though she was at
the end, Irma declared she would gladly spend another day there. For
now, for the first time, she saw many a fine statue that she had seen
before only in pictures, and she was surprised to learn that many of
these had been dug up from the ruins of Pompeii; the boy with the
dolphin, the boy with the goose, and the charming Narcissus pleased her
more than the colossal Farnese Hercules and the group of the Farnese
bull.

"Our sculptors cannot get ahead of those old fellows," said Uncle Jim,
"though I can't give the same praise to their painters." And Irma agreed
with him, as she looked at the Pompeian frescoes.

But neither paintings nor sculptures interested her as did the household
utensils, the ornaments, and the jewels from Pompeii and Herculaneum.

"Designers of jewelry and other beautiful things to-day get some of
their best ideas from these treasures of Pompeii," explained Uncle Jim,
after Irma had told him that she had seen Gertrude's mother wear a
bracelet the counterpart of one they were looking at.

Yet as they passed from case to case, and from room to room, Irma
thought less of the beauty, or even of the usefulness of these things,
than of the unhappy people to whom they had belonged who had been buried
under the hot ashes of Vesuvius. In glass vessels she saw grains and
fruits that the lava had preserved from decay, and in the cases there
were loaves of much the same appearance as when the baker took them from
the oven. These homely things brought the sufferings of the Pompeians
much nearer than did the great treasure chests, or some of the more
valuable objects in the collection.

"I feel as if I had been at a funeral," she murmured to Aunt Caroline,
and she was not sorry that the closing hour had come.

"I'll show you something more cheerful to-morrow," suggested Marion.
"They have the most wonderful Aquarium here. It can't be better than
ours in New York, even if it is more famous. So I wish you would come
with me to-morrow and tell me what you think."

"But I have never seen the New York Aquarium," ventured Irma.

"Then you must believe what I tell you about it."

The next morning Irma set off with Marion. She had learned from Uncle
Jim that this Aquarium in Naples, founded by Dr. Dohrn, a German, was
really a scientific institution where students from all parts of the
world could study the lowest forms of marine life, the finest examples
of which are found in the Bay of Naples.

Marion and Irma found that the larger part of the white Aquarium
building was given to rooms for students and to the library. The fish
were in the lower part, underground it seemed to her. As she walked
about from cave to cave, for so she called the glass-fronted caverns
where the fish were swimming about, she began to shiver.

"Are you cold?" asked Marion, anxiously.

"No, but these fish seem more disagreeable than the things from
Pompeii."

"They are certainly different," responded Marion, successfully resisting
a desire to smile.

"I rather like the living coral," continued Irma, "though it seems queer
to see coral branches waving to and fro as if they were getting ready to
swim, and some of the fish are funny, but some are really gruesome. I
shall be haunted for a long time by this horrible thing," pointing to a
jellylike mass that suddenly hurled itself through the water, and sent
out innumerable legs, or arms, ready to grasp and destroy everything
within reach.

After inspecting all the cases, Marion and Irma went out the door behind
two girls who were talking rather loudly.

"How foolish you are, Katie Grimston," cried one of them, and at the
sound of this name Irma looked toward Marion as if expecting some word
from him.

Though he made no comment, he, too, looked with some interest at the
girls, as they stood outside awaiting their carriage.

"Oh, dear," exclaimed Irma, as the two drove away, "I wish I had spoken
to them."

"Do you know them?"

"No, but still I might have spoken, for one called the other 'Katie
Grimston,' and that is the name of the girl that Nap used to belong to.
I wish I had spoken to her."

"One thing may console you: when you once run across people in Europe,
you are sure to meet them again. You know we've been meeting some one
from the ship every day since we landed. But I'll keep my eye open for
your friend, Katie Grimston."

"I shouldn't exactly call her a friend."

"She's a friend until she proves an enemy. But in any case I'll watch
for her. Perhaps she's a friend of mine. I'm sure I know one of those
girls, and, by the way, wouldn't you prefer the New York Aquarium?"

"Yes," responded Irma, "as I have seen only this one, I am sure I'd
prefer the other."

When they returned to the hotel, Marion and Irma found Aunt Caroline and
Uncle Jim enthusiastic over their excursion to Posilipo, declined by the
young people in favor of the Aquarium.

"You missed it, Marion," said Uncle Jim, "the region where we have been
is just filled with classical memories. The Posilipo was a favorite
stamping ground of Virgil's. He wrote the Georgics and the AEneid there,
and you can have as long an argument as you wish with the guides as to
whether the tomb they show is really his or some other fellow's. If you
say it is, Petrarch and Bocaccio, who used to go there, are on your
side. Not far off, between Puteoli and Baiae, Caligula performed some
foolish stunt of his on a bridge of boats. Or, if that doesn't content
you, you can remember that Augustus was fond of the Posilipo. You can
also hunt for the ruins of the villa of Lucullus. Our friends, the Roman
patricians, loved this region. Instead of digging up ruins, your aunt
and I just sat in front of one of the little cafes and incidentally had
a magnificent view."

"Yes, we didn't try to go on to Solfaterra," continued Aunt Caroline,
"though some one who had been there told a tale of fissures from which
gas was exuding, and of remarkable sounds of water boiling violently not
far beneath the surface when you put your ear to the ground."

"Isn't Puteoli the place where St. Paul landed?" asked Irma timidly.

"Yes, my dear, and he found a number of Christians there to welcome
him. Indeed, all the region of the Posilipo and beyond, has so many
associations that we ought to spend a week here."

"Come," said Uncle Jim, "we must all agree to be true philosophers. The
rapid flight of time and the shortness of human life in general compel
us to let many delightful places go unvisited. Like everything in life,
it's a question of choices. While we try to see the most important
things along our route, we must still neglect other things and places
that are not unimportant."

"Capri, for example," murmured Marion.

"Nothing could induce me to repeat that odious trip," and Aunt Caroline
shuddered at the remembrance. "Bad landings, and boats so overcrowded,
combined with rough water, make it positively dangerous, at least to
one's nerves. If I could fly, I'd go there gladly."

"But isn't Capri very beautiful?" queried Irma.

"And the blue grotto something no one should miss?" added Marion.

"You children can go there, if you prefer it to Paestum."

"What is Paestum?" asked Irma.

"Not to know Paestum--and you a school girl fitting for college. Now I
shall insist on your going with me. For certainly, you have one thing to
learn, 'What is Paestum!'" and Uncle Jim walked away, as if quite in
despair at Irma's ignorance.

"Capri really is beautiful," continued Aunt Caroline, turning to Marion
and Irma. "Its men and women are fine types. As I remember there were
quantities of flowers around the pretty little white cottages, and
charming scenery at every turn. I don't know whether the people still
wear their picturesque costumes, and make soft, high-colored ribbons and
weave beautiful white woolen materials. But I imagine it is less changed
than some other parts of Italy, and if you should go there five years
from now, you would probably find it just the same. They still give a
wonderful fete in July or August to ward off the grape disease. They
have celebrated it for centuries with dancing and sports, but, as they
carry a cross at the head of the procession, they fancy it's religious."

"It sounds great," said Marion, "but we can't wait until midsummer. If
I should go, I'd hunt up the ruins of Tiberius's villas. This was his
favorite resort, and so terribly cruel was he that mothers still
threaten bad children that 'Timberio' will get them. I believe a steep
rock is shown from which he used to throw his victims into the sea
below."

"Well done, Marion. If we have time perhaps we'll go to Capri in spite
of the wretched boats. But failing that we'll visit Vedder's studio in
Rome. He has a summer villa at Capri, and if he has not used Capri types
in his pictures, he can tell us about the people."




CHAPTER VII

CAVA AND BEYOND


Uncle Jim had volunteered no explanation about Paestum, neither Aunt
Caroline nor Marion had spoken on the subject, and Irma had been too
busy packing to study her guidebook. So as they left Naples, as she
looked from the railway carriage, she could but wonder what was before
her. Soon passing the thickly settled environs of Naples they were in a
region of small farms. The season had been late, and the vines were not
far advanced, but there were many workers in the fields and some of the
vines trained on poles showed a certain amount of leafage. After a
while, they had passed the slopes of Vesuvius, and then began to
realize, by the panting of their engine, that they were going up hill.

"We stay at Cava for the night, and to-morrow go to Paestum. Of course
you know about Paestum," said Uncle Jim teasingly.

"I am contented with Cava," replied Irma.

At dusk the little Cava station gave no hint of what the place was. A
group of _facchini_ fell upon their baggage, the four were hurried into
a carriage, and after driving through a long, quiet street, they reached
the outskirts. Here, at the entrance of a house in a garden, a fat
landlady welcomed them with many bows. A _facchino_ with a green apron
took some bags, a diminutive _cameriera_, in scarlet skirt and pink
blouse, seized others, and soon Irma found herself in a small room
filled with massive inlaid furniture. Curtesying low, the little
_cameriera_ quickly returned with a can of hot water. Left to herself,
Irma was a trifle lonely, and she was glad when the little maid returned
to guide her to the dining-room. There she heard a strange mixture of
accents, as she entered the room. Her uncle came forward and led her to
a seat. As she watched and listened, she found that her opposite
neighbors were Germans, while beside her was an Italian lady. Now indeed
she was in a foreign country. The dinner, too, was different from the
conventional table d'hote of their Naples hotel. Irma refused an
elaborate dish of macaroni, remembering the curtains of yellow macaroni
drying in untidy places, that she had noticed from the train.

"If you don't eat macaroni," said Uncle Jim, understanding her
reluctance, "you will often have to go hungry."

In the morning Irma woke to the depressing sound of rain.

"No Paestum, to-day!" exclaimed Uncle Jim, as she took her seat at
breakfast.

"Paestum! What is Paestum?" she asked, and after that he permitted her
to eat in peace.

All the morning the rain poured in torrents, to the discouragement of
two or three parties of automobilists, who had planned a trip to
Paestum, and a return to Naples by the Amalfi road. Most of the men
wandered about the huge house aimlessly, dropping occasionally into a
chair in the sitting-room, trying vainly to help time pass more quickly
by reading the month-old newspapers and magazines on the little center
table. A few wrote letters, and a number of men and women gathered in
little groups to compare notes about past or future travels.

Marion held himself aloof from the three or four other young people in
the house. He sat in the furthest corner of the long drawing-room,
buried in a book, and he said not a word to Irma during the whole
morning. As for Irma, she spent perhaps an hour on her diary that she
had neglected for a day or two. Opposite her, at the center table, was a
girl of about her own age. Often the two paused from their labors--for
the girl was also writing--at about the same moment. Finally the other
girl broke the rather oppressive silence by asking Irma if she was on
her way to or from Naples. Learning that Irma had been in Italy hardly a
week, she informed her that she had been there all winter, and with her
parents was now on her way to Naples. She questioned Irma about the best
shops in Naples, and Irma was able to give her some addresses she
wished. She in turn told Irma of many shops and other things of interest
in Rome and Florence. Those Irma entered carefully in her notebook.
While the two were thus occupied, Marion rose and passed them on his way
to the door. When he had left the room the other girl leaned toward
Irma.

"Isn't that Marion Horton?"

"Why, yes; do you know him?"

"No. But I have heard a great deal about him, as he visits cousins of
mine. It is strange to see him in Europe. I should think he would be at
home now."

"Why shouldn't he be in Europe?"

"Surely you must have heard the story if you left New York only a few
weeks ago."

"I don't know what story you refer to," responded Irma with dignity.
"Marion is travelling with my uncle and aunt. He is a relation of
theirs."

"He is in your party? Then you must have heard----"

But at that moment the porter brought a message summoning Madge Gregg to
get ready at once for a train that would start in half an hour for
Naples. This unexpected departure put all thoughts of Marion Horton out
of Madge's mind. She gathered up her writing materials, bade Irma
good-by, expressing the hope that they might meet again.

"What can the story be?" thought Irma. "Marion is sometimes queer, and
yet--I do not believe he has done anything wrong." Still she felt that
for the present it would be wiser not to question her uncle and aunt
about Marion. Sometime they would tell her what they wished her to know.

After _dejeuner_ the rain ceased, and by three o'clock the sun was
shining.

"This was a fortunate storm that kept us here, for they say that up
there on the hills there's an interesting old monastery, such as we may
not see again. The carriage will be here in ten minutes, so run and get
your bonnet and shawl, as they used to say in old novels," said Uncle
Jim.

Soon they were on their way to the monastery, Uncle Jim, Aunt Caroline,
and Irma.

"Aren't you coming with us?" Aunt Caroline had asked Marion, as they
started.

"Oh, I'll follow; I have arranged with a donkey boy to take me."

"Is it possible that he's going to ride?" asked Aunt Caroline.

"I'm sure I don't know. There are times when it's best not to question
Marion. Haven't you found that out, Irma?" said Uncle Jim.

"I do not know Marion very well," replied Irma.

"But you ought to be great friends, you are so near of an age, and
almost cousins."

The country through which they drove for a quarter of an hour was very
pretty, with many trees and shrubs that looked particularly green and
fresh after the recent rain, and the hilly roads were far less muddy
than they had expected. From one high point they had a delightful view
of the village they had just left, circled by hills. On one was a ruined
castle, on another the remains of an old monastery where a hermit monk
was said to live. Irma felt that now she was indeed in the old world. On
two or three hills she noted slender, gray stone towers, and through
Aunt Caroline the driver explained that they were used for snaring
pigeons.

"From those little openings, like portholes, small white stones are
thrown out, which the pigeons mistake for food, and as they swoop down
upon it they are snared in nets cleverly contrived for their capture."

"That seems cruel," cried Irma.

"But it would be still more cruel to deprive a lot of hungry people of
their pigeon pie," said Uncle Jim.

Now turning their backs on the lovely view, the carriage went up a
higher hill. It passed an occasional simple cottage, and they met two or
three groups of people evidently returning from a visit to the
monastery. They stopped for a moment at a church in front of which was a
stone on which the driver said Pope Urban II had dismounted more than
nine hundred years ago. A few minutes later they were at their goal, the
old Benedictine Monastery, La Trinita della Cava.

"Ought we to go in before Marion arrives?" Aunt Caroline's tone implied
that she thought they should wait.

"Marion is too uncertain, and the hours for visiting the monastery are
limited!"

Soon the door opened, showing a pleasant-faced monk standing there to
welcome them. Before they went within he halted at the entrance,
explaining that a handful of churchmen had established themselves here
in the very early days because on these remote heights they could be
comparatively safe from marauders.

"It is certainly a natural fortress," responded Uncle Jim, looking from
the steep cliff on which they stood to the narrow river bed, far, far
below. "And a few sharp-shooting bowmen up here on the heights could
keep off any number of the enemy. Come, Irma. Can't you imagine the
venturesome Lombards creeping up the ravine, only to be held back by the
storm of arrows?"

"But it could only be for a little time. In the end I am sure that the
bold Northerners won. I don't know how it was in this particular case,
as all traces of the Lombards in this region have now passed away. They
were so few compared with the native races, and now the people here are
Italians pure and simple."

"Your theories are interesting," said Aunt Caroline, as they followed
the monk inside, "but unfortunately for them the convent here was
founded by a member of an old Lombard family. The site was chosen for
defence, probably against marauding nobles."

Their guide spoke clearly and slowly and Aunt Caroline easily
translated what he said. He told them that the convent gave a school and
college training to boys of good family, and that these large and
attractive halls had been provided for them. In the library were some
good old pictures, but the most valuable treasures were the ancient
manuscripts, among them the laws of the Lombards on parchment of the
early eleventh century, and a Bible of the early eighth century. But for
all this there was time for only a passing impression, and Uncle Jim was
rather amused by the awe with which Irma regarded them. On their way out
they saw a number of boys walking up and down the cloisters, arrayed in
long surpliced coats that made them look like very youthful priests.

"They are intended for the Church," explained Aunt Caroline, "but those
smaller boys in ordinary clothes will go into other professions. I am
sorry," she added a moment later, as they stood in an ancient room,
built into the solid rock,--almost the only thing remaining of the
original abbey, "that Marion will miss this. It is too late, our guide
tells me, for us to get admission to the church, and we must bid him
good-by here."

So, after their monk had dropped their visitor's fee in a collection box
near the door, they went down the hills toward Cava di Tirreni. They did
not meet Marion on the way, nor in the course of their drive along the
one-mile, narrow street of the little town. The arcaded shops were dingy
and the houses unattractive.

"In Italy you must get used to these squalid, rather dirty towns in the
heart of a lovely country. The Italians love to herd together, clinging
closely to a habit no longer necessary for defence against enemies, as
it was in the ancient times. Even in America they prefer city to country
life," said Uncle Jim.

The soup plates had been removed when Marion appeared at dinner. He
greeted his friends pleasantly without explaining what had detained him.
Though Aunt Caroline gave a glowing account of their afternoon's trip,
he made no comments beyond a mere "I wish I had been with you."

After dinner he turned to his book, and soon went to his own room on the
plea that he must repack his valise and get to bed early in preparation
for their morning start.

During the evening Irma and Aunt Caroline joined their landlady in the
deserted dining-room to look at some of the antiques in glass cases
along the wall intended for sale. After picking them over carefully,
Aunt Caroline bought one or two old iron knockers and a piece of glass
that she felt sure was Murano. The landlady's husband appeared at just
the right moment to fix the price, and from a secret drawer produced a
bit of old brocade that Aunt Caroline pounced on with exclamations of
delight.

"It won't last until you reach Rome!"

"Oh, indeed it will. But it is for ornament and not use, and the kind of
thing I never _can_ pass by."

After this Aunt Caroline added several other things to her
collection--an old key and lock, and a fine bit of carved wood.

"If only it wouldn't crack and split in our dry atmosphere I would take
some of this inlaid furniture home with me," she said. "Everything in
the house is seemingly for sale even to the bed that Madame our hostess
sleeps on. Although she is married to an Italian, I observe that she
prefers 'Madame' to 'Signora.'"

At this moment the landlady approaching, invited them into the garden.
"As Madame the American lady admired old things she might like to
examine the lion's head at the door. It had belonged to the great
Filangeri family, as indeed did the hotel in the ancient days. Naturally
Madame had observed that this was no ordinary hotel, but a veritable
palace with ancient traditions and legends, and----"

Finally Aunt Caroline stopped her flow of words to show Irma that the
massive lion's head with its open mouth was but a flambeau holder to
light the path of guests at night.

"You will need more than one flambeau to light your path to-night," said
Uncle Jim, joining them, as they stood there reading a tablet with an
interesting inscription. "Remember that we take an early train for
Paestum."

"Paestum--what is Paestum?" rejoined Irma mockingly, as she hurried
ahead of Uncle Jim up the long marble staircase that led to her room.

In the morning, however, long before their train reached Paestum, Irma
knew all about it. The country through which they began to pass, soon
after leaving Salerno, was not closely settled. Farther on there were
great stretches of marshes where cattle roamed about. Marion was
surprised to discover that the so-called buffaloes were quite unlike the
bison, resembling large grayish oxen with a slight hump. They are the
chief beasts of burden for the country people of this region. Uncle Jim
explained that the whole country here was malarious. It had a bad
reputation even in the time of Augustus, and on this account the name of
ancient Poseidonia had been changed to "Pesto," and if you doubt me, you
may look on the map. There, indeed, Irma did find "Pesto" instead of the
more classic name, yet she continued to doubt Uncle Jim's account of its
origin--"Paestum" was evidently from "Poseidonia."




CHAPTER VIII

PAESTUM AND POMPEII


"There is said to be one vehicle in Paestum," remarked Uncle Jim, as
they reached the little station, "and as we are not the only passengers
on this train we might as well make up our minds in advance whether we
shall fight for it or walk."

"Walk," was the unanimous response, and after checking their luggage
they started up a long, dusty road. Some distance from the station an
arch spanned the roadway. "It must have been part of an old town wall,"
said Marion, and at the same moment a tall, short-skirted woman came
toward them, carrying a large stone water jar on her head. In an instant
Irma had focussed her camera, aiming it just as the woman was in the
center of the arch.

"She doesn't seem to object," murmured Aunt Caroline. The woman was now
close to them, and as she passed them she did not even deign to smile or
to look at them directly.

"The Temples! The Temples!" A few minutes later Irma gave an exclamation
of delight.

"How beautiful--with the view of the sea beyond," added Aunt Caroline.

Then all stood still. Before them, with a background of blue sea and
bluer sky, rose the two great temples, the largest of the three edifices
that are now practically the sole remains of a once great
city--Poseidonia--founded six hundred years before Christ, by colonists
from Sybaris in Greece.

"Outside of Athens, there are no finer temples left standing in the
world!" said Uncle Jim.

"Until I read it in my guidebook to-day, I thought one had to go to
Greece to see Greek temples," added Irma.

"Oh, there are several in Sicily," rejoined Marion, in what Irma to
herself called his "high and mighty tone," a tone that always made her
feel that he despised her lack of knowledge.

"Yes," said Aunt Caroline, "but for those of us who are not going now
to Greece or Sicily, these are worth printing on our memories. I dare
say, Marion, with your exactness, you would like to walk around them and
measure them to see whether they are what they are represented to be.
Irma and I will content ourselves with general impressions."

"I might verify the fact that the Temple of Neptune is one hundred and
ninety-six feet long and seventy-nine feet wide, but it would be harder
for me to prove without a ladder that each of the thirty-six columns is
twenty-eight feet high," responded Marion good naturedly.

"No, no," cried Aunt Caroline, "no such uninteresting facts! All I wish
to remember is the soft, mellow brown of the whole structure and its
noble proportions."

Then, looking to the slightly smaller structure at the left, she added,
"The Basilica is less complete and less imposing. It has something of
the attractiveness of a younger sister."

"I don't like its color as well, but I suppose both are faded."

"Undoubtedly, though originally they were both covered with stucco to
imitate marble; the pediment was adorned with sculptures, and the temple
held other works of art."

They were now crossing the rough field between them and the Temple of
Neptune. Some of those who had come with them in the train were
wandering about the interior--if a roofless space without walls may be
called an interior--and a larger group had gone with the uniformed guide
toward the more distant Temple of Ceres.

"That pinkish flower over there must be asphodel," said Uncle Jim. "Now
don't rush to gather it, Irma. It would be far wiser to sit here and
test the luncheon the padrone provided for us. Here is a good place, and
Marion will open the box."

As Uncle Jim made room at the base of a great Doric column, Irma gave a
little scream.

"Oh, it's only a little lizard--no, two little lizards, and you can't
blame them for showing alarm at a party of American invaders. Why, even
Marion doesn't object to them."

A deep flush rose on Marion's cheek. Irma was looking at him as Uncle
Jim spoke, and saw that he pressed his lips tightly, as if to suppress
an angry reply.

"Before he opens the box," continued Uncle Jim, whose spirits were
rising, "I can tell exactly what that pasteboard receptacle
contains,--two hard-boiled eggs for each of us, a fine assortment of
chicken legs and wings, some butter, some salt, several unbuttered rolls
almost too hard to eat, and an orange apiece."

"You must have prepared the menu yourself," said Irma, laughing; "for
things are absolutely what you said, except," and she opened a little
package, "here is a piece of cheese."

"Oh, yes, I forgot the cheese. But I have opened too many Italian
luncheon boxes not to know what to expect, and in ten years they haven't
changed."

"_Muore di fame, muore di fame_," whined a small voice in their ears.
Looking about, Irma saw a girl of twelve or fourteen, with a shawl over
her head, carrying her hand to her mouth in the well-known gesture of
hunger.

"_Muore di fame_ (I am dying of hunger)," she repeated, standing in
front of the four picnickers, while at the same time she turned her head
from side to side as if fearing some one's approach.

"It is the _custode_," exclaimed Uncle Jim; "begging here on Government
property is probably against the rules, and she fears he will return
before we have given her all our luncheon."

"No, no," he cried, but the girl reached out her hand as if to snatch.

"Oh, give her something," cried Marion, "or at least I will; the poor
thing may be starving."

"_Muore di fame, muore di fame_," repeated the girl, catching the
sympathetic note in his voice. Then, just as he had given her a roll and
a chicken leg she took to her heels, disappearing over a hedge of bushes
between the temple enclosure and a partly ploughed field that stretched
between them and the sea.

A moment later the _custode_ came around the corner of the temple, thus
explaining the girl's sudden flight. At the same time two dogs appeared,
sniffing for their share of the luncheon. More polite than the girl,
however, when told to go away, they went off some distance, sitting on
their haunches and still eyeing the party hungrily.

It was now Irma's turn to be sympathetic.

"That little one makes me think of Nap, and I just can't help giving
him a wing with something on it."

"Just wait until we have finished."

Obedient to this suggestion, Irma waited, and at last there was a good
heap of bones as well as some scraps of bread on which the two little
creatures fell greedily.

Later, making her way with difficulty over the brambles, Irma reached
the grass beyond the strip of ploughed land. She carried a little
package containing rolls, an orange or two, and a little chicken. She
had gone ahead of the others to get a photograph from this point of
view. She had already taken nearer views of portions of the columns and
base with Aunt Caroline posed for comparative size, looking a veritable
pigmy.

The temples, with the background of hills, were less imposing from the
other side. The eye could not help seeing not only the temple, but a lot
of ugly little houses in the far background near the station.

"_Muore di fame, muore di fame_," cried two voices, one after the
other. The girl with the shawl had crept up behind Irma, and a larger
girl stood beside her. The first girl was a pitiable object, yet Irma
knew that she had lately had something to keep her from starvation. The
other was fairly well dressed, and for her Irma felt no sympathy. In
fact the two had a manner so impertinent that she took no notice of the
oft-repeated monotonous "_Muore di fame_."

But she cast anxious glances toward the temples. Why did her uncle and
aunt delay coming! Then she caught a glimpse of them just entering the
Basilica. One of her tormentors now jerked her skirt, the other shook
her hand in her face.

Irma waved them back, crying, "_Andate, andate_" (go away, go away), in
Aunt Caroline's most effective tone.

The girls grew bolder and dashed at Irma as if to take both her camera
and her package. Yet Irma, though frightened, was determined not to
surrender either.

At last, when she attempted to call for help, she could not make a
sound loud enough to be heard by her uncle or aunt. Of course she had
not stood still all this time, but with one girl clutching her dress she
could not move fast, especially as she was now in the ploughed ground,
into which her feet sank deeper with every step. There was no occasion
to fear, as the girls could accomplish no very desperate deed before
help came, but Irma's spirit was up, and her nerves irritated by the
constant "_Muore di fame_." So she held the package of food more closely
than the camera, and the older girl, watching her chance, rushed off
with it, while the other, making a dash at Irma's head, tore off her
hat.

[Illustration: "WITH ONE GIRL CLUTCHING HER DRESS, SHE COULD NOT MOVE
FAST." (_Page 132._)]

"Help, help," cried Irma, finding her voice as the amateur brigands ran
toward the road. Then, almost at the same moment, something flew past
her so quickly that she could hardly tell what it was. A minute later he
had reached the two girls, who were unaware of the avenger's presence
until too late to escape. When the flying figure stood still Irma
recognized Marion, and a moment later he was back at her side, holding
triumphantly aloft the hat and the camera.

"Did they hurt you?"

"Is it ruined?" The two young people spoke in one breath.

"No, of course they didn't hurt me," responded Marion, with some
indignation, while Irma wondered why a little stream of blood trickled
down his cheek.

"No," said Irma, in the same tone, "of course my hat isn't ruined," and
she smoothed out the crushed ribbon bows, and plucked off one of the
wings that had been broken in the tussle.

Then Marion wiping his face discovered a scratch. "I thought one of
those girls had mighty sharp claws," he said, and Irma, opening her bag,
presented him with a strip of thin court-plaster from the case John Wall
had given her as a parting present, and then they retraced their steps
toward the Basilica, where their elders were awaiting them.

"You haven't explored the temples," said Aunt Caroline. "You can get a
very good idea of the interior by examining the stones that show the
position of the altar, and----"

"Oh, I don't care about temples now, not until I have studied more. I
just like to look about and wonder what the town was like with all its
people moving here, when these fields were streets, or----"

"There, there," interposed Aunt Caroline. "When I look about, I can only
think that in a solitary place like this I should hate to be attacked by
brigands. At the present moment we are monarchs of all we survey. Even
the _custode_ is lost to sight, though perhaps he'd appear if we were in
real danger."

"I didn't find him of much use," she began, but at a warning glance
from Marion, she was silent.

"I wish we had time to go down by the sea, where the Greeks originally
landed. As it's much lower land, the temples must show up wonderfully
well."

"You must give up the seashore this time. We can barely catch the train,
after visiting the Temple of Ceres. Come, children."

But Irma and Marion remained seated.

"Oh, Aunt Caroline, we'd rather wait a while; we'll go back part way by
the town wall, and meet you under the Siren's Arch, that would be much
more fun. You can dig for the Roman remains that they say lie hidden in
that field over there. You know this is one of the towns that remained
faithful to Rome in Hannibal's time. Ugh," concluded Marion suddenly,
wincing, as if in pain.

"Oh, it's nothing," he replied to Irma's inquiries. "Perhaps I ran too
hard in the field over there. You were a brick not to tell Aunt Caroline
about it; she would have come down on me mighty hard."

Though Irma did not understand Marion's meaning, she thanked him for
recovering her camera.

"It was nothing at all; the little wretches were probably more than
half in fun and wouldn't have dared keep it long, with the _custode_
likely to pounce on them, for I suppose one of them, at least, lives in
that miserable little house beyond the fence. But it's strange that
Uncle Jim didn't ask about the court-plaster on my face. His eyes are
generally so sharp. But see what I've found for you," he concluded,
picking up something near the base of the great, weather-beaten column
beside which they sat.

Irma gave an exclamation of delight as he put in her hand a small piece
of the travertine that in some way had been broken off from the column,
inside which was a tiny shell,--a shell now exposed to the light for the
first time in the more than two thousand years since the temples were
built. When she had tied this up in a corner of her handkerchief, and
had pressed two of the pink blossoms that Uncle Jim called "asphodel"
between the leaves of her notebook, Irma felt that she indeed had begun
to collect classical trophies.

From the old town wall, several sections of which are still in fair
condition, Marion and Irma took their last view of Paestum and the
surrounding plain. "I suppose the old Poseidonians used to go up in that
corner tower and watch for their enemies," said Marion.

"Well, Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim are not enemies, yet we can watch for
them. Ah, there we are! And if we return to the road now we can reach
the station ten minutes ahead of them and have time to select post cards
before train time."

"It will be dusk," said Aunt Caroline, as they took their places in the
crowded train, "before we reach Pompeii. I am sorry we have to give up
the beautiful Amalfi drive on the high, rocky road above the sea. But
that rainy day at Cava was a lost day, and the telegram your uncle
received as we left Naples requires him to hurry to Rome to keep a
business engagement. To-morrow, Pompeii, and the morning after we leave
Naples for Rome."

Of the Amalfi drive Irma caught a glimpse from a curve in the road
above picturesque Salerno, and even away from the sea, looking toward
the mountains they had glimpses of snow-clad peaks in strange contrast
with the summer-like aspect of the country nearer them. But the people
she saw at the stations along the way interested Irma almost more than
the scenery. At Salerno station, especially, there were peasants of a
very strange type. One man with a beard of long growth, in coat and
trousers of sacking, carried a long axe, as if bound for the woods.
Another brigandish creature with khaki trousers and a slouched hat wore
a long black cloak, an end of which was thrown over his shoulders. Two
girls setting out on a journey wept bitterly, as an old gray-headed
woman kissed them good-by. One carried her belongings in two fairly
large baskets, and the other had a white sacking bag for hers, with a
few extra things tied up in a black handkerchief. The girls wore no
hats, but like all the other women at the station they had their hair
elaborately bedecked with combs, front, back, and side combs, until Irma
wondered how their heads could bear the weight. _Carbonieri_, with their
picturesque cocked hats, strutted across the platform. A railroad
official with red pipings on his hat and gilt buttons on his coat also
added to the gaiety of the scene.

"What are we waiting for?" at last Marion cried impatiently.

"The horn man doesn't dare blow until every one in Salerno visits this
train."

At this moment the little man with brass buttons on his coat blew his
small brass trumpet, and the train set off for Pompeii, still a couple
of hours away.

From Pompeii Irma wrote her first long letter to Gertrude, long in
comparison with the one sent from the ship. But she had plenty of time
that evening after dinner, and though tired after her hours of strolling
in the ruined city, she felt in the mood for writing. Moreover, Gertrude
had especially asked her to describe Pompeii, and having promised, Irma
knew that the most sensible thing was to make good her promise promptly.

"My dear Gertrude," she began. "After all I am not to see Herculaneum,
although you hoped I would. But a man we met to-day said we need not be
sorry we have no time for Herculaneum. It gave him a kind of smothered
feeling, and he did not stay there long. They have not yet dug out
enough to make it really interesting, and all the fine statues have been
taken to the Naples Museum, so there isn't so much to see yet, and it is
all underground.

"But Pompeii is different. In one way it is cheerful, though at times I
had an awfully melancholy feeling when I looked about at those roofless
buildings and remembered how they had been destroyed, with thousands of
people, all in an instant. Our hotel is close to the entrance, in fact
my bedroom window looks out on the gate, and when I went to bed it
seemed uncanny to be sleeping near so gruesome a place. But in the
morning, when I saw two or three carriages standing there and loafers
lounging about and tourists going in and out of the little curiosity
shop next door, I forgot everything, except that I was a sightseer, too.

"There is nothing shut up about Pompeii, and I am glad I left the Museum
until the last, for that took away some of my cheerful feeling.

"I was surprised when we first began to move about, to see such enormous
paving-stones in their narrow streets, and you can hardly believe that
the chariot wheels could wear such deep ruts. The horses' feet must
sometimes have slipped down between the stones.

"The houses have no roofs, and from the street they are so small that I
could think of nothing but playhouses. Some of them open out when you go
inside and have more than one court. They all have at least one court,
with rooms opening off it, and some have little fountains in the center,
and sometimes the white marble basins are beautifully carved and there
is grass growing around the margin, and even bright plants and vines are
trained here and there, just as in the time of the live Pompeians.

"As you walk about you can tell which room was a kitchen and which a
bathroom, for they used lead pipes just like ours. In the smaller houses
the family used to spend most of their time in the atrium. The sleeping
rooms were generally tiny, and the poor slaves were put in little
cubby-holes upstairs.

"The frescoes on some walls are bright, but I think our taste has
changed, for Marion and I did not admire them so very much. In one
lovely house I saw where the Young Narcissus had been found. The
original is in the Naples Museum, but a copy is here in its old place.
Another interesting house is where they found the graceful statue of a
dancing faun. I saw the house that Bulwer calls the house of Glaucus, in
the 'Last Days of Pompeii,' and there in front of it is the inscription
in mosaics, _Cave canem_, which I needn't translate for you. They are
always uncovering new houses, and one of the newest, the 'House of the
Vetii,' is the most beautiful, partly because they have left most of the
things in the places where they found them, instead of sending them off
to museums. The frescoes here are the most fascinating little Cupids
playing games and amusing themselves. Of course one carries away only a
general impression of these houses. There are traces of bright color
everywhere inside, chiefly red and yellow. The bases of many of the
columns in the houses were one of these colors. Some streets were full
of shops--_tabernae_. Would you have known what that meant? You can see
the marble-covered counters, and the earthen jars for oil and wine and
other things. One market has paintings on the walls, showing that
various kinds of provisions were sold there, and in a large pit in the
center quantities of fish scales were found. Probably that was where the
fish were kept. Instead of quart measures like ours, I saw a set of
marble basins side by side, with holes in the bottom to let the liquid
run out into the buyer's jars. Most of the shops are labelled, so you
can tell what was sold there. On some walls are notices scratched, that
take the place of our posters, though Uncle Jim says they have more to
do with politics than with buying and selling.

"The great baths astonished me, for they had hot and cold water and
different rooms for people to pass through, like a Turkish bath. You
can't say it's a good thing that Pompeii was destroyed, but as long as
it _had_ to be, it's fine that they have excavated it. To see for
yourself how these people lived is better than a hundred lessons in
history. Of course it gives you an awful feeling when you stand by the
villa of Diomedes and hear that the bodies of eighteen women and
children were found there. They had fled to the cellar and had food
enough with them to last some time, but the ashes sifted in and they
were found with wraps over their heads and hands out trying to shield
themselves.

"Diomedes, with keys in his hand, was at the door, and a slave carrying
money and valuables. I haven't time to tell you about the Forum and the
Basilica and the theatre. Just imagine the fifty or sixty gladiators,
whose bodies were found in the gladiators' barracks! Most of them wore
heavy manacles, and what they must have suffered when they found they
could not escape!

"When I walked up the street of Tombs, where you get the best view of
Vesuvius, I could not help thinking that in spite of its calm appearance
the mountain is a very dangerous neighbor, and I am rather glad that we
have decided not to make the ascent.

"Afterwards when I stood on a small hill, it was hard to believe that
under the green slopes in front of us there lay perhaps as large a part
of Pompeii as they have yet uncovered. Who knows what wonderful things
may yet be found, though it may take more than fifty years to finish the
work? It was up here that I dared pick a few tiny buttercups, that I
send you as a souvenir of Pompeii.

[Illustration: POMPEII.]

"The town has a bricky look as you see it from the hill, that's one
reason, I suppose, why it seems so modern. After all, the greater part
of the inhabitants of Pompeii escaped alive. They fled at the first
warning. When the eruption stopped for a while, many went back for their
valuables, or because they thought it was all over, and there were some
old and sick who, perhaps, couldn't be moved at first. All these two
thousand were caught in the second fearful eruption. Casts of some of
the bodies are in the little museum on the grounds, but I hardly looked
at them, and, in fact, we spent very little time there because we had
seen the same kind of things at Naples. This is a fearfully long letter,
but I hope I shall find a longer one from you at Rome, where we go from
Naples by the morning express to-morrow."




CHAPTER IX

ROMAN DAYS


When Irma awoke on her first morning in Rome, she felt that one of her
real desires was gratified. She was in the city she most wished to see.
Looking at her watch she found it was too early for breakfast, and she
did not care to go down ahead of the others in this new, strange hotel.
So, seated in an easy-chair, she tried to recall some of the incidents
of her journey of the day before, the five hours' ride that had seemed
long, on account of the heat. The country through which they passed had
been interesting, though she had seen few of the picturesque peasants
working in the fields that she expected to see on every side. In the
distance, however, she had had glimpses of snow-clad mountains, and
occasionally on a hill a monastery or castle, or even a small walled
town.

Then across a vast plain to the right was the unmistakable dome of St.
Peter's. Yes, she could write home that at the first sight of Rome her
heart had beaten quicker. After the sunny ride from the station through
crowded streets all, even the indefatigable Uncle Jim, had been tired,
too tired, after unpacking, to do anything but rest, until at five
o'clock they had gone to the large hotel near by for afternoon tea.

"This isn't Rome," Aunt Caroline had said, as they sat there over their
tea and cakes, listening to the music. "It is the Waldorf-Astoria, and
these people moving about are largely Americans. To-morrow we shall see
Rome."

"To-day is to-morrow," murmured Irma, in her easy-chair, "and I wonder
what we shall see first in Rome. I am sure I should never know where to
begin."

Aunt Caroline decided for her. Then when they first set out, she would
not tell her just what they were to see until they had mounted the steps
of an old casino; after passing through a little courtyard,--all that
remained of the once fine Rospigliosi garden.

"Look up," cried Aunt Caroline, as they stood in the large salon hung
with pictures, and there on the ceiling, more beautiful than any
reproduction, Irma saw the familiar Aurora, the godlike auburn-haired
vision and the spirited horses: Apollo seen in a strong yellowish light,
and the attendant hours in robes shading from blue to white, and from
green to white, with reddish browns in the draperies of the nymph
nearest him, and Aurora herself, a lovely figure, scattering flowers in
his path.

In the beautiful gallery, with its carvings and paintings, there were
other fine pictures, but as she went away Irma still remembered only the
Aurora.

The warm sun beat on their heads as they re-entered their carriage. "The
Roman summer has begun," said Aunt Caroline, "though it is only May. We
must accustom ourselves now to a daily siesta and save our strength; but
first for letters."

A rapid drive brought them to their bankers, opposite the Spanish
Steps. Irma recognized the place immediately from pictures she had seen,
and while Aunt Caroline went inside for letters, she ran across the
piazza to buy a bunch of roses from one of the picturesque flower girls
gathered on the lower steps. But when, on the house at the right-hand
corner, she read an inscription stating that in this house John Keats
had died, she immediately unfolded her camera. She was so interested in
her photograph, that when she saw her aunt standing by the carriage she
recrossed the street without the flowers.

"Here are letters for all of us," said Aunt Caroline, "even for Marion;
two for him, the first he has had, poor boy!"

"Aunt Caroline," asked Irma, for the first time since they sailed
venturing to put the question, "why do you say 'poor boy' when you speak
of Marion?"

Aunt Caroline, who usually answered questions so quickly, was silent for
so long that Irma wondered if her audacity had offended her. Then she
replied gravely, "Marion has had a most unhappy experience. It is hard
to say yet whether he is to be blamed or pitied. Until he is ready to
talk about it, your uncle and I prefer not to speak on the subject, even
with Marion himself. But when the right time comes, you shall know all
about it."

With this Irma, for the present, had to be content. But she realized
that the idle remarks of her acquaintance at Cava had some foundation in
fact. At _dejeuner_ Aunt Caroline gave Marion his letters, and Irma
noticed that his face reddened as he looked at the envelopes, and that
then he put them unopened in his pocket. This she thought a strange way
of treating his first home letters. But then Marion was a strange boy.

Irma herself had impatiently torn open her own letters even while in the
carriage, and had partly read Gertrude's before reaching her hotel.

"We miss you awfully," she wrote, "and Lucy and I hope you won't be so
taken up with that other girl that you'll forget all about us."

"She hadn't received my Azores letter about Marion," mused Irma, "when
she wrote that. I am sure I wish that Marion were a girl instead of such
a queer kind of boy."

"You remember," continued Gertrude, "how jealous you used to be of
Sally? Yes, you were, though you wouldn't admit it; well that's the way
I feel about your Marian. But even if I am jealous, I do hope that you
look better than when you left home, and that you are having a perfectly
stunning time. I suppose you will be in Rome when you get this, and I
wonder if you have seen the Queen--I mean Margherita. I have a
photograph of her that I love, so don't dare come back without seeing
her so you can tell me if she is like it. No matter if she hasn't
invited you to call, just leave your card, and perhaps they will let you
in accidentally. We miss you terribly at school. Until we are called up
to recite we never know whether our translations are right. I wonder if
you find the old inscriptions in Rome more fun than Caesar. We've just
had a week of early warm weather, and we girls have decided to let John
Wall and George Belman fight for the head of the class."

"The letter sounds just like Gertrude," said Irma, as she finished, "and
though it has no news, it makes home seem much nearer."

"Yet you sighed when you finished it; you mustn't let us think you are
homesick," and Aunt Caroline patted Irma's shoulder, as they entered the
house together.

"There's only one thing for to-day," said Uncle Jim, after _dejeuner_,
as they waited for the carriage. "There are said to be three hundred and
sixty-five churches in Rome, and if you intend to see them all, you must
begin at once with the largest and most important."

"But I don't intend to see them all," expostulated Irma, "nor a tenth of
them."

"Then you must begin with St. Peter's just the same. You have been in
the Eternal City now nearly twenty-four hours without visiting St.
Peter's. Such a thing is unheard of and will bring disgrace on us all.
Ah, here's the carriage, and your reform will begin."

"Talk of floods in the Tiber," cried Irma, as they drove along the bank
of the historic stream. "A little river like that could never do any
damage. It could not be energetic enough to overflow its banks,
especially when it's so fenced in."

"Even in modern times the embankment has sometimes failed to keep it in
place," said Uncle Jim, "and in its three miles of wanderings the yellow
Tiber is sometimes hard to manage. There, there, doesn't that please
you?" and Irma answered with an exclamation of delight, glancing beyond
the bridge to the other side, where she had her first view of the Castle
St. Angelo, Hadrian's tomb, the antique circular structure around which
clusters so much history.

But their horses were quick, and their driver did not stop for a long
view; and after a turn or two they were soon crossing the sunny, paved
piazza in front of St. Peter's, with its obelisk and fountain.

"This is to be only the most general view. You must come again some day
when there is a great ceremony, when you can see various dignitaries;
now you are merely to get a first impression."

"A first impression!" cried Irma. "Can I put it into words? It's a
tremendous building; I shall never see another as large, and yet, it
doesn't seem too large. What a great man the architect was!"

"I have been reading up a little to-day," said Marion, "so things are
fresh in my mind. I won't pretend I'll remember them to-morrow, but it's
true that this is not the first church on the spot. In the beginning
there was a circus of Nero's here, where that beautiful emperor was in
the habit of torturing Christians to death. There's a tradition that St.
Peter himself was burned here, and so Constantine built the first St.
Peter's over the spot. Perhaps we can go down into the tomb to-day."

"But this isn't Constantine's church?" There was a decided note of
interrogation in Irma's voice. Perhaps it would have been better for her
not to ask the question, for Marion's reply was in the nature of a snub.

"Any one can see that this St. Peter's is comparatively new. It was
begun by Julius II in the first part of the sixteenth century, and
Bramante probably made the original plans."

"Why, I thought Michelangelo----"

"Yes, my dear," interposed Uncle Jim, "in the end Michelangelo did come
to the rescue of the first plan. For after Bramante died, leaving the
building far from completed, some of his successors made changes that
affected the beauty of the building. I believe the dome was largely the
result of Michelangelo's skill."

"It took long enough to finish it!" exclaimed Marion, who had been
looking at his guidebook. "It was not consecrated until 1626, more than
a hundred years after Bramante's death."

"Just six years after the landing of the Pilgrims," added Irma.

"To compare small things with great," said Uncle Jim, with a laugh.

"Which is which?" asked Irma, and for the moment no one answered.

"Perhaps you don't care for guidebook information. But up to the end of
the seventeenth century, St. Peter's had cost about fifty million
dollars, and it now takes about eighteen thousand dollars a year to
maintain it."

"The salary of one of our ambassadors for a year," interpolated Irma.
"Don't laugh," she cried, "that's the way I always try to remember
things."

"Then," continued Marion, "perhaps you will remember the height of the
dome, four hundred and thirty-five feet from the cross to the pavement,
is twice that of Bunker Hill Monument."

"We are getting into the realm of useless knowledge," protested Uncle
Jim, "and as this is but a bird's-eye view, we need only remember the
beautiful proportions of the dome and the grandeur of the whole. Yet
there are one or two things to see now. I must point out Canova's tomb
of Clement XIII, and over there, by the door leading to the dome, you'll
find Canova's monument to the last of the Stuarts. You ought to go over
there and shed a tear or two, Irma, for you doubtless have the usual
school girl sentimentality for the Stuarts. There are busts of the Old
Pretender and his two sons."

"Guidebook information would probably be as useful as that of a
misguided guide," said Irma, refusing to express herself about the
Stuarts.

"Twenty-nine altars and one hundred and forty-eight columns," read
Marion.

"Come," said Uncle Jim, "don't listen to him. I can show you something
better worth seeing," and he led her to the nave, where he showed her in
the pavement the round slab of porphyry on which the emperors were
formerly crowned.

"Why, Charlemagne, of course," began Irma, and then she reddened. For
Marion was standing near, and she suddenly realized that Charlemagne had
been dead eight hundred years before St. Peter's was consecrated.

"Oh, it was in Constantine's church that Charlemagne was crowned, but
though this slab is older than the present St. Peter's, I doubt that he
or his earlier successors stood on it, and best of all, I doubt that
Marion can inform us," he concluded in a whisper.

When at last the four turned toward the door, Irma noticed the people
about her more than she had on entering. Bareheaded peasants were
walking about in groups; laboring men, who had stolen an hour from work,
bowed before various altars. Tourists of all nations were studying
mosaic pictures, sculptured tombs, or were gazing at the priests in rich
vestments and the altar boys in one of the chapels where there was a
service. Here an old woman hobbled along, and there was a mother with
two or three awestruck children. There were two or three soldiers in
uniform, and several long-coated priests, visitors evidently from
outside Rome.

"It is the People's Church," said Aunt Caroline, "the church of the
people of the whole world," she added. "There may not be as many
languages as there are people in this large building, but I'll warrant a
dozen nations are represented here."

The fifteenth century bronze doors of St. Peter's amused Irma, with
their curious mingling of Christian and pagan subjects, Europa and the
bull, Ganymede, as well as scenes directly from the scriptures. She had
a chance to admire her favorite Charlemagne, whose statue on horseback
and one of Constantine were on either side of the entrance.

"Over there," and Uncle Jim pointed to the left, "is the German
cemetery, which Constantine originally filled with earth from Mt.
Calvary, and made the first Christian burying ground. We have as little
time for that to-day as for the sacristy with its treasures, or the
chapels with their pictures and sculptures. There is just one other
important thing to see before we reach our hotel. Wake up, _cocchiere_,
here we are."

As they drove between the colonnades away from St. Peter's and then
along the Tiber bank, Uncle Jim called their attention to the new Rome
rising on every side.

"It is the Rome of the masses," he said. "Many of these tall apartment
houses are occupied by people of very moderate means. And see that great
public building across the river! It is as ugly as some of our own city
halls."

Their coachman now took a turn through narrow streets, crowded with
people, to Aunt Caroline's disgust. "There may be all kinds of diseases
floating about here."

But hardly had her protest been heard, when they drove up in front of a
portico that Marion recognized at once. "The Pantheon! We were thinking
so much of the narrow streets that we did not see where we were."

"Yes," responded Uncle Jim, "the Pantheon. He brought us the shortest
way. I suppose you know this is the only ancient building in Rome. Walls
and vaulting are the same as in the time of Hadrian. It goes back even
farther than Hadrian, for Augustus's son in law, Agrippa, founded the
temple, dedicated probably to the gods of the seven planets. When
paganism died, it had no use for many years until Phocas the Tyrant
presented it to the Pope, and it was dedicated to the Christian religion
in 604."

"You can't mention anything happening in our country just then," said
Aunt Caroline, turning to Irma.

"I might, but I won't, though I do remember that this was several
hundred years earlier than our Leif Ericson," she retorted. "Uncle Jim,
you did very well, even though you had to turn to your notebook."

"I'll admit that I had read up a few figures for this occasion, you and
Marion sometimes put me so to the blush. But what do you think of it?"

For a full minute Irma was silent as she looked around the vast
interior. "I am afraid," she began, "I am afraid that I like it better
than St. Peter's. In some way it seems grander."

"You needn't be afraid; older and wiser persons have been heard to say
the same thing. A circular building is always impressive, and no
interior in the world has finer proportions than this. In some ways it
isn't what it once was. The bronze casings of part of the walls one of
the popes once stripped off to make cannon for St. Angelo, and in the
eighteenth century the beautiful marbles of the attic story above were
covered with whitewash, but nothing can destroy the beautiful
proportions."

"Don't tell us what they are," urged Aunt Caroline. "It would destroy
half the effect to hear what it is in feet and inches."

"There's just one thing Irma ought to know, since she quite scorns a
guidebook now. That open aperture in the centre of the dome that looks
like a small hole is thirty feet across. It is the only way of lighting
the building."

"What do they do when it rains?" asked Irma.

"Why, they let it rain."

"Marion," exclaimed Aunt Caroline, "if you are willing to repeat so aged
and infirm a joke as that, you must be feeling better."

Marion glanced toward Irma, but she made no sign as to whether or not
she, too, scorned the joke.

"Twenty-eight wagon loads of bones," she was saying.

"Yes, my dear, it was dedicated to Santa Maria ad Martyres, and
naturally this was regarded as a more fitting place than the Catacombs
for their final interment. Yet the sacredness of the place didn't
prevent Constans II from stripping the gilt tiles from the dome to use
in Constantinople. But now you are to look at only two tombs on your way
out, this of Victor Emanuel, which is always covered with wreaths, and
over there Raphael's tomb--only a passing glance at each--and notice the
wonderfully beautiful marbles of the pavement. It would repay you
sometime to study them, and the--run, my dear, ask your aunt to hurry,"
he concluded hastily.

"We shall have time for the Corso," said Uncle Jim, as they drove off.

But the Corso proved disappointing to Marion and Irma.

"It is neither wide nor long, and why people with fine carriages and
footmen should enjoy driving here at the end of a pleasant spring
afternoon I can't understand," complained Marion. "Why, it's so crowded
that there's no particular pleasure in being here."

"That's why most people are driving here, to see and be seen; that's
part of the fun of living for the idler Italians, and as they can't sit
about in piazzas like their countrymen and women a few grades below
them, exchanging nods from a carriage is the next best thing. And you
can't deny that the shop windows are attractive."

"It's almost like driving for pleasure on Washington Street, in Boston,"
said Irma, scornfully, "only it's a little less crowded, and there are
no surface cars."

"Though you speak sarcastically, young lady, just now I won't attempt to
stand up for Il Corso," retorted Uncle Jim.

"It doesn't begin to compare with Fifth Avenue," said Marion.

"It doesn't pretend to, young patriot. I simply brought you here to do
as the Romans do fine afternoons. Some day you'll drive on the Pincian
at the fashionable hour, and after that I'd like to hear your American
comparisons."

"But where in the world can you find a street short as Il Corso with
more associations with great men? Over there's the house where Shelley
wrote 'The Cenci,' and Goethe's home in Rome is not far away. A little
off at one side you'll find Donizetti's house, and on the other Sir
Walter Scott's, and just ahead of us is the Bonaparte Palace, where
Madame Letitia spent her sad later years. You hardly have to turn out of
your way to find the remains of old temples, and there in the Piazza is
the Marcus Aurelius Column."

"Oh, it's inter--," but with the word unfinished, Marion put his hand to
his hat as if to bow to some one in a passing carriage. He did not
really bow, however, and the others noticed that he reddened deeply.

"That looked like the fairy godfather!" cried Irma.

"Whom I consider a myth," responded Uncle Jim.

But Marion said nothing.

Irma's first week in Rome seemed to pass almost as quickly as her first
day. Though she had been sightseeing constantly, she still had not seen
the Colosseum, the Forum, or the Vatican treasures. Each day was not
long enough. In the morning she usually visited some gallery with her
aunt. But in the warmer hours, from twelve to three, they rested. Some
object of interest and a drive took the later afternoon, and by evening
all were too tired to do anything but sit about and compare experiences
with one another or with their hotel acquaintances.

"I haven't forgotten your advice," wrote Irma in a long letter to her
mother, "to remember clearly at least one or two things from each
gallery. In the Borghese there is Canova's beautiful statue of Pauline,
Napoleon's sister, and Titian's Holy and Profane Love, and in the
Colonna that enormous ceiling painting--I almost broke my neck looking
up at it--of the Battle of Lepanto, where some Prince Colonna fought,
and some wonderful ivory carvings, one of them, in a few square inches,
shows all the figures of Michelangelo's Last Judgment. Then in the Doria
is Velasquez' Pope Julius X, in his red robes, and some Claude Lorraines
that I liked.

"Then I loved Domenichino's Sybil, in the Borghese, and I can never
forget the Saint Sebastians I have seen. It may be wicked to laugh at a
martyr, but it is almost wickeder for artists to make a good man look
like a pincushion stuck full of arrows. The Doria Palace is the
handsomest of all, with its gilded furniture and fine ceilings and
polished floors. How gorgeous it must have looked when a ball was given
there in the old days. I'd like to have seen the private apartments and
the Colonna gardens. They say it was from a building in the Colonna
Gardens that Nero watched Rome burning. On certain days these galleries
are free, but generally you pay admission to a regular ticket taker in a
gilt-banded cap. I wonder if the princes who own these palaces make
money by showing their pictures, or if public spirit leads them to open
their houses.

"One day Marion and I went to the Lateran where the popes lived before
they had the Vatican, and please tell Tessie that the first thing we
looked at was the Scala Sancta, or Holy Stairs, that they say were in
Pontius Pilate's house in Jerusalem, over which Christ once walked. On
this account people must go up and down them on their knees. But it is
only on Holy Week that many do this. There are twenty-eight marble
steps, although all you can see, as you look through the narrow door, is
the wooden covering that protects them. The Empress Helena,
Constantine's mother, brought them here. Tessie used to be interested in
these Holy Stairs on account of a picture in one of her Sunday-school
books, and she will be glad to know I have seen them.

"Everything around the Lateran reminds one of Constantine. St. John
Lateran has the site of a church he founded, and near it is the
Baptistery where he was baptized. The font is green basalt, and there
are beautiful porphyry columns and lovely gold mosaics on a blue ground.

"Opposite, in the piazza, is an obelisk Constantine brought from the
Temple of the Sun at Thebes, and set up in the Circus Maximus. Three or
four hundred years ago they found it in three pieces buried under ruins,
and decided to place it here. Uncle Jim says there are more obelisks
here than in all the rest of the world, and people who study hieroglyphs
find Rome a better place than Egypt.

"Marion is good company, and often wishes to see just the same thing
that I do, and then sometimes he doesn't; and I must say he always seems
to suit himself. He knows a great deal. He has usually studied with
private tutors and he has read everything. But he won't talk about his
family. I don't even know whether he has any brothers or sisters.

"He was splendid the other day when we went to the Capitoline Museum,
from the minute we began to walk up the broad stairs toward the statue
of Marcus Aurelius. He pointed out the places where Tiberius Gracchus
was slain, and not far away, though so long afterwards, Rienzi, too.

"Then he explained that though most of the buildings now on the
Campodoglio were by Michelangelo, this had been a centre for public
offices even under the first emperors. The Tabularium, where all old
records were kept, is under the palace of the Senators. We had not time
for it, but Marion had been there before, and he says it is almost the
only building now left of the time of the Republic. Then we walked
through the Capitoline Museum and I recognized many statues,--the Dying
Gladiator and Hawthorne's Marble Faun and the busts of the Emperors.
Marion says nearly all have been identified from coins, and are truer
than the heads of philosophers and poets that we saw. Then there is the
famous mosaic picture of the doves that shows even the shadows, which
came from Hadrian's villa, like so many things in marble and porphyry I
have seen this week.

"There are many relics from the ancient graves, gold bracelets and
other ornaments, and old inscriptions. They are not always easy to read,
but here is one to amuse the boys that Marion translated for me. I can't
give the exact words, but it was the epitaph of a boy eleven and a half
years old who had worked himself to death in a competition to recite
Greek verses. After we had seen all we wished in the museums, Marion
took me through a narrow way, the Via Tarpeia, and past the German
Embassy and then through a garden, where we paid an old lady a fee, and
then, but of course you have guessed it, we were standing on the famous
Tarpeian Rock. We looked down from the rock into a rather poor and
commonplace street, and I tried to imagine what it was like in the old,
old times when this was the edge of Rome, and Tarpeia was killed there
for betraying the city to the invaders.

"Without Marion I never could have found the Rock, and I don't believe
Uncle Jim and Aunt Caroline would have taken the trouble to go there."




CHAPTER X

A QUEEN--AND OTHER SIGHTS


Irma was descending the Spanish Steps one morning on her way to the
piazza when she heard Marion calling her. Turning her head, she saw him
hastening toward her.

"What's your hurry?" he cried.

"I can't hurry going down these steps. I am on my way to return a book
for Aunt Caroline. Then----"

"Well, what then?"

"I haven't decided."

"Then come with me to Rag Fair, and after that I have something else for
the afternoon. Aunt Caroline says she won't try to go out to-day, her
cold is worse and Uncle Jim intends to stay in to read to her, and I,
well, she said I must look out for you."

Marion said the last a trifle sheepishly, adding, "Of course I will do
whatever you wish. But I am sure you will like my plan."

"Yes, provided you haven't the Catacombs in mind, or that awful church
with bones and skulls for decorations."

"The Cappuccini; no, we won't go there."

"And you won't ask me to ride around Aurelian's wall on a bicycle?"

"No, though you'd find it great fun! I don't know anything I have
enjoyed better. The towers are so picturesque and they were useful, too.
I went up in one to see the little rooms inside the walls that the
soldiers occupied, and the guard-rooms, up there more than forty feet.
They certainly had a good chance to see the enemy at a long distance. If
you and Aunt Caroline would drive some day, I'd point things out to
you."

"Perhaps we will, but now--" Irma had taken out her camera. "Oh, I wish
I could get a photograph, but I suppose they will run when they see what
I want."

"They" made a picturesque group, slowly mounting the steps, a mother
with babe in arms, a shawl thrown over her head, a half-grown girl in a
faded pink gingham, and a little boy in a shabby velveteen suit and felt
hat with a feather over his curls.

[Illustration: NEAR LA TRINITA, ROME.]

[Illustration: ROME. A GROUP ON SPANISH STEPS.]

"The boy is probably an artist's model, dressed for effect. I am not
sure about the others, but I can make them stand for you."

"Oh! Please!" Whereupon Marion stepped up to the woman, spoke a few
words in Italian, and lo, they at once grouped themselves picturesquely
in a spot where the sun fell in just the right way for a photograph.
Irma took her place, snapped her camera, turned the key, took a second
snap, in case anything should go wrong with the first and murmured,
"_Grazie, grazie_," one of her few Italian words.

"_Niente, niente, signorina_," said the girl, who seemed to be the
spokesman of the party, looking inquiringly at Marion.

Then almost instantly Marion dropped a small piece of silver in her
hand.

"That's the way to get them to stand," he said laughing; "generally the
smallest copper will fetch them."

"But you gave more."

"Oh, this was a group of four. I have noticed that little chap before,
selling flowers. He's very amusing."

Soon Irma had returned her library book, and by various short cuts
Marion led her to the Palazzo Cancelleria, near which the so-called Rag
Fair is held every Wednesday.

They found a series of canvas booths, where a great variety of things
was displayed. The sellers, more numerous than the buyers, praised their
wares at the tops of their voices, if Irma or Marion even glanced toward
them.

"I should call it a rummage sale, and things are rather rubbishy," said
Irma.

At this moment a man thrust a pair of silver-mounted opera glasses in
Marion's face, naming a ridiculously low price. With some difficulty,
Marion shook him off. "Nothing would induce me to buy them."

"But they seemed very cheap."

"Yes, but that's the reason. I believe they were stolen."

"Oh, but would the police allow it?"

"Not if they knew it, but these people keep such things hidden. Perhaps
other goods are stolen, too. There are some pretty things here."

"Aunt Caroline might find some old lace or embroidery that she'd like,
but for my own part I am disappointed. However, we've seen the Rag Fair,
and we can cross that off our list of sights."

Leaving the Fair and the voluble merchants, after a walk of a block or
two Marion suggested that they go home by trolley. This pleased Irma,
who had not yet ridden in the Roman cars.

When the conductor came for their fare, Marion gave a cry of surprise.

"What is it?" asked Irma.

"Well, it's worse than ridiculous. I have lost my purse. My last small
piece of money was the silver bit I gave to the girl on the Spanish
Steps. I know I had my purse then."

While they were talking Irma put her own little purse in Marion's hand,
and he paid their fare.

"Let us go back to the Rag Fair," she said. "Some one there must have
taken it. You know how they were jostling us."

"There'd be no good in going back. The person who took it would hardly
return it. Besides there wasn't much in it, not more than two hundred
_liri_."

"Two hundred _liri_, forty dollars." Irma rapidly transferred the sum to
American money. Why, that was more than she had brought from home as
extra spending money and for little gifts, and Marion could say it was
nothing.

"It is worth trying to find," she suggested mildly.

"If there was any chance of finding it, but we'd only waste time. It's
too near luncheon, and I'm anxious to carry out my afternoon plan."

"How strange Marion is!" thought Irma. "It doesn't disturb him in the
least to lose money, and yet some little thing that no one can account
for will give him a fit of blues for two or three days."

At three in the afternoon Irma came down to the hotel office, looking
cool and comfortable in her simple pongee suit.

"I am awfully curious," she said, as Marion helped her into the
carriage. "Aunt Caroline says she knows where we're going, but she
wouldn't spoil your fun."

Marion only smiled, as he directed the coachman, "To the Villa Corsini,"
and the words conveyed little to Irma, beyond the fact that a villa was
Italian for "park" and not for "country house," as in English. After a
quarter of an hour through a part of Rome she did not know, at last they
came to some rather poor streets, where people were lounging about their
doors as if expecting something.

"I suppose they're not turning out just to see us pass."

"Who knows? Perhaps they have heard that we are distinguished American
visitors."

Soon they turned in toward a park, before whose gate stood a number of
carriages and automobiles.

"We shall be here an hour," said Marion in Italian, and the driver bowed
comprehendingly.

Showing their tickets, they went up a broad avenue past fine trees and
occasional flower-beds. "It's a garden party for some kind of a
charity," Marion explained, "and I thought it would be fun to see some
of the princesses and marchionesses who are running it. There was a long
list of them in the newspapers yesterday."

"Yes, it will be fun," responded Irma, really surprised that Marion
should willingly waste an hour on what might be called a society affair.
That wasn't the way with most boys, and from what she had seen of
Marion, she had not thought him fond of society.

Soon they came in sight of a long table, where many men and women were
drinking and serving tea. Near it was a large marquee into which they
looked as they passed, with a table handsomely spread and decorated with
flowers and bright streamers. At one end of the apartment several
handsome chairs were placed.

"Some special guest must be coming," said Irma, "but the lawn is good
enough for me. Let us go toward those chairs under the trees." For a
minute or two they watched the gay scene at the long table.

"It is evidently a family affair," said Marion. "Every one seems to know
every one else. Those men are not bad looking, for Italians," he
concluded.

"Many of the ladies are beautiful," responded Irma, "and what lovely
gowns! I suppose they are in the height of fashion, but I should think
they'd hate to trail them over the ground."

Presently a most attractive lady, whom Irma had especially noticed,
approached them.

"Will you have your tea now?" she asked in English, with the slightest
accent that showed it was not her native language.

"I will have it sent you at once," she continued, "and some cakes."

Without waiting for a reply, in a moment she had returned to the table,
from which a young girl soon came bringing a tray with cups of tea and a
plate of tiny cakes.

"Yes, she is expected at once," the young girl replied to some question
of Marion's that Irma had not heard.

"The Queen, the Queen Margherita," cried Irma. "You are expecting to see
the Queen."

"You are a good guesser," retorted Marion. "For when I read that
Margherita had promised to attend this fete I thought it would be fun
for you to come. I know your friend Gertrude has been anxious to have
you see her, and there may not be another chance unless you should make
up your mind to ask an audience."

"Hardly," replied Irma smiling, "and I do hope she will come."

Before the two had finished their tea, the groups at the large table
moved forward, forming a semicircle near the marquee. The other
strangers, who like themselves were at little tables under the trees,
rose and moved toward the crowd. In a few minutes a little group came up
the avenue from the gate. Irma's whole attention was fastened on the
gracious lady in the centre, who leaned a trifle on her parasol handle,
as she bowed to those who greeted her on each side.

"I should know her anywhere," cried Irma; "her face is as sweet as in
the photographs I have seen. Look, they are kissing her hand."

Margherita paused a moment, as if to take in the whole scene before her.
Irma noticed that although she was scarcely above middle height, in her
soft black gown and wide black hat she had an air of grace and elegance
that would have distinguished her, even among those who did not know
that she was the widow of King Humberto.

"How pleased Gertrude will be that I have seen her!" she exclaimed, as
Queen Margherita entered the marquee, attended by a number of those who
had been in attendance upon the tables, "and it is all owing to you,"
she added, turning to thank Marion for his thoughtfulness. "As King
Victor Emanuel and Queen Elena have gone to their country place, we are
not likely to see any other royalties in Italy. But _now_ I can write
home that I have seen Queen Margherita."

A little later, as Irma and Marion passed the marquee on their way to
the carriage, they paused to glance within, where Margherita sat,
talking with much animation, the centre of a circle of ladies.

"Well, young people," said Uncle Jim at dinner that evening, "you have
had a giddy day, with rag fairs and fetes and things of that kind.
To-morrow we return to hard, earnest sightseeing, the Borgia apartments
at the Vatican and the Vatican Library. Your aunt wishes you to go while
her cold lasts, so she has a reasonable excuse for not travelling the
several miles necessary to see these things."

"Fortunately I am strong," said Marion, "and Irma seems equal to any
amount of walking."

"I'm not sure," Irma protested, "that I wish to see more in the Vatican.
I enjoyed the sculptures the other day, and the paintings in Raphael's
Stanze. Perhaps I am wrong, but I would almost like to leave Rome
without seeing the rest of the Pope's palace. Just now I recall clearly
all the frescoes: the School of Athens and the Borgo, and Parnassus and
the others, and then the Ascension in the gallery, with that wonderful
yellowish light. I am contented to remember nothing else of the
Vatican."

"Oh, that will never do, the largest palace in the world, with a
thousand different apartments, covering thirteen and a half acres, and
you wish to remember it by a few frescoes and one large painting!"

"The greatest frescoes in the world. I've heard you say that yourself."

"Oh, yes, but the treasures of the Vatican are all great, and you must
have a chance to judge between what you've seen of Raphael and what you
will see of Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel. Those popes of the
Middle Ages were wise in their day, especially after Nicholas V, in
1450, who decided to make the Vatican the most imposing palace in the
world by bringing under one roof all the papal offices. Since then the
building has been constantly enlarged and improved. But now only a small
part is occupied by the Papal Court. Certain days and hours most of the
Vatican treasures are shown to visitors. If you could spend all your
time there for a week, you would not have seen half."

Next day Uncle Jim decided not to go with the young people to the
Vatican, and so again Marion was Irma's guide.

"I am less afraid of the Swiss guards than I was the first day," said
Irma, as they passed the Pope's soldiers in their brilliant red and
yellow uniforms, on their way to the Scala Regia.

"Oh," responded Marion, "they wouldn't dare touch a visitor. Just wait
a moment, I've forgotten exactly where we go first."

So they waited, while Marion turned the leaves of his guidebook, and
then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard in Italian a very
positive "Move on." He looked into the frowning face of a Swiss guard,
and without further ado he moved rapidly up the broad staircase.

"There," said Irma, when out of hearing of the soldiers. "What did I
tell you? They might have done something terrible. You know we are not
in Italy now. The Vatican is the Pope's country."

"And the Pope is one of the best-hearted men in the world. Why, actually
you are trembling! I suppose they have rules to keep people moving, but
they wouldn't dare harm an American."

Irma, however, was disturbed by this incident, and was not sorry a few
minutes later to find herself one of several in an anteroom waiting the
guide to take them through the library.

"A library!" she exclaimed, when they had entered the vast hall, "but
where are the books?"

"In these glass cases--listen to the guide."

Not until the end of their tour of the great hall did they learn that
the library, in the ordinary sense of books and manuscripts available
for students, was not open to ordinary visitors. The so-called library
through which the guide led them was high vaulted, and more than two
hundred feet long, with painted ceiling, floors of marble mosaics from
ancient temples and baths, and exquisite marble columns also from
ancient buildings. In the end they saw some books worth seeing: the
oldest Bible in existence, a manuscript of the fourth century, and an
old second century Virgil. Of later times there was a volume of Henry
VIII's love letters to Anne Boleyn, and many exquisitely illustrated
manuscripts, among them a Natural History illuminated by Raphael and his
pupils.

"I wish he'd cut it short," said Marion, as the guide gave long
descriptions of each manuscript that he pointed out in its case, or in
the drawers that he sometimes unlocked.

"I rather enjoy what he says about the manuscripts as you translate it
for me," responded Irma, "but he need not describe every present given
to every pope. Vases are vases, and we know all these things were
presents to one pope or another. They are all costly and some are
beautiful. But I am getting tired."

It would not have been possible, even had they dared try to hurry the
loquacious guide. Before they left the hall Irma almost forgot her
fatigue in looking at the ancient paintings, inscriptions, and other
relics of early Christians. Again, as at the Lateran, she sighed deeply
at the pathos of the little things brought from the Catacombs, combs and
small toilet articles, little brooches, and other pieces of simple
jewelry.

"You are really tired!" exclaimed Marion, as they passed through the
glass door out of the hall. "But in the Sistine Chapel you can sit
down."

So it happened that after Irma had looked into a mirror held under the
ceiling, on which are painted Michelangelo's frescoes--the sibyls and
the prophets, and the well-known Adam and Eve, Irma from a bench along
the side looked with more or less interest at the paintings opposite her
by Pinturicchio and other masters.

A girl of sixteen, however, is not expected to have the interest of her
elders in old masters, as Irma frankly acknowledged.

"Of course I know the Last Judgment of Michelangelo's is a great
altarpiece, but I do not care to look at it longer. I'm very glad,
though, that you brought me to the Sistine Chapel. When I read about the
great church ceremonies in which the Pope takes part, I can imagine the
crowd here, and the Pope in the centre and----"

Before Irma had finished speaking, from behind a wooden partition that
screened some men repairing the mosaic pavement, one of the workers
stepped out, and with a finger of one hand on his lips, lifted the other
on high with one finger significantly extended. When he saw that he had
gained Marion's attention, he held up a small object, as if he wished
Marion to examine it. Then Marion went forward, and the man put the
object in his hand.

"Cheap enough for a franc," said Marion, displaying a small octagon of
mosaics, green, red, and white.

"Why it's the same pattern as the pavement there."

"Of course, that's why I bought it," he replied, "as a souvenir of the
Sistine Chapel."

"But ought you to take it?" asked Irma. "Had he the right to sell it?"

An expression of anger crossed Marion's face.

"Do you think I would do what is not right? Come," he continued, "we
ought to be on our way out."

Then he strode on, keeping far enough ahead of Irma to prevent
conversation. "He is certainly like a spoiled child!" she thought, "and
I fancied we were getting on so well together."

The drive back to the hotel was rather silent, as well as hot. "In our
hottest weather it is never like this," thought poor Irma. She was glad
enough to reach the shelter of the cool hotel.

"Did you see where the papal dominions end and Italy begins?" asked
Uncle Jim at _dejeuner_.

"No? Then you didn't look in the right place. There is one window from
which the guide could have shown you a soldier of the Pope's on guard,
while at a short distance a sentry from the Italian army is pacing up
and down."

"From one or two windows I caught sight of the beautiful Vatican
gardens," Irma replied, "and even if the Pope is a prisoner, he must
find a great deal to enjoy in his walks."

"_If_ he is a prisoner," began Uncle Jim.

"He is certainly a voluntary prisoner," said Aunt Caroline, "but the
subject is too large a one to discuss now."

Marion was silent, evidently sulking. But Aunt Caroline understood him,
for when he left the table without a word she made no comment.




CHAPTER XI

TIVOLI--AND HADRIAN'S VILLA


"Tivoli," said Irma, as they sat at luncheon in a pleasant garden not
far from the cascades, "has disappointed me."

"In what way?" asked Uncle Jim.

"Oh, the name sounds so bright and frivolous that you expect it to be
very gay here, and it isn't."

"The cataracts are lively."

"Yes, they foam and roar like the falls of Lodore, when you reach them,
but Tivoli itself is a crowded little town, and the people seem solemn.
Even the Temple of the Sibyl is shabby and dirty, without looking old."

"Irma turning pessimist," cried Uncle Jim. "But the town isn't the
whole of Tivoli. Villa d'Este is charming enough, unless it has changed
since my day, and then there's the road to Hadrian's villa!"

Marion took neither one side nor the other in the discussion. He had
talked to Irma little enough since their Vatican visit a day or two
before. Yet he was always polite, and she judged from the past that his
sulkiness would not last long.

The drive to the Villa d'Este was short, and as she stood on the terrace
looking over the tops of the pointed cypresses, Irma admitted that this
view alone was worth seeing

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