"If only it were not going to ruin so fast. Broken statuary and moss-grown fountains are not very cheerful. But perhaps there are some amusing stories connected with the place. What has the guide been saying to you?" said Uncle Jim.

"Oh, he has been telling me that he is one of the most remarkable guides in Europe, with government certificates and letters of recommendation from innumerable tourists. The German Emperor depended on him, so he says, on his visit two or three years ago, and, ah, yes—" The guide had brought the party to a stop as he pointed to a stone bench at the end of a path.

"Yes," continued Aunt Caroline, "let us sit down, one by one, for this is the bench on which the Kaiser rested to get full enjoyment of the vista of the house on the terrace at the end of the long avenue of pointed cypresses. But come, he says he has even a finer view to show."

A few minutes' walk brought the party to a wall bounding one side of the garden, whence they had a wide outlook over a flourishing country.

"He says," interpreted Aunt Caroline, "that where that large factory stands was Maecenas's villa, and that Horace also had a farm not far away."

"I could contradict him if it were worth while," said Uncle Jim, "although it is true enough that many eminent Romans, including Augustus himself, had villas in this neighborhood. But there are few sites of which we are sure, except that of Hadrian's villa a hundred years later."

The guide continued to pour out information and misinformation until the party returned to the carriage, and he was even anxious to go with them to Hadrian's villa.

"No, there we shall not need him," said Uncle Jim decidedly. "I have studied the plans, and as we shall not attempt to explore a very large part of the one hundred and seventy-nine acres, I believe I am equal to my task of guide."

Leaving their carriage at the entrance, the party was soon at the custodian's house. Here Aunt Caroline and Irma lingered to compare pictures of Hadrian's villa as it is, with sketches showing the artist's ideal of its original splendor. Other tourists were wandering about the vast ruins, and the custodian was occupied with the first comers.

"Whether a palace or a collection of palaces, it is the most surprising ruin I have ever seen," said Aunt Caroline. "Imagine what it must have been in Hadrian's day! Many of the finest statues now in Rome were unearthed here a few centuries ago, and these mosaic pavements and broken columns give us an idea of the whole. It was really, I suppose, a collection of magnificent buildings with baths and great halls and even quarters for the imperial troops."

Irma, walking about, had a strange feeling of loneliness; she had never seen a building so vast. It brought before her more vividly than anything else she had seen the greatness of the Roman emperors. She wished to be by herself, undisturbed by Aunt Caroline's continuous explanations and Uncle Jim's facetious comments.

"Over there," said Marion, whom she met unexpectedly at a turn, "an opening in the trees gives a fine view of the valley, with Tivoli on the hills beyond."

As Marion did not offer to accompany her to the spot toward which he pointed, Irma went on alone. Uncle Jim and Aunt Caroline were not far away, and would doubtless follow soon enough.

"It was very good in Marion to tell me of this view," thought Irma, as she looked over the valley. "He is getting over his sulkiness."

After waiting a few minutes, longer perhaps than she realized, Irma turned back to the place where Marion had spoken to her. But now there was no one in sight but a distant custodian, who was engrossed by a tourist. "Where is Marion?" thought Irma, "and why did Uncle Jim and Aunt Caroline turn about so quickly?"

At this moment she saw a small cube of green marble in her path. Though it was very like the marble of the pavement on which she stood, she could see no broken place.

"What a perfect paperweight it would make!" she thought. "I couldn't have a finer souvenir from Hadrian's villa."

But as she was about to pick it up, the custodian suddenly turned his head. She wondered if she were doing wrong. Yet the little green cube still fascinated her and she waited until the custodian and the tourist had moved out of sight.

While she waited Irma made a few notes in her book, and when she at last felt that she could safely do it, she picked up the little piece of marble and dropped it in her bag.

But now where should she go? She had a vague idea of the general direction, yet she knew that a wrong turn might lead her far from the entrance. How foolish she had been not to consult the custodian, and all for a wretched piece of marble! For the moment she felt like throwing it away.

The feeling of melancholy she had had since first entering the villa now increased. The sun was low, and as she looked at her watch she saw it was but ten minutes of train time.

"If, by any chance, we should become separated, you and Marion must surely be at the station five minutes before train time," Uncle Jim had said, while they were still in the carriage, pointing out the little structure, where the steam tram for Rome made a stop.

"That is why they went on," thought Irma, "they supposed Marion was with me, and now what will they think?"

Now, strange though it may seem, when the tram pulled away from the little station, Uncle Jim and Aunt Caroline did not realize Irma's absence. After a hurried cup of tea, they had rushed for the cars with a number of other passengers.

"Where's Irma?" Aunt Caroline had asked anxiously, as she took her own seat.

"Oh, she's in the next car; I saw Marion helping her on." This was Uncle Jim's honest opinion. But the girl whom Marion was assisting politely, happened not to be Irma, but another girl of her general appearance, as it seemed to near-sighted Uncle Jim.

Meanwhile Marion, quite unconscious that Irma was not with his uncle and aunt in the forward car, surrendered himself to a book.

Poor Irma! She was not ashamed of the tears that began to fall, when after several minutes' walk she found herself back at a point near where she had found the unlucky bit of marble. It was far from a pleasant prospect that she might spend the night at Hadrian's villa, twenty-five miles from Rome.

She had no intention, naturally, of sitting still, and she felt sure that eventually, probably even before dark, she might find her way out to the custodian's house. The last tram for the day had returned to Rome, and she wondered who would give her shelter for the night.

"Crying won't help," and she wiped away what she meant should be her last tear. "I am sure I know the general direction, and if——"

"Hello, hello," cried a cheerful voice behind her, "a lady in distress, and no one but me to rescue her. This is remarkable."

Irma started to her feet, almost ready to throw her arms around the speaker, whom she had instantly recognized. Before her stood the fairy godfather.

It did not take long to explain the situation, though the old gentleman was rather outspoken in his words of blame for Marion and Uncle Jim.

"Your uncle evidently thought the boy was looking after you, and I must say he deserves punishment, if he has gone back to Rome without you."

"Oh, it is my fault for not staying with the others."

"Well, well, that can be settled later; meanwhile, if you have really seen all you wish of Hadrian's villa, I will conduct you outside, where I have a carriage and pair. We can soon reach Tivoli, where I can send a telegram that will meet your friends when they reach the end of the route."

"But when shall I go back to Rome?"

"On the regular railroad from Tivoli. Fortunately it has an evening train. Ah, here we are!"

As Irma waited at the little building at the entrance to the grounds, where post cards and other relics were sold, she saw a piece of marble, almost the counterpart of the one that had made her lose her way. She did not buy it, in spite of her first impulse.

"I believe it's not wrong for me to keep the other piece," she thought. "In one way it has taught me a lesson."

On their way to Tivoli the old gentleman seemed more inclined to get Irma's impressions of Rome, rather than to talk freely himself. She did not, therefore, venture to ask where he had been since their landing at Naples, nor even whether he had been long in Rome.

This last question seemed unnecessary, as the old gentleman's conversation showed a wide acquaintance with modern as well as ancient Rome. Irma had begun, however, to ask him one or two questions about Roman school children, when without replying he said abruptly, "Now, tell me, don't you think there are too many churches in Rome?"

"There are a great many," replied Irma, smiling, "and I shall not have seen more than a tenth of them, even if I stay here a month longer."

"Then you do not care for them?"

"Oh, I simply haven't time. Indeed, I care for some of them. I used to think church legends rather hard to believe, but now they mean much more to me. Perhaps I did not like San Pietro in Montorio as well as some others when I first saw it the other day, but it meant more when I found they believe it is built on the very spot where the apostle was martyred, and so, while the church of San Paolo seems too large and splendid, still it is beautiful to have a church to mark St. Paul's burial place."

"Yes, Rome constantly reminds us what the martyrs suffered. You came out the San Lorenzo gate to-day?"

"Yes."

"Well, the church of San Lorenzo just beyond honors St. Lawrence, whose story is one of the most pathetic. He was assistant to the Bishop Sextus II, and when the latter was condemned to death he begged that he might die with him. 'In three days you shall follow me,' said Sextus. St. Lawrence was a young man of great personal beauty, and he had been a devoted friend to the poor. Sextus directed him to distribute the treasure of the Church among the poor, and when he was asked by the Tyrant to show the treasure, he gathered about him those he had helped. His bravery and piety converted his jailer, Hippolytus, and he met his death—roasting on a gridiron—with the greatest bravery. Whether the story is wholly true, there was certainly a brave martyr named Lawrence. St. Cecilia, too, is another martyr who ought to interest you. Ah, Rome is full of such memories! But this is not a cheerful subject for a girl who has lost her relatives." In an instant the old gentleman had turned the subject, giving Irma an entertaining account of Easter week celebrations that he had once seen in Rome.

As a result of the despatch from Tivoli, Uncle Jim was at the station to meet Irma.

"You gave us a great fright," he said reproachfully. "We did not discover that you were missing until we had almost reached Rome."

"Don't scold the young lady," said the fairy godfather. "It was the fault of that boy." He spoke so sternly that Irma was glad Marion was not present. Yet Uncle Jim did not resent this speech. It almost seemed as if he had met the old gentleman before. Then, with a bare acknowledgment of the thanks that Uncle Jim showered on him for his care of Irma and his thoughtfulness in telegraphing, the old gentleman jumped into a carriage and drove rapidly away.

"Do you know him, Uncle Jim?" asked Irma.

"I must have seen him on the Ariadne," he replied.

"My dear Chris and Rudolph," wrote Irma a few days later.

"This is to be a long letter, because we have a rainy day and I can spare the time. For my trunk is packed, and to-morrow we leave Rome.

"In the first place, you wish to know about the seven hills. Well, I believe they are all here, only they have been so built upon or so levelled that they are hard to find. Even in old times the Palatine and the Aventine were the only hills worth speaking of, and they are still fairly steep. Not so long ago they showed a small hut on the Palatine called Romulus's house that had been preserved since the earliest days. So it seems certain that Romulus and Remus were real people, and if we needed more proof, not long since they discovered an old tomb in the Forum which they are quite sure was the grave of Romulus. I have looked down into it, and am willing to believe this, too. On the Palatine now are the ruins of the enormous palaces of the emperors. Generally only parts of the high walls are standing, but from these you get an idea of the grandeur of ancient Rome. On the walls of one house (The House of the Pages it is supposed to be) they found a rough little drawing, such as a boy might scratch on a blackboard to-day, the picture of a donkey, and under it: 'Work, little ass, as I have worked, and may it profit thee.'

"Besides the palaces they have unearthed the small house of Germanicus, in which we saw some good wall paintings, and what would interest you more, lead pipes for carrying water, almost like those we use in our houses.

"We spent one day in the Forum with a special guide, who made everything so plain! I saw the place where Cæsar fell at the foot of Pompey's statue. They are constantly unearthing new things in the Forum, and Aunt Caroline says it is really twice as large as it was when she was last here. The beautiful House of the Vestals interested me the most.

"The Colosseum is some distance from the Forum, and you know it from photographs. Only no picture can really give you a good idea of its size. When you stand inside you feel as if you were hardly larger than a fly.

"Rome, for the first few days, seemed like a big, new city, with bright shops and rushing trolley cars and carabinieri in cocked hats sauntering about. But I soon began to see old Rome everywhere. You have to patch it together as you go about. Pavements and columns from ancient temples are found in the Middle Age churches. Alabaster and colored marbles from all over the world were brought to Rome, and as late as the fifth century there were thirty-six marble arches, hundreds of temples, and many great baths, circuses, and fine private houses, besides the rows of tall houses arranged in flats in which ordinary people lived. There were also a great many fine statues, nearly all of which have disappeared. In the Middle Ages, when people wished to build new houses and churches, they simply pulled down some fine old Roman temple or palace and so got building materials without any expense. But there is enough of ancient Rome left to help form a picture of what it was. Sometime I hope you will see it all, the old wall with its towers, the Appian Way with its tombs and monuments.

"But old Rome is only a part of what we enjoy. The streets are bright and gay with so many people driving about, and soldiers in uniforms sometimes marching, sometimes walking along the sidewalks like ordinary people. Then often we meet twenty or thirty school children dressed just alike, taking exercise in the care of sisters, or priests in their church dress. Then there are a great many theological students studying in Rome, and some of them wear broad red or broad blue sashes, or have other colored trimmings on their long black robes.

"I dare say you are disappointed that we have not seen the king and queen—I wrote mother about Margherita—but I have been all through the royal palace, the Quirinal, and will tell you about it when I come home."

CHAPTER XII

"You and your aunt were certainly getting rather frivolous; teas and calls and that kind of thing are a great waste of time in a city full of churches. Remember, to improve your mind is your chief object in coming abroad." Uncle Jim had assumed a mock-serious manner.

"To improve her health," interposed Aunt Caroline; "and I have written her mother that she has gained six pounds and has recovered her red cheeks."

"So you attribute this improvement to teas, and not to churches!"

"Our little bit of social life the past week or two has been good for us both. Americans away from home often seem unexpectedly interesting, and we have enjoyed hearing little things about the Roman winter that we might not have heard if I had not met so many New York and Philadelphia acquaintances. Then we have seen some of our artist friends at work in their studios, and this has been entertaining."

"Don't forget the shops, Aunt Caroline. Even if I haven't had much money to spend I have enjoyed shopping, and I think I have done very well with Roman souvenirs. Sometimes I have wished I could spend just a little more, and yet I have done very well."

If Irma had been looking at Marion, she might have seen that he was observing her more closely than the pages of the book that earlier had seemed to absorb him.

As they journeyed, Uncle Jim reminded Irma that they were travelling toward the sources of the Tiber, and at one station he told her that here she might go off to Perugia, the home of Perugino and Raphael.

"Orvieto," he added, "is a town set on a small mountain by itself, and I hope you will like the funicular."

"By funicular!" cried Marion, in a tone of disgust; "that's the kind of thing I particularly hate."

"You might go around by carriage. There is a winding road, as I remember, but it takes much longer."

When they arrived at Orvieto, Marion, however, entered the strange little train that was to be pulled up the steep ascent by underneath cable.

"Look back at the view," urged Aunt Caroline, when they were almost at the top. Turning her head Irma beheld a beautiful sight, the broad valley lying far beneath and the distant hills. Then glancing toward Marion she saw that he was leaning upon the seat in front and steadying himself as if to brace himself against disaster.

"Sit up straight," called Uncle Jim, mischievously. "You cannot possibly fall out, and if the car slips we shall all perish together."

Then Irma noticed that Marion bit his lip, as if angry, and made no effort to look at the view.

A short drive from the end of the funicular brought them to an old-fashioned hotel.

"A little rest, a little déjeuner, and then the cathedral!" exclaimed Aunt Caroline. "I can hardly wait to see it. That is the only thing that brings people to this queer little town."

"It is surely a queer little hotel, and we are the only Americans here," thought Irma, observing the guests at the other tables, a stout, long-frocked priest, a uniformed officer, and two or three swarthy Italians, apparently prosperous business men.

Soon after déjeuner they set out, and a turn or two brought them to the piazza of the Duomo, or cathedral.

For a moment all stood silent, as the sun shining full on the façade showed them an enormous picture.

"Isn't it the most wonderful thing you ever saw?" cried Aunt Caroline, and Irma thought it too beautiful for words. For those who had planned and those who had carried out the plans had managed to give to the little hill town a church that any city in the world might envy. Beautiful pictures in mosaic in rich tones and gold backgrounds occupy the upper part of the front. The marble pillars are exquisitely carved, and around the large rose window are marble statues of apostles and saints, while fine bronze emblems also form part of the decorations.

"I would really rather not go inside," said Irma, when Uncle Jim proposed their seeing the interior. "I should like to sit here for an hour and simply look at this beautiful, enormous picture," and she raised her eyes to the high, pointed gables of the cathedral, far, so far above her.

While she was speaking Uncle Jim had crossed the street to a group of boys gathered on the cathedral steps.

"Yes," he said, as he returned, "they are actually playing cards, and they didn't show the slightest signs of guilt when I looked over their shoulders."

"Just think of being so intimate with this cathedral that you could play games on its steps without thinking of the front."

"And those bareheaded women repairing the pavement never glance at the church."

"Oh, Marion," protested Aunt Caroline, "don't give her a penny. Here are two more old women hobbling along, and if you give to one you will have the whole hospital at your back. I am sure there is some kind of an institution there at the corner of the piazza."

Marion smiled good humoredly, and took his hand from his pocket, without producing the bit of silver that the old woman evidently expected.

Two other old women came along, one leaning heavily on a crutch, the other with a heavy woollen shawl over her head in spite of the heat of the day.

"But just think what a fine time they could have with my half franc to spend."

"You will find some more worthy cause, if you need a cause on which to waste your money. There—there—go—go," cried Aunt Caroline to the three old women, who had now come close up to her, mumbling and making signs of hunger.

"Come, Irma, inside the cathedral," and laying her hand on Irma's arm, Aunt Caroline crossed the street, while Uncle Jim and Marion followed: and if the truth be told, as soon as Aunt Caroline's back was turned, the very coin that had been burning Marion's pocket quickly transferred itself to the hand of the most importunate of the old women. This, at least, was Irma's impression, as she looked around before entering the cathedral door, attracted by the rather peculiar striking of a clock. Looking in the direction of the sound she gave an exclamation of surprise that led Aunt Caroline to turn also. There on a building at the corner stood a life size figure of a small man hitting a bell with a hammer, and thus informing the town of the hours and quarter hours without the need of a clock face.

The cool, white interior of the cathedral was a pleasant change from the hot piazza. The pillars were of marble, striped black and white like the outside. The young people admired some of the old frescoes by Fra Angelico and Signorelli, and watched the priest copying the head of Virgil, one of several poets of the future life chosen to decorate one chapel. But when Aunt Caroline drew out her book to sketch some architectural details Irma sighed audibly.

Only Marion, however, heard and understood the sigh.

"Aunt Caroline," he said, "while you are drawing, Irma and I might ramble around the town. The streets are so narrow that there would be no fun driving, and you never care to walk in the sun."

"Certainly, children. Run off by yourselves. You needn't apologize for tiring of the society of your elders. As we have so little time here I intend to devote myself to the cathedral inside and out. Only remember what you see, and please don't get lost."

So Irma and Marion set off by themselves. Although they had been informed that the little Municipal Museum contained many interesting vases and ornaments found in the ancient Etruscan tombs so numerous in this neighborhood, they decided to omit the museum.

"We saw so many of those things in the National Museum at Rome," sighed Irma, "and these cannot be any finer. Aren't you tired of museums? There must be much to see here, for Orvieto is such an old, old town."

"Yes," assented Marion, "and we might as well begin to set ourselves against museums, for Uncle Jim says that all the Italian towns, no matter how small, are stuffed full of local pride, and have municipal museums, and even art galleries that they tax the poor people heavily to support. If no one should visit them then taxes would be lighter, and the poor Italians would be happier, and not so many would be driven to emigrate to America."

While Irma laughed at the absurdity of his reasoning she also thought that Marion was a very clever boy.

Then they wandered through the narrow streets of Orvieto, passing under stone arches, looking in at various shops, where shoemakers or tinsmiths or tailors were working in rather primitive fashion. Irma photographed one or two old churches, and at last they came to a wall that seemed to hold the town from tumbling down the high hill. There they had a wide view across a lovely valley.

While they stood there, three or four well-dressed children surrounded them, asking for money, and going through the usual form of speech, "We are dying of hunger." Far from sympathizing, Marion and Irma only laughed as they drove the children away, and finally the children, too, burst into loud laughter as they retreated.

"I never imagined an Italian town as clean as this," said Irma, as they walked over the big cobblestones of a sidewalkless thoroughfare. "It looks as if it had been swept and scrubbed, and yet I am sorry for the people so near the beautiful country, who yet must live in a closely built town."

"Oh, many probably work in the fields below there, young as well as old. Though they don't need the protection of a fortified town, as they did in the Middle Ages, they still love to huddle together."

Before returning to the hotel, the two went to another edge of the town. A public garden covered the site of the old fortress, but from a ruin of the ancient castle they formed an idea of what it had been in its days of usefulness.

"Give me your camera for a moment," cried Marion, as Irma leaned against the wall looking over the Valley of the Tiber, toward the Umbrian hills.

"Now, stand still, just as you are," and when she heard the click she turned to thank Marion.

"You must be a thought reader. I was wishing I might have a picture taken here to send home, but——"

"You weren't afraid to ask me?"

"Well—you might have thought I was vain—or something. It always seems so silly to wish to have one's own picture taken. But this is for Gertrude. She tried to make me promise to have one taken in every town we visited."

"I really believe you'd rather please Gertrude than any one else. I am almost sorry I took the photograph." Marion turned away half angrily, and Irma could not tell whether or not he was in earnest, as they followed the custodian of the garden, who had been insisting that they must see the pozzo, or old well.

When they had looked down into its gloomy depths of a couple of hundred feet the man seemed rather disappointed that neither of them would descend part way.

"The remarkable thing about it is that the spiral staircase is so built that donkeys with buckets went down on one side, and came up on the other with water."

"But who cares about that now?" cried Irma impatiently.

As they turned away from the well, they saw a hotel omnibus approaching, and a moment later Aunt Caroline was calling to them.

"We were so afraid we might miss you. They insisted on bringing us down early for the funicular, and here are your bags. But this is better than being late, and it will give your uncle and me a chance to visit the famous well." Whereat Irma and Marion exchanged smiles, though it did not seem worth while to dissuade their elders from seeing one of the few sights of the old town.

"It will be a quarter of an hour before the train starts for Siena, and they ought to have some way of killing time."

"By the way," continued Marion, as they waited for the train, "you may be glad to hear that you were right and I was wrong, the other day about my purse."

"The one that was stolen?"

"Yes. I ought to have reported it, as you said. It contained a piece of—well—something that I wouldn't have lost for anything. I only found it out when I came to pack this morning. I had thought it was in its box. But when to-day I found the box empty, I remembered that I had it in my purse to take to a jeweler's to repair."

"Can't you report it now?"

"Oh, it's absolutely too late, now that we have left Rome."

At this moment the train came in.

CHAPTER XIII

It seemed to be a morning of surprises, for as she passed a sitting-room at the head of the stairs, she heard Marion laughing, yes, actually laughing, and other voices were mingled with his in conversation and laughter, too.

So surprised was Irma that she paused, with her hand on the banister, and a moment later Marion stood beside her.

"Come in, there is some one here you ought to meet," he said, and almost before she realized it he had led her into the room. The faces of the two girls who stood near the window were certainly not exactly the faces of strangers, and yet she could not tell where she had previously seen them.

"Miss Grimston, Miss Sanford, this is Irma Derrington."

At these words of Marion's she realized who the strangers were, the two girls she had seen at the Naples Aquarium.

"Don't I come in for an introduction, too?" said a boy's voice, almost before Irma had a chance to say a word to the two girls, and at the same moment a tall, blue-eyed boy came forward with a smile. "I am Richard Sanford," he said pleasantly.

"Come, children, come to breakfast," cried Uncle Jim, now appearing at the door; "your aunt will have her coffee upstairs."

Then he started back. "Excuse me," he said, "I did not realize that Siena was so full of young Americans," and then Marion repeated the introductions.

In the breakfast room a table was found where all the young people could sit together, under the vigilant eye of Uncle Jim, "a chaperon pro tem," as he called himself, whose chief duty it was to see that they did not let their conversation interfere with their appetites. Before the meal ended he had made them admit that he had done his duty.

"We have seen all the most important things in Siena," Katie Grimston explained, "but we had arranged to be here a week, and that gives us two days more. Mrs. Sanford happens to be rather tired to-day, and while she is resting we can go about with you if you'd like to have us."

"Indeed we should," responded Uncle Jim, "for if you have been over the ground, you can probably save us many steps."

"Of course we won't promise to go everywhere, but we can save you time at first."

A little later Irma was at the door, ready to start. The street in front of the house looked like the street of some pleasant New England suburb. The houses seemed comparatively modern. But not so very far away she caught glimpses of roofs crowded together, and of the tower of a large church.

Marion and Katie and Uncle Jim had gone off a little ahead of the others, and Irma found herself with Richard Sanford and his sister.

"Let us take a short cut to the Duomo," said Richard. "We've always driven, but it would really be more fun to walk."

The girls assented, and the three set off in good spirits. But Richard, although he asked his way once or twice, did not pay close attention to directions, and they quickly found themselves going down a steep, narrow street that had no sidewalk, and was paved with large stones that made walking difficult. The street was full of people, chiefly women and little children, and some of the children gathered around the Americans as they passed along.

"The only thing I know about the cathedral," protested Irma, when they found themselves at the bottom of the long street, "is that it occupies the highest land in Siena, which I am sure we shall never reach if we keep going down hill."

"Patience, patience," cried Richard pleasantly. "I'll show you that I am a regular Duke of York," and he stepped aside to talk with an intelligent-looking woman in a doorway, who gesticulated while she talked.

"Her gestures tell me more than her words," said Richard, "and all we have to do, evidently, is to turn a corner or two and go up hill again."

"Oh, Richard, you are so heedless. You should have thought twice before bringing us down here," cried his sister.

"But think what fun to go up those queer little stepping-stones," and with a long stride Richard was soon so far ahead of them that again the only sensible thing was to follow.

For a moment he was out of sight around a corner, and when they came upon him, he was on the steps of a building that was at a considerably lower level than the cathedral towering above. Then they followed him within, and Ellen fortunately withheld her word of reproof, which might otherwise have seemed an interruption to a service that was going on.

"A christening," she whispered to Irma; "this must be the baptistery."

"See, there are two of them. I believe they are twins." Both girls now drew nearer to the font. There were several persons besides the priest, and two of the women wore cloaks with bright linings, one blue, one pink. The lady of the pink-lined cloak held in her arms a baby with a cloak of the same color, and a baby in a blue cloak was held by the wearer of the blue-lined cloak.

"I wish we could look at them," whispered Ellen, as the children and their train turned away from the font. "I do so love to see twins," and then, to the surprise of both girls, the baby in the blue cloak was carried out of the baptistery, followed by her parents and grandparents, without a farewell to the baby in the pink cloak; while the parents of the other child sat down for a minute or two before taking him away.

"They are not twins. They are not even brother and sister," cried Ellen, in a tone of great dejection.

"As if that made any difference!" exclaimed Richard, overhearing her. "Oh, Ellen, you can be such a goose. But come, after you have admired Donatello's stunning St. John, we must go outside and take a few more steps up to the cathedral."

From the piazza the black and white striped marble, the gabled front and its fine sculptures, reminded Irma of the Orvieto Duomo. But it had not the rich color of the other. On each side of the door were columns surmounted by a marble wolf.

"Oh, you must get used to La Lupa in Siena. You know the story goes that Siena was founded by Senus, son of Remus, hence the Sienese claim the wolf as their especial emblem. You'll see it everywhere. Now follow me and listen attentively, young ladies, and you'll find you can 'do' this vast Duomo in the shortest time on record. No, no."

The last was said to a guide who was following them closely, a half-grown boy, who was not easily shaken off.

"Richard really is a very good guide," whispered Ellen. "He knows so many stories about everything, and when he doesn't remember he can make up something just as interesting."

In consequence of this remark of Ellen's, Irma was not always sure how much was truth and how much imagination, in the legends that Richard rapidly told of saints and church dignitaries, painted on the walls, or done in graffito in the marble pavement. But of one thing she was certain, she had never seen a building so complete in its carvings, whether of wood or marble, its paintings and gildings. She admired the tall flagstaffs captured at Montaperti, though they seemed out of place in a church. She stood long, studying the details of the exquisite marble pulpit by Nicholas Pisano, when Richard exclaimed, "The most beautiful pulpit in Europe. He worked on it for three years, and then received for it—about thirty dollars."

"Is that the truth or a legend?" she asked, smiling.

"The real true truth," he answered. "I saw it in a book of accounts in the Municipal building. They have a great many interesting manuscripts there. The letters of Catherine of Siena, and many other autographs would fetch their weight in gold in our country."

"An autograph wouldn't weigh very much," suggested Irma.

But Richard took no notice of the interruption.

"Well, I made a particular note about Nicholas Pisano. So I am sure I am right. But come, if you wish to do the cathedral in the shortest known time, we must go at once to the library."

"I am not in so tremendous a hurry."

"Ah, that's because you have no idea how much there is in Siena. See, there's the librarian letting one group of victims go. We can easily slip in."

The room they now entered, though small, was beautifully decorated. Above the rich woodwork were ten frescoes on the walls, each a complete scene from the life of some hero.

"He is Enio Sylvio Piccolomini," explained their self-appointed guide, "who became Pope Pius II, and isn't that a funny scene where he is trying to persuade the king of Scotland to harry the border so that Henry VI of England may have so much to do at home that he won't interfere with the affairs on the continent?"

"Oh, but the colors are so rich, and Enio Sylvio, if he looked like that, must have been a very interesting person."

Richard laughed at Irma's seriousness.

"Pinturicchio knew how to please Pope Pius III, the nephew of Enio Sylvio, who engaged him to paint these pictures. But still, on the whole, I imagine that the Piccolomini were rather interesting. For generations they held the chief offices in the church here in Siena, and in the years they were fighting with the Tolmei, they kept things pretty lively. But in Enio Sylvio's time the worst of the Civil Wars were over. But now come," and Richard looked at his watch. "You can have only five minutes for all these illuminated books."

"Oh, more than that," cried Ellen.

"No, my dear, that is enough for a general impression, which is all you would retain if you were to spend an hour here."

The five minutes, however, lengthened into ten before Ellen and Irma were ready to leave the fascinating folios in their leather bindings. They were all books of devotion, some of them music books, with the chants of the church, and all of them illustrated with tiny paintings rich in color.

"It is all very well to hurry us," said Ellen, as they walked toward the door of the Duomo, "but you spent a whole morning here, and this is my first visit, as well as Miss Derrington's."

"You have a good enough general impression," replied Richard, with a laugh; "and what more can any one expect, on a first visit?"

"Evidently," thought Irma, "Richard Sanford looks on sightseeing much as Uncle Jim does."

A little later, at the great door, Irma and her friends almost ran into Uncle Jim, behind whom walked Katie Grimston and Marion.

"Well, you must have taken the longest way round; where in the world have you been, Katie?" asked Ellen.

"Oh, we came through the town, and there were so many nice little shops there that I had to stop, as I always do," replied Katie, whose hands were full of little bundles. "Besides, none of us were in a great hurry for the cathedral. You know I have been all through it," and she glanced coquettishly at Richard. "If you wish us to go on with you now, we can as well as not," she added.

"You must suit yourself, but as Marion and his uncle have not been here, I should think you'd like to give them the advantage of your superior knowledge."

Then Uncle Jim spoke for himself. "I really think Marion and I ought to take a turn around inside, if nothing more. But Miss Grimston——"

"Oh, of course I'd rather do what you do," said Katie, turning her back to Richard, who thereupon went outside. Then after Irma had had a word or two with Uncle Jim, she and Ellen found Richard near a carriage.

"It is too warm to walk, and I am going to take you down to the Campo. It is the most interesting spot here in Siena and I wish to be the first to show it to you."

"Oh, not more interesting than St. Catherine's house," said Ellen.

"More interesting to me, and I believe it will be to Miss Derrington," said Richard.

As they drove along, Irma realized that it was indeed strange that she should be so contented in the company of Ellen and Richard, two persons of whom she had not even heard until this very morning. As if he read her thoughts, Richard said rather abruptly, "I suppose Marion hasn't had a chance to tell you that he and I used to go to school together in New York. That was years ago, when we were first out of the kindergarten. Lately he has studied at home, and I've been off at boarding school, so I have seen him only occasionally in my holidays. You must have seen more of him, Ellen."

"Oh, no," responded his sister. "Until to-day, I had hardly even seen him since he was a small boy. Of course I felt very sorry for him this winter."

"Ah, here we are!" and Richard signalled the driver to pull up, as they reached the end of a narrow street.

"Oh, it is picturesque!" cried Irma, looking at the square before her. The great open space was hardly a square, but a piazza tending toward a semicircle, and slightly lower than the street. On the side farthest from them were several fine buildings, from one of which rose a high, square tower, of which Irma remembered to have seen many pictures. Then she recalled something she had just read. Surely Richard would know.

"Yes," responded Richard. "This is the very tower they are copying for the Provincetown monument. What a genuine Yankee you are to remember. There," continued Richard, "this is the famous Campo. It is in a hollow, where the three hills of Siena meet. How I should like to have seen it five or six hundred years ago, on one of those days when a fisticuff game was going on, or one of the more exciting donkey races. Oh, it makes our sports to-day seem tame, when we read what these old Sienese used to do. You see," he continued, without waiting for the girls to ask questions, "at one of these fisticuff fights one Sunday before Carnival, the fighters on one side grew so excited when driven off the ground that they fell upon their opponents with sticks and stones, and then with lances and darts, and all of Siena crowded to the neighborhood. The soldiers, the greatest men of the city, too, tried in vain to stop them, and some of the soldiers were killed. Then people who lived in the very palaces we're looking at threw stones out of their windows, but the mob only threatened to set fire to the houses."

"Well, how did it end?" asked Ellen impatiently.

"Oh, the fight would probably have continued to this day, if some one, after several soldiers had been killed, had not thought of getting the Bishop of Siena, and all the Friars here to come down to the Campo, and when they began to march in a solemn procession right through the thick of the fight, carrying the cross and other religious emblems, of course the fighting stopped. But naturally their games were not often as exciting as this."

"What were the donkey races like?"

"Oh, quite different. The city was divided into contrade, or districts, and on the days of the races each district appeared with its captain and other officers, with its special banner, and a donkey painted in its colors. The game was to get the donkeys to go twice around the Campo. No one on the field was permitted to have a weapon of any kind, not even a finger ring, but they could fight and push and do all in their power to prevent any donkey's winning, except that of their own district. After the donkey races died out they used to have buffalo races; you know," in a tone of contempt, "the kind of buffaloes they have in Italy, and later horse races, which they still have."

"Here on the Campo? How I should like to see them."

"Then you must come here the second of July or the middle of August. The Palio is the name given to the race, and as the city is still divided into contrade, these horses are mounted by representatives of the different ones. But I have a friend who came here one summer, and he says that in spite of the crowds and the display of rich banners and colors these races are now rather tame affairs."

"Nothing is what it used to be," said Ellen, half mockingly. "My brother," she explained, turning to Irma, "is romantic, and always longing for the past, in spite of which I don't believe he would have cared to live in Italy in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries."

"Well, they did some things better than we can, the men of those days. Just come for a moment to the Palazzo Municipio, and I'll show you some pictures that will make you envy the Sienese."

As the girls followed he marched them rapidly from room to room, decorated with enormous frescoes, in which were shown the victories of the Sienese over their neighbors, especially over their chief rival, Florence. From the great Council Hall they passed to the Hall of the Nine, who at one time were supreme in the Government of Siena. After one or two efforts Irma ceased trying to understand the allegorical figures that had almost as large a place in the pictures as the historical. But the color was so beautiful, and generally the paintings were so pleasing that she restrained the laugh that was often on her lips, when something appeared to her particularly absurd. But Richard, who had been here before, had the meanings of the allegories, as well as the historical incidents, at his tongue's end.

In one room, he told them, a treacherous leader of the Sienese forces had been entrapped and stabbed to death by The Fifteen, who then were the rulers of Siena, and he would have described fully these blood-curdling events, if Ellen had permitted.

Finally, as they drove towards home, Richard pointed out several old palaces in which leading families had lived, and in almost every case he had a tale of Salimbeni or Tolomei or Saraceni in the days when the followers of one great house would kill hundreds of the followers of the other. "When," said Richard, "these narrow streets literally ran blood in those old days of Guelph and Ghibelline."

"Thank you," said Irma faintly, as they reached their hotel, "I feel as if I had swallowed a whole history."

"Well," responded Richard, "I thought it was well for you to accomplish all you could this morning, for I don't see why you shouldn't make quick work with Siena, and go on with us to-morrow or the next day to San Gimignano."

"I don't know, I am sure, what Aunt Caroline's plans are," said Irma, "but I can ask her."

Yet she realized that she could not repeat Richard's strange name. "San—what?"

CHAPTER XIV

"Cranston," exclaimed Katie, "is there any one here from Cranston? That is where my grandmother lives."

"I know it," rejoined Irma, whereupon Katie tossed her head with a little air of exaggerated surprise, as if to say, "And how does it happen that you know anything about my grandmother?"

"But I do not know your grandmother," continued Irma. "She has been away ever since I lived there. It is only Nap,—the little dog——"

She could not bring herself to say "your little dog," even if she had been willing to admit Katie's ownership.

Instantly Katie comprehended. "Oh, you are the girl," she said, "who found my little Pat."

"Rescued him," began Aunt Caroline, who well knew the story.

"Whereby hangs a tale," added Uncle Jim.

"A dog's tail?" queried Richard, with a boy's desire to make a joke, although he didn't yet understand the story of this particular Nap.

"I am sure I am very much obliged to you for taking care of my dog," said Katie, "though my relations would have kept him for me."

"They didn't seem able to," thought Irma.

"Well, he's Irma's dog now," said Uncle Jim decidedly. "You would be quite sure he knows to whom he belongs if you could see him follow Irma about, as I saw him last summer."

"Nap, as you call him, 'Pat' as I say, is still my dog. I have never given him away. Every one knows that," and Katie looked in defiance at Irma.

Richard, who had been politely silent for some time, now turned to Irma, when he saw she was at leisure. "Would you mind telling us about the little dog. All I could understand was that Katie intends to have her own way about something, and when that is the case, it is very hard to make her change her mind."

"I should like to hear about it, too," said Marion. "I know just a little about Nap."

"I'll tell you what," cried the resourceful Richard. "There's a little balcony outside, at the end of the hall, just large enough for four. If we go there, Ellen, Marion, and Miss Derrington, we can have the whole story, without disturbing any one else."

"There's really little enough to tell," began Irma, as they seated themselves outside. "Only, about three years ago, a little less, perhaps, when I first went to Cranston to live, one morning I met a boy with a small dog. He asked me to buy it to save it from being shot. The lady who owned it was going abroad, he said, and had ordered it shot. But he thought it cruel, and was willing to sell it. Well, I took a great fancy to the little creature, he had such lovely brown eyes; and while I was wondering whether I could buy him, Gertrude came along, and between us we bought him. Gertrude is always so generous." For a moment Irma was silent, as her mind went back to that memorable October day, and to the way in which the little dog had helped settle the misunderstanding between her and Gertrude.

"Then we had to name him, and happened to choose Nap, which sounds so much like his original 'Pat' that he must have felt pleased."

"But where does Katie come in?" asked Richard.

"That's the strange part of it. We took Nap with us on an excursion to Concord, and there we ran across Ada Amesbury, who is old Mrs. Grimston's granddaughter. Nap and she recognized each other at once, because, you see, he really belonged to Katie Grimston, whose home, you know, is in Concord."

"Well, if Mrs. Grimston or Katie wished to have the dog shot, just because they were going to Europe, I can't see why they should object to your having him!"

"Oh, naturally that story of the boy's was only made up. He saw a chance to get a little money by selling the dog, and Katie's family thought Pat was lost. Ada Amesbury was to have taken care of him in Katie's absence. When I first heard about it I thought I ought to give Nap up, but Mrs. Amesbury said it was fair for me to keep him until Katie's return."

"I should say so!" interpolated Richard.

"But now Katie has stayed away so long it will be very hard for us to part with Nap, especially for my little sister Tessie,—Theresa, I mean."

"Oh, you and Katie can surely settle the matter now," said Ellen. "She should be glad enough to let you keep him. A dog is a great trouble to any one who travels much."

"I suppose Katie will stay at home for some time after she returns. Perhaps I oughtn't to say Katie behind her back, but I know so many who speak of her in that way. She has quantities of friends in Cranston."

"Ellen," said Richard, "even though Katie is our cousin, don't you know her well enough to be sure that if she has once said she would claim Nap, she is not likely to give in, or give up, or whatever you call it?"

"That's the worst of it," said Ellen; "she isn't easy to influence."

"Oh, well," sighed Irma, "I suppose if she is so fond of Nap, she has a right to him. Of course we have written to Mrs. Grimston and Ada has written to Katie, but she has always said she expected to have the dog on her return."

"You could easily get another pet dog," interposed Marion, who thus far had taken no part in the discussion.

"It couldn't possibly be the same," and Marion knew that Irma was despondent.

"It is cold," cried Ellen. "Let us go back to the sitting-room," and as they passed through the dimly lit hall, Marion saw Irma wipe away a tear. Had she known that he noticed this, and had she thought the matter worth explaining, she might have told him that Nap was not alone responsible for the tear, but that behind it was the feeling of homesickness, her very strong desire to see Tessie and the boys and her parents, and yes, even Mahala and Gertrude, and in fact every one in Cranston.

Marion this evening was more sympathetic than usual, because he had received a letter with better news than any he had had since leaving home. Yet such was his reticence that he could not talk of it, even to Aunt Caroline.

On their return to the sitting-room, when Irma was introduced for the first time to Mrs. Sanford, she partly understood the reason for Richard's extreme energy. Mrs. Sanford was pale and delicate in appearance, and as Richard's father had long been dead, she could see that he not unnaturally had to take great responsibility, and had had to make plans that under other conditions would have been first proposed by his mother.

"It seems a great pity," he was saying to Aunt Caroline, "that you should not go on with us to San Gimignano. It's a fine drive, right through the heart of Tuscany, to the queerest old town. You may never have such a chance again."

"Richard!" exclaimed his mother, smiling, even while her tone held more or less reproof.

"A chance, I mean, to go with us."

"One carriage would hardly hold seven persons."

"No, there would be two carriages, and each would have a pair of these fine Sienese horses. I have never seen stronger or better kept beasts in Europe, and one carriage shall be driven by that rosy-cheeked cocchiere, who has been so devoted to you, mother, and we'll find his twin for the other carriage, and when any two in one carriage grow tired of any other two, why they will change places with the others. And we'll have two huge luncheon baskets for supper on the way, for of course to avoid the heat we must leave late in the afternoon. Oh, it will be great; and it's only twenty-five miles, and if you wished you couldn't go by train, nearer than Poggibonsi."

"You seem to have it so well arranged that the rest of us need not say or do anything," said Uncle Jim, with an attempt at sarcasm that could not cut very deep.

"Well, what do the others say? You, Marion, for example?"

"Oh, it might be worth trying," responded Marion, and when no one really disagreed with Richard, he felt that the matter was settled as he wished.

The next day Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim devoted themselves to the Accademia. With Ellen and Marion, Irma did walk through the Accademia, with its countless pictures, a complete exhibition of the renowned Sienese school, but there were very few paintings before which she cared to linger.

"You won't go shopping with me?" asked Aunt Caroline, as she turned away. "They make fine old furniture here and beautiful carved frames."

"Yes, and genuine old masters,—madonnas, bambinos, and all the saints," said Marion. "Some one has been telling me about them."

"Ah, but I am not looking for an old master," said Aunt Caroline, "and I shall like the furniture all the better if it isn't old."

The rest of this morning the young people strolled along the narrow picturesque streets, occasionally going inside some old building where Richard knew there was something to see, or standing at a corner, he would give them the details of some bloody street combat between Guelphs and Ghibellines. Once he took them up into a high building, from which they viewed the old city wall, and from the same window he pointed toward the field of Montaperto where the Sienese completely routed their great enemies, the Florentines.

"The battlefield is six miles away," he explained. "I am only pointing in its general direction. It's hard to believe that the Sienese killed twelve thousand Florentines and made six thousand prisoners, though that was when Siena had a hundred thousand inhabitants, instead of twenty-five thousand, as now."

Richard took them to the Litza, the pretty park that is thronged with Sienese, old and young, every afternoon, and he explained the nearness of the farms that Irma had noticed between the Litza and the back of their hotel.

Finally in the afternoon she went with Richard and Marion to visit the house of the famous Saint Catherine, in the street of the dyers, for Catherine's father, Bernincasa, had been a dyer, and in this small house Catherine was born in 1347.

Every room of the small house on this steep street had been turned into a chapel or oratory. Life-size paintings of St. Catherine were on the wall. The pavement she had trodden was covered with wooden slats. The rooms where, as a little girl, she had helped her mother in her humble household tasks were now richly decorated with paintings. There was a certain solemnity in all the rooms, in the smaller oratories, as in the larger lower church. The pictures on the walls spoke of the saint's good deeds, and Richard told stories he had read of her kindness to the poor, of her comfort to prisoners, in one case staying by young Niccolo di Toldo, holding his head even while the executioners were severing it. One of her missions was to the pope at Avignon, another to Rome, where she went with a band of her disciples, and her influence made itself felt wherever she was.

"She must have been a wonderful woman. Her memory is as fresh in Siena as if she had lived but last year, and the reverence for her began even before her death, more than six hundred years ago."

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, and all the young people spent the evening pleasantly together. Although Irma was aware of a slight unfriendliness on Katie's part, the two girls talked and laughed about Cranston people, some of whom Katie knew better than Irma, as she had made many visits at her grandmother's in Cranston.

When the day dawned when Mrs. Sanford and her party were to drive to San Gimignano, it was clear that Richard had carried his point. Aunt Caroline at breakfast announced that she had decided to shorten her stay at Siena. "Our trunks have already gone on to Florence, and there is nothing to prevent our driving to San Gimignano with the Sanfords." The plan pleased Irma, who was really anxious to see the strange town that Richard had described. Uncle Jim professed to be resigned to anything that suited Aunt Caroline; and Marion, although he said nothing, was evidently interested in what promised to be a novel experience.

Accordingly, toward four o'clock, two large comfortable carriages drove up to the door of the pension, each drawn by a pair of sturdy horses, with a young, red-cheeked, amiable driver. All the employes of the house, down to the cook and a little scullion, lined up beside the door, with hands extended for the centimes and francs that Uncle Jim and Richard doled out, some of the boarders waved a good-by from the little balcony—and then they were off.

At first Marion and Aunt Caroline were in the carriage with Mrs. Sanford and Katie.