It seemed to Irma, when the whole party met at dinner that evening, that Katie was displeased with somebody or something. Had Richard been teasing her? For teasing was a cousinly privilege which he often exercised. Was she annoyed that she had not been asked to join Marion's particular group of three? For the present there seemed to be no answer.

The next day, after a warm journey of several hours, the whole party stood on the steps of the railway station at Venice, waiting to see their luggage put aboard the gondola. "How strange it seems to wait for a boat instead of a cab to take one from the station to a hotel," and Irma watched the water of the canal break with a slight wavelike motion against the steps.

"Yes," responded Richard, who happened to be standing next her, "and here we part for the present. I wish our rooms were in the same hotel, but since that cannot be, Ellen and I, at least, will try to give you all we can of our society."

"Please do," said Irma. "Ellen says you will be only a few doors away. Good-by, good-by," she concluded, as Richard helped his mother and Ellen and Katie into a gondola, where they sat rather stiffly with their bags piled up behind them in the stern.

"Is it what you expected?" asked Aunt Caroline, as they glided in their own gondola over the Grand Canal.

"Yes," sighed Irma; "it's more than I expected. I know that I shall be perfectly happy in Venice."

But although Venice did not disappoint Irma, many things in this Queen of the Adriatic were different from her expectations. She soon discovered that it was possible to walk almost as far in Venice as in any other large city, provided you did not object to threading your way sometimes through narrow passages and over curving bridges.

"Has any one ever counted the bridges in Venice?" she asked one day. "There must be hundreds of them," she said on the second day of her stay there, when she and Marion had had a long walk that had ended in the great Piazza in front of San Marco.

"Some one has counted them, of course, but I can only guess that there are several hundred. But here we are at the heart of Venice. Isn't it great?"

"Yes, this is just what I expected; it is almost too beautiful to be real," and Irma stood in front of the great church with its gilded domes, its mosaic pictures, and the four bronze horses from Constantinople, over the main entrance, forming, as a whole, a picture of which the eye could never weary.

"Let us not go inside to-day," said Marion.

"Oh, I would rather get a general impression of the piazza. That beautiful building, white and yellow, must be the Doge's Palace. Ah, yes, and there is the Lion of St. Mark's on his column. But who is that odd-looking saint on the other column, standing on a crocodile?"

"St. Theodore, I believe. It's a wonder that he can continue to look so pleasant, since he was quite cut out by St. Mark."

"I don't understand."

"Oh, St. Theodore was the patron saint of Venice. He was a Byzantine saint, by the way, until some Venetian sea captains at Alexandria, where St. Mark was buried, took offence at the way the relics of the saint were treated by the sultan. They got the priests in charge to view the matter as they did, and so the body was secretly delivered to their care. On the voyage to Venice the saint saved the vessel from shipwreck, and after their arrival St. Mark threw all others into the shade. Nevertheless, St. Theodore smiles on, as if he had nothing to forgive."

"It is an interesting story; and is it perfectly true?" queried Irma.

"As true as any Richard would tell you," replied Marion.

"Oh, the pigeons, the pigeons!" cried Irma, turning about and walking toward a spot where scores of pigeons were gathering around a girl who was scattering handfuls of peas from a little basket. As Irma approached, the girl looked up, and then——

"Why, Irma Derrington!" she cried, and she let her basket fall to the ground as she rushed toward Irma.

"It really is Muriel," said Irma, as she hastened toward her friend.

"Why haven't you written in all these weeks?" cried Muriel reproachfully, after the first exchange of greetings.

"How could I without your address?"

"Didn't I give you our banker's?"

"Indeed you did not; but you might have written to me."

"Indeed I hadn't the slightest idea how to reach you. But no matter, I hope you will be in Venice a week at least."

"Yes, indeed; and here is Marion Horton. You remember him."

At this moment Mademoiselle Potin came forward from the shade of one of the arcades in front of the shops, where she had been watching Muriel, and while Marion talked with her politely for a few minutes, Muriel, speaking in an undertone, said, "How much brighter Marion Horton looks. And is it possible that he goes about with you? He was generally so glum and unsocial on the ship. He looks stronger now, too."

"Oh, Aunt Caroline says he has gained in every way, and lately we have been travelling with a Mrs. Sanford and her son and daughter and——"

"Richard and Ellen? Oh, I know them quite well."

"Then you know how lively Richard is, and I think their being with us has made Marion come out of his shell."

"When he's pleasant I should think he might be very good company. But Mademoiselle Potin has been telling me about him, and I should think he has had good reason to feel a little melancholy."

"There," thought Irma, "I won't let another day pass without finding out from Aunt Caroline what it is that every one else knows about Marion, that makes him seem an object of sympathy."

Meanwhile Marion had approached the girls.

"Of course you both have some story to account for the pigeons, and each story is probably different."

"I have no story, except that they are regarded as almost sacred, and it would be a great sin for any one to kill them."

"To be caught killing them," interposed Marion, "but I have an idea that many a pigeon pie in Venice is indebted to these same pigeons of St. Mark's. But if you have nothing better, I will tell my story. It is simply that some carrier pigeons brought good news to Enrico Dandolo, the Crusader, when he was besieging Candia, and since that time these pigeons and their descendants have been under the special protection of the city."

"It is certainly great fun to feed them," said Muriel, "and if you come here often, you'll see all kinds of people doing it,—old and young, rich and poor. Why, I have seen a man sit for an hour by that pillar, feeding them."

"As your basket quite emptied itself when you let it fall, let us go over to one of those little tables outside the restaurant and have some tea. We may, may we not, Mademoiselle Potin? And you will join us?"

During the pleasant half hour spent over the tea and cakes, pigeon after pigeon approached them, looking, evidently, for stray crumbs. One was even so bold as to hop up on the table, and would not be driven away until Muriel had fed it.

"It is all delightful," said Irma, "only I must write to Tessie about these pigeons, and I have so much to do. I am growing selfish. The air of Venice makes me wish to do nothing but enjoy myself."

Later, when they went to the spot where the gondolas were waiting, they found that Muriel's hotel was in a different direction from theirs.

"Please come to see me to-morrow," she cried, as she glided away. "You know I cannot always do what I wish to."

"That means that perhaps her mother may not let her come to call on you," commented Marion.

"Nonsense," cried Irma.

Katie was on the balcony of the hotel, as they made their landing. She seemed surprised to see them. "I thought you were going to walk back," she said.

As she spoke, she put her hand to her collar. This attracted the attention of both Irma and Marion, and Irma saw that Katie wore around her tie the circlet with the dragon's head, and she could not help noticing a strange expression on Marion's face as he too observed it.

That very evening, when she and Aunt Caroline were alone, Irma remembered the question she had so often meant to ask about Marion.

"When we first left home," responded her aunt, "I could not have answered you. What I said might have prejudiced you against Marion. But things have changed, and even he could not object to my telling you now.

"It is not a complicated story. Marion's father died when he was a little boy. He has no sisters, and his only brother is a few years older than he. Herbert, I am afraid, has always been his mother's favorite, because he is much livelier than Marion, and fonder of people. But though most persons would call Herbert the more amiable, he has a terrible temper, and all who have seen him under its influence know how unreasonable he can be. One day, last winter, both boys were out in Herbert's motor. While going very fast it seriously injured a child. There were no witnesses to the accident, and the motor did not stop. But a mile farther on, when they had begun to slow down, Marion signalled a mounted policeman, told him there had been an accident, and obliged Herbert to turn back. By this time the child's parents had come out, and a crowd had collected. The boys were arrested, but soon had bail. At the trial Marion refused to utter a word against his brother, for I will say this for Herbert, he did admit that he was acting chauffeur. At last Marion had to admit that Herbert was going much faster than the law permits. Herbert's lawyer tried to show that the child's carelessness caused the accident. But further testimony of Marion's changed this. As Herbert was of age, the judge decided to make an example of him, and he was sentenced to jail for a short period, and in addition had a fine to pay. The child by this time was almost well, and many persons thought the punishment excessive."

"I should think it was his brother who should be pitied, and not Marion."

"Ah, many persons thought that Marion by a word might have put Herbert in a better light. His mother took the view that it was Marion, and not Herbert, who had disgraced the family. Some newspapers wrote articles criticising him, and one published his photograph, labelled "An unbrotherly brother." Now Marion himself had had a nervous breakdown during the winter after an attack of measles. When he had given his testimony at the trial he fainted and had to be carried from the room. The strain had been too much. Your Uncle Jim and I at once invited him to go abroad with us (for his father was an intimate friend and classmate of your uncle's) when we heard that his mother would not even speak to him. The strange thing was that while other relatives were so bitter toward Marion, Herbert did not blame him. Yet in all these weeks Marion had no letter from Herbert until we reached Siena. Even now I think his mother has not written him."

"He has been very badly treated," said Irma. "I cannot see that Marion did anything wrong."

"I will say this. Marion himself is partly to blame for being so cut off from his relatives. He, too, has a temper. When he found that several blamed him, he wrote a disrespectful letter to an uncle of his father's, who is really very fond of him, saying that he hoped never to speak to one of the family again, or something to that effect. Mr. Skerritt is joint guardian of Marion with your uncle—and——"

Here Aunt Caroline paused. Then she added, "When Marion is twenty-five he will have a large income. Even now he has more money to spend than would be wise for most boys. But fortunately he is not a spendthrift."

"Thank you," said Irma, when her aunt had finished. "I understand Marion better than I did. If he should speak to me about this, I suppose I can say that I sympathize with him."

"Certainly, and I hope that he will be more inclined to talk now, since Herbert has forgiven him."

"I don't see what he had to forgive."

"I am only speaking from the family's point of view."

The next morning, as Irma sat in her favorite corner of the little balcony overhanging the Grand Canal, Marion approached her. On a small round table that a waiter had moved out for her, she had set a pasteboard box containing most of her souvenirs for the family at home. There was nothing very valuable, though these pretty trifles had taken all the money Irma had brought from home; cameo pins from Naples, one or two mosaics from Rome, some strings of Roman pearls, an amber necklace from Florence, a leather cover stamped in gilt for books, and a couple of strings of Venetian beads, so dainty and fine that in her inmost heart she rather begrudged giving them away.

"What is this?" asked Marion, holding up an envelope.

"That? Oh, that has the asphodel you gathered at Paestum, and in that small box is the fossil shell you gave me the day you rescued my camera from that foolish little girl."

"How long ago that seems," responded Marion. "We have seen so many places since then that Paestum is ancient history, and yet it is little more than a month away."

"I haven't forgotten," said Irma. "I thought you were very brave."

"Brave!" Marion colored. "I should think you'd call me a regular duffer when you remember what a fool I made of myself getting on board the Ariadne at St. Michael's. I can tell you I felt awfully ashamed to think that a girl had saved me from a tumble into the water. I haven't forgotten what I owe you, though I haven't been able to get even yet."

"Oh, yes, you have. You saw that I wasn't any too brave the night I thought we were going to sink."

"Ah, that was natural. For you know we had barely escaped collision with a man of war. But what's this?"

While talking, Irma had opened a small package, and Marion, fumbling with things on the table, had come across the piece of green marble from Hadrian's villa.

For a moment Irma hesitated, then she plunged into the story of the way she had missed the train that memorable afternoon.

"Aha!" exclaimed Marion, "and you were the girl who disapproved of my buying that tile from the Sistine Chapel." Then he started as if to go into the house. "Excuse me," he said. "I'll be back in a minute."

When Marion returned he had the octagonal tile in his hand. "Fair exchange is always a good thing," he said, "and if you will take this, I would like to have the Hadrian marble. It will be a good reminder to me of something I can't explain just now."

"Yes, you may exchange," said Irma, hesitatingly. For in her inmost heart she preferred her own marble. Yet, this was almost the first favor Marion had ever asked of her.

"Thank you," said Marion. "I was altogether too ugly about that tile, but to tell you the truth I have had so much nagging this year, before I left home, that I've been too ready to defend myself."

"I know," responded Irma.

Marion looked up suddenly, as if he wondered how much she knew. But Irma said nothing.

Not far from the hotel some gondolas were tied to the poles that marked their station. Marion leaned forward and signalled, and the nearest gondolier glided up.

"Put these trinkets away. I will leave the box in the office," said Marion, "and we can go out for an hour."

Irma accepted the invitation gladly enough, and the two were on the point of starting when Richard and Ellen appeared. Marion invited them also, and soon the four young people were gliding past S. Maria della Salute up toward the railway station.

"There," said Richard, as they passed one beautiful palace after another. "If this were not Marion's party, I could tell you all kinds of wonderful stories as we go along. But as it is, I must content myself with saying, 'This is the Palace where Robert Browning spent so much time, and where he finally died. There, on that corner, lives Don Carlos. He and the parrot are not visible to-day, but you can almost look into the kitchen windows and see the most wonderful collection of copper kettles. When Lord Byron lived in that gray-fronted edifice, he was in the habit of taking a daily swim in the waters of the Grand Canal. I would like to tell you about the Dandolos and Foscari, and all the others, including the Falieri. Some of them were beheaded; some had their eyes put out, and——"

"Don't, Richard," cried Ellen. "The Venetians were almost as bloodthirsty as the Florentines and Romans, and I wonder at their cruel deeds when I look about at all the beauty here."

"Oh, there are also highly romantic stories, if I only had time to tell them, not bloodthirsty, but full of sentiment," continued Richard, in the tone that always meant he was only half in earnest. "The Merchant of Venice, for instance, and here we are at the Rialto, which of course makes you think of Shylock, though it was the section back there, and not the bridge, that Shakespeare had in mind."

"I walked through the Merceria the other day," said Ellen. "You know it's the street that runs from this bridge to the clock tower opposite St. Mark's."

"Did you find many bargains?" asked Marion suddenly.

"A few, though we were not out to shop. But it was great fun to see the real Venetians hurrying along almost like Americans."

At this moment one of the little steamboats that constantly ply up and down the Grand Canal seemed to be bearing down upon them. Irma gave a little scream, but already the gondolier had pushed his craft away so adroitly that they barely felt the swash.

Once or twice they pulled up at some landing to have a better view of an old building or Campo, and always an aged man arose from some corner, boathook in hand, to help them ashore, waiting until their return to receive the small fee that custom has decreed.

At last, as they glided homeward, and came in sight of their hotel, Irma discerned Katie standing on the balcony.

"Irma," said Marion, in an undertone, for evidently he, too, had seen Katie, "has Katie said anything to you about Nap lately?"

"No, not for some time."

"Well, I hoped she would say you could keep Nap."

"Aha, Marion," cried Richard, "I believe I understand why you have spent so much time with Katie lately, escorting her around to places I wouldn't have taken the trouble to go. I see why you did it."

"Why?" asked Ellen; "why should he need a special reason?"

"Perhaps he didn't need it. But I believe he has set out to make Katie give up Nap to Irma, but," and he turned toward Marion with a flourish of his hat, "I'll bet you almost anything that you don't succeed. Katie is my cousin, and I know."

As they landed at the steps of the hotel, Katie greeted them pleasantly.

"The rest of us have had a splendid afternoon. We've been shopping."

"Of course," interposed Richard.

"Oh, this time we went to such interesting palaces, full of wonderful old furniture and pictures, collectors' places; and your aunt, Irma, has bought any amount of lovely things. And then, over across the way, we saw them making mosaics, and I have bought some beautiful long slender iridescent glass vases."

"You can buy the same in New York," murmured Richard, "and we'll have all the trouble of carrying these vases home. Probably they'll be put in a basket for me to carry."

Then in a sudden spirit of mischief: "Katie," cried Richard, "did Marion give you that arrangement for your scarf? I don't know whether to call it a pin or a ring."

"Nobody gave it to me," she replied, in a tone of annoyance.

"Then where did you get it?" It was Marion who spoke sharply.

Katie made no answer.

"Did you advertise it?" asked Marion.

Even to Katie this question seemed as puzzling as to the others.

"I don't know what you mean," she replied. "I bought it at Rome."

"Oh," said Marion, and it was quite evident that he did not believe her.

"Well," said Katie, "if you must know, I bought it at the Rag Fair, and very cheap it was. Every one tells me that I have a great bargain, for the carving on the stone is very fine, and I wouldn't part with it for anything."

Marion made no comment after Katie's speech, and instantly Irma understood the whole thing. This was the "something else" that Marion had lost with the two hundred liri in his purse. It had probably been stolen by some one at the fair. Certainly it was easy now to account for Katie's bargain.

CHAPTER XVIII

"It was hot," interposed Uncle Jim. "And I had so much business that I could have given no time to showing Irma around. She could have seen the Cathedral, of course, which, after all, is one of the most beautiful in the world, and different from the others you have seen in Italy; and she could have visited one or two delightful galleries. But I doubt that your head will retain an impression of half those you've already visited. If you will accept my impression of Milan, you will know just what it is, a busy, bustling city, full of energetic people who are making their way upward. If the rest of Italy could catch the spirit of Milan, the whole country would soon be prosperous. In fact the spirit of independence is so strong that car conductors, policemen, and shopkeepers, as well as cabmen, are insolent, and inclined to look down on the forestieri. Sometime, when you return to Italy in cooler weather, you can visit Milan; but be thankful you didn't go there with me last week."

"We shall have a warm journey back to Naples, and if your business were not so pressing, I should be inclined to go to Switzerland. While she is over here, Irma ought to see——"

"Oh, no, no," interrupted Irma, without waiting for Aunt Caroline to finish the sentence. "Really I do not need to see more. I ought, that is, I must go home."

"Why, my dear child," cried Aunt Caroline, "I had no idea you were getting homesick. I thought you were enjoying everything."

"Yes, I am enjoying everything," replied Irma, "and that is why I feel as if I can hardly wait to see them all at home. I just long to tell them about everything, and I don't want Tessie to grow up before I see her again. And if Katie gets to Cranston before I do, she will take Nap away, and perhaps I may never see him again. Oh, I am glad we are going home." Irma's voice now broke completely, and she made no attempt to hide her tears.

"There, my dear, it is the warm weather. The climate of Venice is too relaxing——"

"We'd get home sooner, Irma, if we should give up our Mediterranean passage and take a boat from Havre or Cherbourg. Perhaps you would like to start to-morrow with Mrs. Sanford's party. You wouldn't lose sight of Katie then," said Uncle Jim mischievously.

"Nonsense," rejoined Aunt Caroline. "A few days more or less will be nothing to Irma, when once her face is turned toward the United States."

"I feel better now," cried Irma. "Those were only makebelieve tears, but I do feel better to be going home. I am glad that we are not to be away three months more, and, if you please, I would rather not go to the Bridge of Sighs to-day."

"You can look at it without any qualms," said Uncle Jim, "for our matter of fact historians say that since that bridge was built more than two hundred years ago, only one prisoner has been sent across to the pozzi, under sentence of death."

"Pozzi?" asked Irma.

"Yes, pozzi, or wells, is a good name for those dungeons across from the palace. The water used to rise two feet in them, and the poor wretch had to spend his time on a kind of trestle. I went through the pozzi the other day, but I shouldn't care to have you or your aunt there; they are too depressing for tender-hearted people."

"Why not take a last look at the Doge's Palace to-day; that would be more cheerful," suggested Aunt Caroline.

"Certainly," and in a short time their gondola was at the steps near St. Mark's, the usual old man rose from his slumbers and steadied the gondola with his hook, and the three, after getting their tickets, wandered through the immense halls of the Doge's Palace.

"When I was here the other day," said Irma, "the carvings and gildings and the enormous paintings dazzled me. Yes, I feel it is the same now, and I believe, after all, I care more for the general impression. I cannot remember each separate painting."

"Why should you try to?" asked Uncle Jim. "These gray-bearded doges in their caps and ermine-trimmed cloaks are much alike, whether Titian or Veronese, or some other one of the great masters painted them."

"Doesn't it seem as if those old doges were pretty conceited," said Irma, "to have themselves painted in sacred pictures with the Madonna and Christ?"

"But you will notice that they are generally in an attitude of humility, and perhaps in that way they meant to attribute their greatness to something besides themselves."

"A Doge could not do whatever he wished. Weren't they something like our presidents, simply elected to be the executive officer of the state?" asked Aunt Caroline.

"Yes, it was the Great Council, and not the Doge, that held the supreme power, at least until the time of the Council of Ten. But the Doge, although at first chosen for only a year, was often re-elected term after term, and with his councillors he often had great power."

"Yet the Venetians didn't like him to have too great power?"

"Oh, no. You noticed the black tablet in the great hall in place of the portrait of Marino Faliero, beheaded for his ambition."

"Yes, I have read about him, but I feel almost sorrier for Ludovico Manin, the last Doge. You know the French made him abdicate in 1797, and they burnt his Doge's bonnet, and the Libro d'oro—the Golden Book of Venetian nobility under the Liberty-tree, and they say this nearly broke his heart, although he lived a number of years longer. When he died he left all his fortune to some charity."

"The history of Italy is full of tragedies," responded Uncle Jim. "So don't waste your sorrow on any one man, even though he is the last of the doges."

A little later the three were in front of St. Mark's.

"I must look my last at the Piazza," said Irma.

"But I thought you were coming down this evening to hear the band play."

"Oh, yes, but there will be such a crowd that we shall only sit at the little tables."

"Yes, and sip lemonade."

"Of course. It is Muriel's party. It is singular that we have seen her so little. But the music and the lemonade and all we shall have to say to each other—for she goes away to-morrow—will prevent my thinking much of the Piazza. Just now," and Irma half closed her eyes, "I am imagining the day when the Venetians gathered here to decide whether or not they should help the Crusaders. What a grand sight it must have been; and now, I open my eyes and see nothing but pigeons."

"Aunt Caroline," said Irma, as they glided homeward, "I like Venice better than any other place. There seem to be more really old buildings here than anywhere else. I have not tried to remember the great pictures as I did in Rome and Florence. I have a general impression of Bellini and the Vivarini, Titian and Veronese and Tintoretto, they are the great Venetian painters, but I cannot describe any one picture."

"We hardly expect a girl of your age to care for artistic details," responded Aunt Caroline, smiling. "You could probably tell more about the palaces."

"I am not sure that I could describe a single one of them, so that any one would recognize it. It is the effect of Venice as a whole that pleases me, even if it isn't just what artists paint it. The palaces are really much grayer than they look in pictures, and there are never many sails on the canal, and even down toward the Lido there is seldom one of those bright painted sails."

"Is there any other thing that falls below your expectations?"

"Oh, some things are different, but I like them all the better. I used to think that only gondolas and small pleasure boats went on the Grand Canal. But there are so many other things—these little steamboats that pass constantly up and down, and take people so quickly and cheaply, and those large barche that are like express wagons. Why, the other morning I sat at my window before breakfast, and first a large gondola passed, loaded with vegetables; and then a larger one piled high with bricks for building; and then it really looked so funny—some family was moving, and there was a boat full of furniture, with the mother and children sitting at one end, while the father and eldest son were pushing it on with their long sticks. Then the gondolas, too! I thought they were only pleasure boats; but the other day, when I saw a funeral procession going across to the island where the cemetery is, I realized they took the place of horses and carriages for everything."

"I believe there isn't a horse in all Venice," said Uncle Jim, "and only two or three at the Lido. But here we are," and a moment later they had landed at the hotel.

That evening, in spite of the charm of the music on the Piazza, and the evident gaiety of the crowd of listeners, the young people of the Sanford and Curtin parties were less gay than usual. Muriel, the next morning, was to start for the Dolomites, and later in the day Mrs. Sanford and her party were to begin their journey to Paris, allowing a few days for Switzerland on the way.

"Irma," whispered Richard, in one of the pauses of the music, "I must tell you that I think Marion and Katie have struck a bargain about Nap. It seems Marion was able to prove that that ring we have seen Katie wear around her scarf really belongs to him. He showed her his initials inside. They were very small, but could be seen under a glass. He lost a purse one day when he visited the Rag Fair in Rome."

"Yes, I was with him," said Irma.

"Well, the same day Katie and a friend whom we met at our hotel in Rome also went to the fair. The ring was offered for sale at one of the booths, and Katie took a great fancy to it. She ought to have known it was stolen; for she got it for almost nothing."

"Then she can afford to give it back to Marion; for of course she ought to do so."

"That's just the point. Katie hates to give it up; I heard her talking to Marion about it. She said she'd like to buy it, but he wouldn't listen to that. Then he began to talk about your little dog, and I am pretty sure it ended in Katie's promising to give up all claim to the dog if Marion would let her keep the ring. Rather it was just the other way. Marion made the offer and Katie agreed, but it amounts to the same thing, and as soon as Katie is out of the way Marion will tell you."

It happened, however, that after all the good-byes had been said to Muriel and her mother and Mademoiselle Potin, the other young people and their elders walked home to their hotel. It chanced that Katie was near Irma part of the way, and thus had a chance to announce her decision about Nap.

"After all," she said, "a dog is a great trouble, and Nap is so much better acquainted with your family that I think I will let him stay with them."

"Oh, thank you," replied Irma, wishing she felt free to tell Katie what she had heard about Marion's offer. "Thank you," she repeated. "It would break my little sister's heart to give him up, and I should feel very badly myself."

At this moment they reached a bridge where they went single file. When they were on the level road again, Irma found herself beside Aunt Caroline, and she had no chance to discuss Nap either with Katie or Marion.

"Our last evening together!" exclaimed Richard, as they reached the hotel. "There's a faint moon, and if so young a thing as that can sit up late, why not we?" and before Aunt Caroline and Mrs. Sanford had time to protest, four young people were seated around the little table on the balcony overlooking the Canal, and Richard had sent the waiter for what he called "a last lemonade."

Marion had not joined the others. He stood with his hand on the railing. The water was lapping the steps just below him.

"Don't fall in," cried Richard, from his seat at the table. "You look as if you were meditating a bath. But it's late, and in spite of the moon the water is cold."

As Richard spoke the girls turned their heads in Marion's direction, and there, under their very eyes, Marion was hurling his coat from him. With his hand on the railing a moment later he had sprung into the Grand Canal.

The others jumped to their feet; Katie screamed, and in an instant Richard might have plunged after Marion, had he not seen a reason for Marion's act. Some one had fallen into the water, and Marion had made his wild leap to rescue him. It all happened very quickly, and when, a few minutes later, rescuer and rescued stood on the balcony some distance from where Marion had gone in, the latter was seen to be a boy of about ten. He was evidently more frightened than hurt, and he whimpered a little as the crowd gathered around him.

"I don't see how it could have happened," cried Katie. "No one ever falls from a gondola," and her tone implied that this particular boy could not possibly have been in need of rescuing.

"But he did fall in; you can see that for yourself; a small boy can always get into impossible mischief."

There was certainly no doubt that this particular small boy had managed to elude both his mother and the gondolier. Sitting on the prow, he had been screened for the moment by the cabin. Then a sudden impulse had led him to creep to the very end, where he raised himself to shake his hand in defiance at the gondolier. At this moment a passing steamboat gave a new motion to the gondola and threw the little fellow into the water.

"Oh, but really it was nothing," cried Marion. "The water was not deep, and the gondolier would have been in almost as soon as I—and——"

"Nonsense, nonsense, boy; when you do a brave thing take the credit that is your due."

Irma started at the voice. She was one of the crowd that had drawn nearer to Marion.

"I saw the whole thing," continued the voice. "You acted without a shadow of fear, but this chill may be bad for you."

"Come, Marion, I will go with you to your room," and Richard led the unresisting Marion away, only too glad to escape the eyes of the curious who had come from the numerous reading and reception rooms on the first floor, at the rumor of an accident.

"Billy," said the mother of the boy, who had caused all the excitement, "this is the last time I'll let you sit up after eight o'clock, no matter how you tease."

"Madame," interposed the voice that a few moments earlier had praised Marion, "I would advise you to take your little boy at once to his room. His escapade might have cost him his life, and might have had serious results for my nephew, who is only recovering from the effects of a shock to his nerves. Put your little boy to bed at once, Madame."

Then the mother and the little boy and a number of sympathizing friends walked off, while the fairy godfather, for of course it was he whose voice Irma had recognized, took Irma's hand in his.

"Well, my child, we haven't met since I brought you back from Hadrian's villa. I found I couldn't safely keep so near Marion without really explaining myself. But the time hadn't come. He wrote me a pretty savage letter before he left New York. He thought I was one of those who had accused him of cowardice. This was a mistake on his part. But in the mood he was in three months ago, it would have been useless to try to change his mind. I had occasion to come to Italy myself, and there seemed to be no reason why I should not come on the ship with him. I knew that in the company of your aunt and uncle and yourself," and the old gentleman smiled at Irma, "he would have influences that ought to lift him out of his depression."

"Did Uncle Jim and Aunt Caroline know?" asked Irma.

"Yes, they knew after a while that I was hovering near. But I did not mean to dog Marion's steps, especially after I had seen at Rome that he was beginning to be himself again. At first Marion was unaware that I had come to Europe, but when a letter of apology was forwarded from him to me, I thought the time had come to tell him. So I had written him that I would see him soon.

"He is really a fine, manly fellow, and it hurt him very much that he should have been so unjustly blamed. But I know that you, as well as your uncle and aunt, have been very patient with him, and now, well, now I must have a little talk with him before he falls asleep. I am to sail with you from Naples. Good night."

Irma thought it quite the natural thing for the fairy godfather to disappear in this sudden fashion. When she had answered the questions that Richard showered upon her, she ran up to Aunt Caroline's room.

"So you have always known about the fairy godfather."

"I had never known him by that name until you gave it to him," said Aunt Caroline, smiling. "But as Mr. Skerritt, I have always felt that he was one of Marion's best friends. I spoke of him to you the other day when I told you Marion's story. Perhaps he mentioned that he is going back on the ship with us. Do you realize that in three days you will be sailing away from Italy?"

"It is hard to realize it."

"But you are glad to go home?" queried Aunt Caroline.

"I am a little more homesick than when I left home," responded Irma, "but I have enjoyed every minute in Italy."

The evening before leaving Venice Irma made a long entry in her diary: "No one knows how glad I am to be going home. Four months is a long time to be away from one's own country, and especially from one's family. Of course I have enjoyed everything, and I have learned even more than I expected, and I am so grateful for the trip. But there's no place I would rather see now than Cranston.

"To-night I had such a surprise. Aunt Caroline came to my room, carrying a large pasteboard box. Then she opened it and showed me a lovely amber necklace, just like one I had admired in Florence. 'This is a present for you from Marion,' she said, 'and these other little things he hopes you will give to Tessie and the boys and Mahala. You will know how to divide them.'

"I won't attempt to describe them, only I know Tessie will be delighted with the little flock of bronze pigeons, because I have written her about the pigeons of St. Mark's. There was even a silver-mounted leather collar for Nap. 'You may wonder at Marion's thoughtfulness,' explained Aunt Caroline, 'but he says you have taught him to think of others besides himself, and he appreciates your patience with him when he was so unamiable.'

"It is true that Marion did seem rather disagreeable at first, and perhaps I didn't try to like him because I was so disappointed that he was not a girl. But now—well, I only hope Chris and Rudolph will know as much as he does when they are his age. So I told Aunt Caroline that the whole trouble had been that I didn't try to understand him at first. Then she smiled, and added, 'Marion is sure that he has learned a great deal from you, especially how to govern his temper. But he says particularly, that no one is to thank him for these things. It is as if you had bought them yourself, for everything in the box is something he heard you admire, when you and he were out together. I believe there's something from every city we have been in. He says the money part doesn't count at all for everything there represents your taste.'

"But I think I shall find some way of thanking him, if not now, sometime when our trip is over, and really, if it hadn't been for Marion, I am sure that I should not have had half as much fun."

A Story for Younger Girls