"Does God like it?" said Dolly.

"What queer questions you ask! This is not a matter of religion; it is only living."

Dolly remembered words which came very inconveniently across Christina's principles; yet she was afraid of saying too much. She reflected that her friend was breathing the soft air of luxury, which is not strengthening, and enveloped in a kind of mist of conventionality, through which she could not see. With herself it was different. She had been thrown out of all that; forced to do battle with necessity and difficulty, and so driven to lay hold of the one hand of strength and deliverance that she could reach. What wonder if she held it fast and held it dear? while Christina seemed hardly to have ever felt the need of anything.

"Now, Dolly, tell me all about yourself," Christina broke in upon her meditations.

"There isn't much to tell."

"What have you been doing?"

"Painting miniatures—one of the last things."

"Oh, delightful! Copies?"

"Copies from life. May I take you? and then perhaps, if I succeed, you will get me work."

"Work!" repeated Christina.

Dolly nodded. "Yes; I want work."

"Work!" cried Christina again. "Dolly, you don't mean that you need it? Don't say that!"

"I do. That's nothing so dreadful, if only I can get it. I paint miniatures for—I have had ten and I have had twenty pounds," said Dolly with a laugh; "but twenty is magnificent. I do not ask twenty."

Christina exclaimed with real sorrow and interest, and was eager to know the cause of such a state of things. Dolly could but give her the bare facts, not the philosophy of them.

"You poor, dear, lovely little Dolly!" cried Christina. "A thought strikes me. Why don't you marry this handsome, rich young Englishman?"

Again Dolly's face dimpled all over.

"The thought don't strike me," she said.

"But he's very rich, isn't he?"

"Yes. That is nothing to me. I wouldn't give my father and mother for him."

"But for your father and mother's sake?"—There was a knock at the door here. "What is it? dinner? Come, Dolly; we'll reason afterwards."

The dinner was excellent. More than the excellence, however, went to Dolly's enjoyment. The rare luxury of eating without having to think what it cost, and without careful management to make sure that enough was left for the next day's breakfast and lunch. It was great luxury! and how Dolly felt it, no one there could in the least guess. With that, however, as the evening went on and the unwonted soft atmosphere of ease was taking effect upon her, Dolly again and again drew the contrast between herself and her friend. How sheltered and guarded, and fenced in and fenced off, Christina was! how securely and safely blooming in the sacred enclosure of fatherly and motherly care! and Dolly—alas, alas! her defences were all down, and she herself, delicate and tender, forced into the defender's place, to shield those who should have shielded her. It pressed on her by degrees, as the sweet unaccustomed feeling of ease and rest made itself more and more sensible, and by contrast she realised more and more the absence of it in her own life. It pressed very bitterly.

The girls had just withdrawn again after dinner to the firelight cosiness of Christina's room, when Mrs. Thayer put her head in.

"Christina, here's Baron Kraemer and Signor Count Villa Bella, come to know if you will go to the Sistine Chapel."

"Mother!—how you put titles together! Oh, I remember; there is music at the Sistine to-night. But Sandie might come."

"And might not," said Mrs. Thayer. "You will have time enough to see Sandie; and this is Christmas Eve, you know. You may not be in Rome next Christmas."

"Would you like to go, Dolly?" said Christina doubtfully.

Dolly's heart jumped at the invitation; music and the Sistine Chapel! But it did not suit her to make an inconvenient odd one in a partie carree, among strangers. She declined.

"I said I would go," said Mrs. Thayer. "Since the gentlemen have come to take you, I think you had better. Dolly will not mind losing you for an hour or two."

Which Dolly eagerly confirmed; wondering much at the same time to see Christina hesitate, when her lover, as she said, might come at any minute.

She, too, finally resolved against it, however; and when Mrs. Thayer and the gentlemen had gone, and Mr. Thayer had withdrawn, as his custom was, to his own apartment, the two girls took possession of the forsaken drawing-room. It was a pretty room, very well furnished, and like every other part of the present home of the Thayers, running over with new possessions in the shape of bits of art or antiquity, pictures, and trinkets of every kind, which they were always picking up. These were an infinite amusement to Dolly; and Christina was good-humouredly pleased with her pleasure.

"There's no fun in being in Rome," she remarked, "if you cannot buy all you see. I would run away if my purse gave out."

"But there is all that you cannot take away," said Dolly. "Think of what your mother has gone to this evening."

"The Sistine Chapel," said Christina. "I don't really care for it. Those stupid old prophets and sybils say nothing to me; though of course one must make a fuss about them; and the picture of the Last Judgment, I think, is absolutely frightful."

But here Dolly's eyes arrested her friend.

"Well, I tell you the truth; I do think so," she said. "I may tell the truth to you. I do not care one pin for Michael Angelo."

"Mayn't you tell the truth to anybody?"

"Not unless I want to be stared at; and I do not want to be stared at, in that way. I am glad I did not go with mamma and those people; if Sandie had come, I do not think he would have altogether liked it. Though I don't know but it is good to make men jealous. Mamma says it is."

"Oh no!" said Dolly. "Not anybody you care for."

"What do you know?" said Christina archly. Before she could receive an answer, then, she had started and sprung up; for the door gently opened and on the threshold presented himself a gentleman in naval uniform.

"Sandie!" cried Christina.

"Didn't you expect me?" he said with a frank and bright smile.

Dolly had heard enough about this personage to make her very curious; and her eyes took keen note of him. She saw a tall, upright figure, with that free poise of bearing which is a compound of strength and ease; effortless, quiet, graceful, and dignified. Though in part the result of a certain symmetry of joints and practised activity in the use of them, this sort of bearing refers itself also, and yet more surely, to the character, and makes upon the beholder the impression again of strength and ease in the mental action. It is not common; it struck Dolly in the first five steps he made into the room and in the manner of his greeting his betrothed. Out of delicate consideration, I suppose, for the company in which they found themselves, he offered only a look and a hand-clasp; but Christina jumped up and kissed him. She was not short, yet she had to make a little spring to reach his lips. And then, quietly putting an arm round her, he gave her her kiss back. Christina was rosy when she turned to present him, and both were smiling. Letting her go, he bowed low before Christina's friend; low and gravely; with such absolute gravity that Dolly almost felt herself in the way; as if he wished her not there. Then they sat down around the fire; and the same feeling came over her again with a rush. They were three; they ought to have been but two; she was one too many; they must wish her away. And yet, Christina had asked her precisely and specially that she might be one of the company that night. Dolly would have wished herself away, nevertheless; only that she was so very much interested, and could not. The newcomer excited her curiosity greatly, and provoked her observation; and, if the truth must be told, exercised also a powerful attraction upon her. He sat before the fire, full in her view, and struck Dolly as different from all the people she had ever seen in her life. She took glances from time to time, as she could, at the fine, frank, manly face, which had an unusual combination of the two qualities, frankness and manliness; was much more than usually serious, for a man of his age; and yet, she saw now and then, could break to tenderness or pleasure or amusement, with a sweetness that was winning. Dolly was fascinated, and could not wish herself away; why should she, if Christina did not?

In all her life she never forgot the images of two of the people around the fire that evening. "Sandie" in the middle, in front of the blaze; Christina on the other hand of him. She was in a glistening robe of dark blue silk, her fair hair knotted and wound gracefully about her head; a beautiful creature; looking at her lover with complacent looks of possession and smiles of welcome. Dolly never knew what sort of a figure the third was; she could not see herself, and she never thought about it. Yet she was a foil to the other two, and they were a foil to her, as she sat there at the corner of the hearth on a low cushion, in her black dress, and with no ornament about her other than the cameo ring. A creature very different from the beauty at the other corner of the fireplace; more delicate, more sensitive, more spiritual; oddly and inexplicably, more of a child and more of a woman. That's a rare mixture. There was something exceedingly sweet and simple in her soft brown eyes and her lips; but the eyes had looked at life, the brow was grave, and the lips could close into lines of steady will. The delicate vessel was the shrine of a soul, as large as it could hold, and so had taken on the transparent nobility which belongs to the body when the soul is allowed to be dominant. One point of the contrast between the two girls was in the character and arrangement of their hair. Christina's was smooth, massed, and in a sort massive; Dolly's clustered or was knotted about her head, without the least disorder, but with a wilfulness of elegant play most harmonious with all the rest of her appearance. To characterise the two in a word, Christina was a beautiful pearl, and Dolly was a translucent opal.

They sat down round the fire.

"Well, Sandie, you naughty boy," Christina began, "what has kept you away all this time?"

"Duty."

"Duty! I told you so, Dolly; this man has only two or three words in his vocabulary, which he trots out on all occasions to do general service. One of them is 'duty;' another is 'must.'"

"'Must' is the true child of 'duty,'" the gentleman remarked.

"Oh no, I don't allow that; it is a marriage connection, which may be dissolved by a dispensation."

"Is that your idea of the marriage connection?" said he with a smile.

"But, Sandie! don't you want something to eat?"

"No, thank you."

"Because you can have it in a moment."

"I have dined, Christina."

"Where have you been all this while—weeks and weeks?"

"Have you not received any letters from me?"

"Yes, indeed! but words are so different spoken and written. We have been half over Europe. I wish you could have been along! Sandie, we went to Baden-Baden."

"What for?"

"What for! Why, to see it. And we saw the gaming."

"How did you like it?"

"It is fascinating. I never saw such a scene in my life; the people's faces; and then the mad eagerness with which they went at it; old men and young men, and women. Oh, it was astonishing to see the women!"

"What was the effect upon you?"

"I don't know; astonishment."

"How did Mrs. Thayer like it?"

"Do you know, I think she half wanted to try her hand? I was so amazed at mother! I told her she must not."

"You observe, Miss Copley, Miss Thayer knows the use of one of my words."

It was a strange, novel, absorbing experience to Dolly. Sitting at one corner of the hearth, quiet, and a little as it were a one side, she watched the play and the people. She was so delightfully set free for the moment from all her home cares and life anxieties. It was like getting out of the current and rush of the waves into a nook of a bay, where her tossed little skiff could lie still for a bit, and the dangers and difficulties of navigation did not demand her attention. She rested luxuriously and amused herself with seeing and hearing what went on. And to tell the whole truth, Dolly was more than amused; she was interested; and watched and listened keenly. Christina was a lovely figure in her bright dress and bright beauty, a little excited, and happy, not too much; not too much to make Dolly's presence desirable and agreeable; just enough to make her more lovely than usual. The other figure of the little party was more interesting yet to Dolly. She thought he was very peculiar, and unlike any one she had ever seen. His repose of demeanour was striking; he seemed to make no unnecessary movement; he sat still; neither hand nor head nor foot betrayed any restlessness either of mind or body; and yet when he did move, were it only hand or foot or head, the impression he gave Dolly was of readiness for the keenest action, if the time for action once came. How the two seemingly contradictory impressions were conveyed together, Dolly did not stop to think; she had no time to moralise upon her observations; however, this mingling of calm and vigour was very imposing to her; it attracted and fascinated. No man could sit more quiet in company; and yet, if he turned his head or shifted the position of his hand, what Dolly saw was power and readiness to move with effect if there were anything to be done; and the calm intensified the power to her mind. And then, apart from all this, the room in which they were sitting was filled with pretty things and charming things which the Thayers had been collecting since they came to Rome. Dolly's eye strayed from one to another, as she sat listening to her companions; though the pretty things never diverted her attention from what these were saying or what they were doing. It was a charmed hour altogether! of rest and relief and enjoyment. Taken out of herself and away from her cares, Dolly tasted and delighted in the fairy minutes as they flew, and did not even trouble herself to think how soon they would be flown by and gone.

"You have been a great while away, Sandie," Christina was saying. "Why could you not join us before? You might have skipped something. Here have I stayed away from the Sistine to-night, for your sake."

"Is it any special loss, this evening of all others?"

"Certainly! It is Christmas; there is music, and company."

"Do you enjoy the Sistine Chapel, apart from music and company?"

"No, indeed I don't! I don't like it at all. Such horrid things on the walls, as are enough to give one the nightmare after being there. I know it is Michael Angelo, and I am horribly out of order in saying so; but what is the use of pretending in this company?"

"What is the use of pretending in any company?"

"Oh, nonsense, Sandie! a great deal. Everybody pretends, at some time or other. What would become of us if we spoke out all we had in our minds?"

"You do not like the Sistine Chapel. What do you enjoy most in Rome?"

"Most? The Pincian, Sunday afternoon."

"Sunday! Why Sunday?"

"Music, and all the world there. It's the most beautiful scene, in the first place, and the most amusing, that you can find. There is everybody there, Sandie; people from all the quarters of the earth; of all nationalities and costumes; the oddest and the prettiest; everybody you know and everybody you don't know."

"But why on Sunday?"

"Oh, that's the special day; that and Thursday, I believe; but I generally have something else to do Thursday; and anyhow there isn't as good a show. I rarely go Thursday."

"And Sunday you have nothing else to do. I see."

"Well, Sandie, of course we have been to church in the morning, you know. There is nothing to go to in the afternoon. What should one do?"

"Miss Copley, do you enjoy the Pincian on Sunday evenings?"

"I have not tried it," said Dolly.

"Your mother and father were there, though, last Sunday," said Christina. "Sandie, what are you thinking of? You have some superstitious objection? I daresay you have!"

"Not I," said Mr. Shubrick. "But it occurs to me that there is a command somewhere, touching the question."

"What command? In the Bible! Sandie, do you think those Sunday commands are to be taken just as they stand—to mean just so? and shut one stupidly up in the house for all day Sunday except when one is going in procession to church?"

"You know," said Mr. Shubrick, "I am like the centurion in the Bible, 'a man under authority,' having other men under me; 'and I say to this man, Go, and he goeth; and to another, Come and he cometh.' I know nothing about orders that are not to be obeyed."

"And is that the way you would rule your house?" said Christina, half pouting.

"I should leave that to you," he answered smiling. "It is enough for me to rule my ship. The house would be your care."

"Would it? Does that mean that you expect always to be a sailor?"

"It is my profession. A man must do something."

"If he must. But not if he has no need to do anything?"

The young officer looked at her with a considerative sort of gravity, and inquired if she could respect a lazy man.

"No, and you never would be lazy, or could be lazy," she said, laughing. "But surely there are things enough to be done on shore."

"Things enough. The question for every one is where he can do most."

"Why, Sandie," Christina cried, "it is not possible that you should have your time to yourself on shipboard, and as an acting officer, as you could at home on shore. Reading and study, that, you like, I know; and then painting, and all art pleasures, that you think so much about, much more than I do; and a thousand other things;—you have no chance for them at sea."

"You talk as if one had nothing to do but to please himself."

"Well," said Christina, "so far as one can, why not? Does not all the world?"

"Yes. All the world. You are right. All the world, except a little body of men who follow Christ; and He, pleased not Himself. I thought you knew I was one of His servants, Christina."

"Does that forbid your pleasing yourself?"

"Not in one way," said Mr. Shubrick, smiling again, a smile that made Dolly's heart throb with its meaning. "It is my pleasure to do my Master's will. The work He has given me to do, I would rather do of all things."

"I can't think what work you mean, Sandie. I really do not understand."

"Do you understand, Miss Copley?"

Dolly started. "I believe so," she said.

"Will you have the goodness to explain to Christina?"

"Why don't you explain yourself, Sandie?" said his betrothed.

"I am talking too much. Besides, it will come better from Miss Copley's lips."

"I don't think so; but however.—Well, Dolly, if you are to explain, please explain. But how come you to understand, when I don't understand? What work does he mean?"

"I suppose," said Dolly, "Mr. Shubrick means work for other people."

"Work for other people!" cried Christina. "Do you think we do not do work for other people? Mamma gives away loads; she does a great deal for the poor. She is always doing it."

"And you?"

"Oh, I help now and then. But she does not want my help much."

"Did you think, Miss Copley, I meant work for poor people?"

"No," said Dolly. "At least—that is—I thought you meant the work that is for Christ."

"Well, I am sure He commanded us to take care of the poor," said Christina.

"He commanded us also to carry the gospel to every creature."

"That's for ministers, and missionaries," said Christina.

"The order was given to all the disciples, and He commanded us to be lights in the world."

"Of course—to set good examples."

"That is not quite the whole," said Mr. Shubrick; "though people do take it so, I believe."

"I have always taken it so," said Dolly. "What more can it be?"

"Remember the words—'Whatsoever doth make manifest is light.' There is the key. There are good examples—so called—which disturb nobody. There are others,"—he spoke very gravely,—"before which sin knows itself, and conscience shrinks away; before which no lie can stand. Those are the Lord's light-bearers."

"Sandie, what has got you into this vein of moralising? Is this talk for Christmas Eve, when we ought to be merry? Don't you lead a dreadful dull life on board ship?"

"No," said he. "Never. Neither there nor anywhere else."

"Are you always picking at the wick of that light of yours, to make it shine more?"

"By no means. No lamp would stand such treatment. No; the only thing for us to do in that connection is to see that the supply of oil is kept up."

"Sandie, life would be fearful on your terms!"

"I do not find it so."

And, "Oh no, Christina!" came from Dolly's lips at the same time. Christina looked from one to the other.

"I had better gone to the Sistine," she said. "I suppose you would tell me there to look at Michael Angelo's picture of the Last Judgment. But I assure you I never do. I make a point not to see it."

"What do you enjoy most in this old city, Miss Copley?" Mr. Shubrick said now, turning to her.

"I hardly can tell," said Dolly; "I enjoy it all so very much. I think, of all—perhaps the Colosseum."

"That old ruin!" said Christina.

"But it is such a beautiful ruin! Have you seen it by moonlight? And I always think of the time when it was finished, and full, and of the things that were done there; and I fancy the times when the moonlight shone in just so after the days when Christians had been given to the lions. I never get tired of the Colosseum."

"You, too!" exclaimed Christina. "What pleasant and enlivening contemplations!"

"Yes," said Dolly. "Grand. I see the moonlight shining on the broken walls of the Colosseum, and I think of the martyrs in their white robes. There is no place brings me nearer to heaven, and the world looks so small."

"Dolly Copley!" cried Christina. "Do you want the world to look small, as long as you are obliged to live in it?"

"It looks big enough," said Dolly, smiling, "as soon as I get home."

The conversation, however, after this did take a turn, and ran upon more everyday topics; less interesting to Dolly however. But the speakers were interesting always; and she watched them, the play of sense and nonsense, of feeling and fun, not caring much that the matter of the talk did not concern her; until Mrs. Thayer and her escort were heard returning.

And then, indeed, the evening changed its character; however the fascination remained for Dolly. The talk was no longer on personal subjects; it went gaily and jovially over all sorts of light matters; an excellent supper was served; and in the novelty and the brightness and the liveliness of all about her, Dolly was in a kind of bewitchment. It was a lull, a pause in the midst of her cares, a still nook to which an eddy had brought her, out of the current; Dolly took the full benefit. She would not think of trouble. Sometimes a swift feeling of contrast swept in upon her, the contrast of her friend's safe and sheltered life. No care for her; no anxiety about ways and means; no need to work for money; and no need to fear for anybody dear to her. Christina's father was her guardian, not she his; he might be a very humdrum man, and no doubt was, but his daughter had no cause to be ashamed for him; had not the burden of his life and character on her own shoulders to take care of. A swift, keen feeling of this contrast would come over Dolly; but she put it away as instantly, and would not see or hear anything but what was pleasant.



CHAPTER XXVI.

NAPLES.

Dolly shared her friend's room. Talk ran on, all the while they were undressing, upon all manner of trifles. When they were laid down, however, and Dolly was just rejoicing to be quiet and think, Christina began to speak in a different tone.

"Dolly, how do you like him?"

I think, if Dolly had liked him less, she would have been fuller in his praise. I do not know by what sort of hidden instinct and unconscious diplomacy she answered very coolly and with no enthusiasm.

"I like him very well. I think he is true."

"True! Of course he is true. If he wouldn't be so stupid. To expect one to be unlike all the world."

Dolly was silent.

"He's crochetty, that's what he is," Christina went on. "I hate a man to be crochetty. I shall work him out of it, if ever we come to live together."

"I don't believe you will, Christina."

"Why not?"—quickly.

"I don't think you will," Dolly repeated.

"Because you have the same notions that he has. My dear little Dolly! you don't know the world. You can't live in the world and be running your head perpetually against it; indeed you cannot. You may break your head, but you won't do anything else. And the world will laugh at you."

"But, Christina, whom do you serve? For it comes to that."

"Whom do I serve! Pooh, that's not the question."

"It comes to that, Christina."

"Well, of course there is but one answer. But Sandie would have me give up everything;—everything!—all I like, and all I want to do."

"Christina, it seems to me the Bible says we must give Christ our whole selves."

"Oh, if you are going to take the Bible literally"——

"How else can you take it?"

"Seasonably."

"But how are you going to settle what is reasonable? Didn't the Lord know what He wanted His people to do? And He said we must give Him ourselves and all we have got."

"Have you?" said Christina.

"What?"

"Given up all, as you say?"

"I think I have," Dolly answered slowly. "I am sure, Christina, I do not want anything but what God chooses to give me."

"And are you ready to give up all your own pleasure and amusement, and your time, and be like no one else, and have no friends in the world?" Christina spoke the words in a kind of hurry.

"You go too fast," said Dolly. "You ask too many things at once; and you forget what Mr. Shubrick said—that it is pleasure to please our Master. He said it was His meat to do His Father's will; and He is our pattern. And doing His will does not prevent either pleasure or amusement, of the right sort; not at all. O Christina! I do not think anybody is rightly happy, except those who love Christ and obey him."

"Are you happy?" was the next quick question. Dolly could not answer it as immediately.

"If I am not," she said at last, "it is because there are some things in my life just now that—trouble me."

"Dear Dolly!" said Christina affectionately. "But you looked quite happy this evening."

"I was," said Dolly. "You made me so."

Christina kissed her, and thereupon at once fell asleep. But Dolly was not sleepy. Her thoughts were wide awake, and roved over everything in the world, it seemed to her; at least over all her friend's affairs and over all her own. She was not fretting, only looking at things. Christina's ease and security and carelessness, her own burdens and responsibilities; the fulness of means here, the difficulty of getting supplies in her own household; Sandie Shubrick, finally, and Lawrence St. Leger! What a strange difference between one lot and another! It was a bright night; the moonlight streamed in at one of the windows in a yellow flood. Dolly lay staring at the pool of light on the floor. Roman moonlight! And so the same moonlight had poured down in old times upon the city of the Caesars; lighted up their palaces and triumphal arches; yes, and the pile of the Colosseum and the bones of the martyrs. The same moonlight! Old Rome lay buried; the oppressor and the oppressed were passed away; the persecutor and his victims alike long gone from the scene of their doings and sufferings; and the same moon shining on! What shadows we are in comparison! thought Dolly; and then her thoughts instantly corrected themselves. Not we, but this, is the shadow; this material, so unchanging earth. Sense misleads us. "The world passeth away and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever." Then it is only to do that, thought Dolly; be it hard or easy; that is the only thing to care about. And therewith another word came to her; it seemed to be written in the moonlight:—"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" It came so soft and sweet upon Dolly's heart as I can hardly tell; her eyelids dropped from their watch, and in another minute she too was fast asleep.

The next day was wholly pleasant to her. It was merry, as Christmas ought to be; and Dolly had laid aside her own cares and took everything as light-heartedly as anybody else. More, perhaps, if the truth were known; for Dolly had laid her cares she knew where, and that they would be looked after. The pleasant people, whose festivities she shared, were all kind to her; she had not been forgotten in the gifts which were flying about; and altogether the day was a white one. It only ended too soon. At four o'clock Dolly prepared to go home. Christina protested that she was not wanted there.

"I am wanted more than you think. I must give mother a piece of my Christmas Day."

"Well, you're all coming to us at Sorrento, remember; and that will be charming. We will go everywhere together. And Sandie;—you will be with us, Sandie? in the spring, at the villa? Oh, you must!"

"If I possibly can," he said gravely.

"And Sandie will take you home now, as you must go. I see he is ready."

Dolly would have objected, but she could not alter this arrangement; and Mr. Shubrick walked home with her. It was a very matter-of-fact walk, however. There was as nearly as possible no conversation between the two. Nevertheless, the walk had its fascination for Dolly. The stately, straight, manly figure beside her, inspired her with an admiration which had a little awe mixed with it; to walk with him, even in silence, was an undoubted pleasure; and when he took leave of her at the door of her lodgings and turned away, Dolly felt, and not till then, that her holiday was over.

She went up the stairs slowly. Her short holiday was over. Now work again. Well! Dolly remembered the conclusion of last night's thoughts in the moonlight; took up her burden on her shoulders, and carried it up stairs with her.

She found her mother alone.

"Dearest mother, how do you do?" she said, kissing her; "and how has the day been? I have stayed away pretty late, but I could hardly help it; and I have had a very nice time."

"I don't like holidays," was Mrs. Copley's answer. "They're the wearisomest days I know; especially when every one else is out and enjoying himself. This Christmas has been a year long, seems to me. Who did you see?"

"Just themselves, and Christina's friend, Mr. Shubrick."

"What's he like?"

"He's very fine, mother, I think. Christina ought to be a happy woman."

"He hasn't got anything, as I understand?" said Mrs. Copley. "I don't think Mrs. Thayer is at all delighted with the match. I know I shouldn't be."

"Mrs. Thayer does not see things with my eyes, probably; and you don't see them at all, mother, dear, not knowing Mr. Shubrick. Look at my presents; see this lovely cameo ring; Christina gave it to me Christmas Eve; and this brooch is from Mrs. Thayer; and Mr. Thayer gave me this dear little bronze lamp."

"What do you want with such a thing as that? you can't use it."

"Oh, for the antique beauty, mother; and the lovely shape. It's real bronze, and Mr. Thayer says the workmanship is very fine."

"But he has nothing, has he?" said Mrs. Copley, weighing the bronze lamp in her hand disapprovingly.

"Who? He has another just like it. Do you mean Mr. Thayer?"

"Pshaw, child, no! I mean the other man, Christina's intended. He has nothing, has he?"

"I do not know what you call 'nothing.' He has a very fine figure, an excellent face, sense and firmness and gentleness; and a manner that's fascinating. I never saw anybody with a finer manner. I think he has a good deal."

"Mr. St. Leger has all that, Dolly, and money to boot."

"Mother! There is all the difference in the world between the two men."

"St. Leger has the money, though; and that makes more difference than anything else I know of. Dolly, I wish you would make up your mind. I think that would bring your father all right."

"Where is father, mother?"

"Gone out."

"But I thought he would stay with you while I was away. Couldn't you keep him at home, mother? just this one day?"

"I never try to influence your father's motions, Dolly. I never did. And it would be no use. Men do not bear that sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?"

"Interference. They never do. No man of any spunk does. They are all alike in that."

"Do you mean that no man will give up any of his pleasure for a woman that he loves, and that loves him?"

"While men are just in love, Dolly, and before they are married, they will make fools of themselves; and for a little while after. Then things fall into their regular train; and their regular train is as I tell you. Let a man alone, if you want to keep the peace and have a comfortable time, Dolly. I never interfere with your father. I never did."

Would it have been better if she had? Dolly queried. She must interfere with him now, and it was hard. Dolly thought the wife might have done it easier than the daughter. She did not believe her father was looking up antiquities; she had not faith in his love of art; he could be on no good errand, she greatly feared. Christmas Day! and he would go out and leave his nervous, invalid wife to count her fingers in solitude; not even waiting till Dolly should be at home again. Are all men like that? Mr. Shubrick, for instance? But what was to be done? If Mr. Copley had found places and means of dissipation in Rome, then Rome was a safe abode for him no longer. Where would be a safe abode? Dolly's heart was bitter in its sorrow for a moment; then she gathered herself up.

"Mother, do you like Rome?"

"Why should I like it? I think we came away from Venice a great deal too soon. You would come, Dolly. There is nothing here, for me, but old tumbledown places; and the meals are not near so good as we had there in Venice. No, I'm sick and tired of Rome. I'm glad you've had a good Christmas Day; it's been forlorn to me."

"I won't go again from you, mother. Will you like to make a visit to the Thayers at their villa?"

"I don't know. Is Mr. St. Leger invited?"

"Particularly."

"And the other man?"

"What other man?" said Dolly, laughing.

"You know,—Christina's man."

"He is asked. I do not know about his coming. He would if he could, he said. Why? do you want to see him?"

"No."

It was well on in the evening before Mr. Copley made his appearance. And then he was taciturn and not in an agreeable temper. The worse for wine he was not, in one sense; he was in no measure overcome by it; but Dolly knew that he had been taking it somewhere. O fathers! she thought, if you are not to "provoke your children to anger," neither ought you to drive them to despair; and you ought never, never, to let them blush for you! That I should be ashamed for my father!

She said nothing that night but what was in the way of sweetest ministry to both father and mother. She talked of all that she had seen and done during her visit. She got out a supper of fruit, and would have them eat it. Not very easy work, for her father was glum and her mother unresponsive; but she did what could be done. Next day she proposed going on to Sorrento.

"It does not agree very well with mother here; at least I do not think she is gaining; and she does not enjoy it."

"You enjoy it, don't you?"

"Oh yes; as far as that goes. But I care more for mother and you."

"And I care for you, Dolly. No, no; we are old people; it doesn't signify a rush whether we like it or no. You are young, and you are here for once, in Rome, and I am not going away till you've seen it fairly. Don't you say so, mother, hey? Now she has got a good chance, she must use it."

"I'm afraid it's expensive," put in Mrs. Copley.

"Nonsense; no more than anywhere else. It'll be just about the same thing at Sorrento, or wherever you go. See all you can, Dolly. We'll stay."

"I should think you would send Rupert home, at least," said his wife rather disconsolately; but true to her principles she put in no objection to her husband's pleasure. "We might save so much."

"We shouldn't save anything. Rupert makes himself very useful; if we had not him, we should want some rogue of a courier. I'll keep Rupert. How he enjoys it, the dog!"

Rupert was invaluable to Dolly, though she said nothing about it. Always ready to attend upon her, always devoted to her wishes, her intelligent companion, and her most faithful and efficient servant in making purchases of drawing materials or in disposing of her finished work. Dolly attempted to overrule the decision made ostensibly in her favour, that their stay in Rome should be prolonged; but had no success. Everybody, except only her mother, was against her. And though she feared sadly that her father's motive was twofold and regarded his own pleasure more than hers, she could not change the present status of things.

They remained at Rome all winter. It was a winter of mingled delight and distress to Dolly; strangely mingled. The immediate money cares were lifted off; that was one thing. The family lived cheaply, and gave themselves few indulgences, but the bills were paid, somehow; and it was a perpetual indulgence only to be in Rome. How Dolly took the good of it, I have not room to describe. She was busy, too; she even worked hard. Before the Thayers went away, she had taken all their portraits; and with so much acceptance that they introduced her to other friends; and Dolly's custom grew to be considerable. It paid well, for her pictures were really exquisite. Her great natural gift had been trained judiciously, so far as it was trained at all, in America; and now necessity spurred her, and practice helped her, and habitually conscientious work lost no time, and maturing sense and feeling added constant new charm to her performances, discernment to her eye, and skill to her hand. Dolly was accumulating a little stock of money against a time of need; and the secret knowledge of this was a perpetual comfort.

And when she gave herself play-time, how she played! Then, with her father if she could get him, or with Rupert if, as most often was the case, Mr. Copley was out of the way or indisposed for sight-seeing, Dolly went about the old city, drinking in pleasure; revelling in historical associations, which were always a hobby of hers; feasting with untiring enjoyment on the wonders of architecture old and new; or in churches and galleries losing herself in rapt ecstasy before this or that marvel of the painter's art. It was a wonderful winter to Dolly. Many a young lady has passed the same season in the same place, but it is only one here and there who finds the hundredth part of the mental food and delectation that Dolly found. Day by day she was growing, and knew it; in delicacy of appreciation, in tenderness of feeling, in power of soul to grasp, in largeness of heart to love, in courage to do and suffer. For all Dolly's studying and enjoying she did in the light of Bible truth and the enriching of heavenly influences; and so, in pictures of the old masters and creations of the grand architects of old and new time, she found truth and teaching and testimony utterly missed by those who have not the right key. It is the same with nature and with all the great arts; for Truth is one; and if you are quite ignorant of her in her highest and grandest revelations, you cannot by possibility understand the more subordinate and initiative. Some dim sense of the hidden mystery, some vague appreciation of the outward beauty of the language without getting at its expressed meaning, or but very partially, just so far as you have the key; that is all there is for you.

In all Dolly's horizon there was but one cloud. Lawrence was one of the company, it is true, almost one of the family; treated with greatest consideration and familiarity by both father and mother. But Dolly was not a weak young woman. She knew her own mind, and she had given Lawrence to know it; she was in no confusion about him, and her conscience was clear. Lawrence was also enjoying Rome, after his own fashion; if he was staying for her, Dolly did not know it, and it was not her fault.

So her one only shadow upon the brightness at Rome came from her father. Not that he went into any great excesses; or if he did, they were hidden from Dolly; but he indulged himself, she knew, in one at least of his mischievous pleasures. She had no reason to suppose that he gambled; as I said, there was always money to discharge the weekly bills; but he found wine somewhere and drank it; that was certain; and when did ever evil habits stand still? If he kept within bounds now, who should warrant her that he would continue to do so? Mr. Copley came home sometimes cheerful and disposed to be merry; he had taken only enough to exhilarate him; at other times he came home gloomy and cross, and then Dolly knew he had drunk enough to confuse his head and slightly disturb his conscience. What could she do? She clenched her little hands sometimes when she was walking the streets, and sometimes she wrung them in impotent grief. She strove to win her father to share in her pleasures; with little success. She was lovely to him as a daughter could be, always; and at the same time she let him see by her grave face and subdued manner when he came home with the breath of wine upon his lips, that she was troubled and grieved. What more could she do? So her winter was a complication of great enjoyment with anxiety and mortification.

About the end of March they left the delightful old city and set off southwards. To Sorrento, was Dolly's fond hope. But when they got to Naples, she found that all the men of the party were against proceeding further, at least before the pleasures and novelties of that place had also bean tasted.

"There's a famous museum here, Dolly," said her father. "You could not pass that?"

"And Pompeii—don't you want to see Pompeii?" cried Rupert.

"It will be pleasanter at Sorrento later in the season," said Lawrence; "much pleasanter. Wait till it grows warm here; then Sorrento will be delightful. We are taking everything just at the right time."

"And it is as beautiful here as you can find anything," added Mr. Copley. "You want to look at the bay of Naples, now you have the chance."

Yes, said Dolly to herself, and they say the wines are good at Naples too! But she gave up the question. They established themselves in a hotel.

"For how long, I wonder?" said Mrs. Copley to Dolly when they were alone. "It seems as if I wasn't going to get to Sorrento. I don't know what I expect there, either, I am sure; only we set out to go to Sorrento for my health; and here we are in Naples after five months of wandering and lounging about! and here we are going to stay, it seems."

"The wandering and lounging about was very good for you, mother, dear. You are a great deal improved in your looks."

"I wish I was in my feelings."

"You are, aren't you?"

"What does your father want to do in Naples?"

"I don't know. They all want to stay here a while, you see. And, mother, don't you enjoy this wonderful view?" For their windows commanded the bay.

"I'd rather see Boston harbour, by half."

"Oh, so would I!—on some accounts. But, mother, it is a great thing to see Naples."

"So your father thinks. Men never do know what they want; only it is always something they haven't got."

"We're in Naples, though, mother."

"We shan't be long."

"Well, we don't want to be here long, mother."

"I'd like to be still somewheres. Your father'd as lieve be anywhere else as at home; but I like to see my own fire burn. I don't know as I ever shall again. Unless you'll marry Mr. St. Leger, Dolly. That would bring all right, at one stroke." From which suggestion Dolly always escaped as fast as possible.

It turned out that they were to stay a good while at Naples. Perhaps Mr. Copley feared the seclusion of a private house at Sorrento. However that were, he seemed to find motives to detain him where he was, and Lawrence St. Leger was nothing loth. The days went by, till Dolly herself grew impatient. They went very much after the former manner, as far as the gentlemen were concerned; Lawrence found society, and Mr. Copley too, naturally, took pleasure in meeting a good many people to whom he was known. What other pleasure he took in their company Dolly could but guess; with him things went on very much as they had done in Rome.

With her, not. Dolly knew nobody, kept close by her mother, who eschewed all society, and so of course had no likenesses to paint. She worked busily at the other sort of painting which had engaged her in Venice; made lovely little pictures of Naples; rather of bits of Naples; characteristic bits; which were done with so much truth and grace that Rupert without difficulty disposed of them to the fancy dealers. The time of photographs was not yet; and Dolly made money steadily. She enjoyed this work greatly. Her other pleasures were found in walks about the city, and in visits to the museum. There was not in Naples the wealth of art objects which had been so inexhaustible in Rome; nevertheless, the museum furnished an interest all its own; and Dolly went there day after day. Indeed, the interest grew; and objects which at her first going she passed carelessly by, at the fourth or fifth she began to study with intent interest. The small bronzes found at Pompeii were pored over by her and Rupert till they almost knew the several pieces by heart, and had constructed over them a whole system of the ways of private life in those old days when they were made and used. Dolly often managed to persuade her father to be her escort when she went to the museum; and Mr. Copley would go patiently, for Dolly's sake, seeing the extreme delight it afforded her; but Mr. Copley was not always to be had, and then Dolly chose certain parts of the collection which she and Rupert could study together. So they gave a great deal of time to the collection of coins; not at first, but by degrees drawn on. So with the famous collection of antique bronzes. Rupert looked on these in the beginning with a depreciating eye.

"What's the fun here? I don't get at it," he remarked.

"O Rupert! the beauty of the things."

"They are what I call right homely. What a colour they have got. Is it damp, or what?"

"Don't you know? these dark ones come from Herculaneum, and were locked up in lava; the others, the greenish ones, are from Pompeii, where the covering was lighter and they were exposed to damp, as you say."

"Well, I suppose they are curious, being so ancient."

"Rupert, they are most beautiful."

But Rupert as well as Dolly found a mine of interest in the Greek and gladiatorial armour and weapons.

"It makes my head turn!" said Rupert.

"What?"

"Why, it is eighteen hundred years ago. To think that men lived and fought with those helmets and weapons and shields, so long back! and now here are the shields and helmets, but where are the men?"

Dolly said nothing.

"Do you think they are anywhere?"

"Certainly!" said Dolly, turning upon him. "As certainly as they wore that armour once."

"Where, then?"

"I can't tell you that. The Bible and the ancients call it Hades—the place of departed spirits."

"But here are their shields,—and folks come and look at them."

"Yes."

"It gives one a sort of queer feeling."

"Yes," said Dolly. "One of those helmets may have belonged to a conqueror, and another may have been unclasped from a dead gladiator's head. And it don't matter much to either of them now."

"It seems as if nothing in the world mattered much," said Rupert.

"It don't!" said Dolly quickly. "'The world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.'"

"You think such a one is better off than the rest?" said Rupert. "How? You say the rest are living somewhere."

"Existing."

"What's the difference?"

"Just all the difference between light and darkness;—or between life and death. You would not call it living, if all joy and hope were gone out of existence; you would wish that existence could end."

"How do you know all about it so well, Miss Dolly?" the young man asked a little incredulously.

"Rupert, it begins in this world. I know a little of the difference now. I never was where all joy and hope were gone out of existence—though I have seen trouble," said Dolly gravely. "But I do know that nothing in this world is so good as the love of Christ; and that without Him life is not life."

"People seem to have a good time without it," said Rupert.

"For a little. How would they be, do you think, if all their pleasures were taken away?—their money, and all their money gets for them; friends and all?"

"Wretched dogs," said Rupert.

"But nobody in the world that loved Christ was ever that," Dolly said, smiling.

There was in her smile something so tender and triumphant at once, that it silenced Rupert. It was a testimony quite beyond words. For that instant Dolly's spirit looked out of the transparent features, and the light went to Rupert's heart like an arrow. Dolly moved on, and he followed, not looking at the gladiators' shields or Greek armour.

"Then, Miss Dolly," he burst out, after his thoughts had been seething a little while,—"if this world is so little count, what's the use of anything that men do? what's the good of studying—or of working—or of coming to look at these old things?—or of doing anything else, but just religion?"

Dolly's eyes sparkled, but she laughed a little.

"You cannot 'do' religion that way, Rupert," she said. "The old monks made a mistake. What is the use? Why, if you are going to be a servant of Christ and spend your life in working for Him, won't you be the very best and most beautiful servant you can? Do you think a savage has as much power or influence in the world as an educated, accomplished, refined man? Would he do as much, or do it as well? If you are going to give yourself to Christ, won't you make the offering as valuable and as honourable as you can? That is what you would do if you were giving yourself to a woman, Rupert. I know you would."

Rupert had no chance to answer, for strangers drew near, and Dolly and he passed on. Perhaps he did not wish to answer.

There were other times when Dolly visited the museum with her father. Then she studied the frescoes from Pompeii, the marble sculptures, or sat before some few of the pictures in the collections of the old masters. Mr. Copley was patient, admiring her if he admired nothing else; but even he did admire and enjoy some of the works of art in which the museum is so rich; and one day he and Dolly had a rare bit of talk over the collection of ancient glass. Such hours made Dolly only the more grieved and distressed when she afterwards perceived that her father had been solacing himself with other and very much lower pleasures.



CHAPTER XXVII.

SORRENTO.

It was not till the end of May that they got away from Naples. Mrs. Copley was long tired of her stay there, and even, she said, tired of the bay! Dolly was glad to have her father at a distance from hotels and acquaintances, even though but for a time; and the gentlemen liked moving, as men always do. So the little party in the carriage were in very good spirits and harmony. Rupert had gone on before with the luggage, to make sure that all was right about the rooms and everything ready. They were engaged in the house to which Lady Brierley's housekeeper had given them the address.

The day was one of those which travellers tell us of in the south of Italy, when spring is in its glory or passing into summer. In truth, the weather was very warm; but Dolly at least never regarded that, in her delight at the views presented to her. After Castellamare was passed, and as the afternoon wore on, her interest grew with every step. Villages and towns, rocks and trees, were steeped in a wonderful golden light; vineyards and olive groves were etherialised; and when they drew near to Meta, and the plain of Sorrento opened before them, Dolly hung out of the carriage almost breathless.

"Is it better than the bay of Naples?" asked Lawrence, smiling.

"I am not comparing," said Dolly. "But look at the trees! Did you ever see such beautiful woods?"

"Hardly woods, are they?" said Lawrence. "There's variety, certainly."

"Said to be a very healthy place," remarked Mr. Copley. "I envy you, Dolly. You can get pleasure out of a stick, if it has leaves on it. Naturally, the plain of Sorrento—— But this sun, I confess, makes me wish for the journey's end."

"That is not far off, father. Yonder is Sorrento."

And soon the carriage rolled into the town, and turning then aside brought them to a house on the outskirts of the place, situated on a rocky cliff overhanging the shore of the sea. Rupert met them at the gate, and announced a neat house, civil people, comfortable lodgings, and dinner getting ready.

"I only hope they will not give us maccaroni with tomatoes," said Mrs. Copley. "I am so tired of seeing maccaroni with tomatoes."

"Don't mind for to-day, mother, dear," said Dolly. "We'll have it all right to-morrow."

The rooms were found so pleasant, bright and clean, that even Mrs. Copley was satisfied. The dinner, which was ready for them as soon as they were ready for it, proved also excellent; with plenty of fresh vegetables and fruit. Till the meal was over, Dolly had scarce a chance to see where she was; but then she left the others at the table and went out at the open glass door upon a piazza which extended all along the sea front of the house. Here she stood still and cried to the others to follow her. The house was built, as I said, like many houses in Sorrento, on the edge of a rocky cliff, from which there was fair, unhindered view over the whole panorama of sea and land. The sun was descending the western sky, and the flood of Italian light seemed to transfigure the world. Between the verandah and the absolute edge of the rocks, the space was filled with beds of flowers and shrubbery; and a little a one side, so as not to interrupt the view, were fig-trees and pomegranate-trees and olives. Dolly ran down the steps into the garden, and the rest of the party could not but come after her. Dolly's face was flushed with delight.

"Did anybody ever see such colours before?" she cried. "Oh, the colours! Look at the blue of the water, down there in the shade; and then see that delicious green beyond, set off by its fringe of white foam; and then where the sun strikes, and where the clouds are reflected."

"It is just what you have been seeing in the bay of Naples," said Mrs. Copley.

"And Vesuvius, mother! Do look at Vesuvius; how noble it is from here, and in this light."

"We had Vesuvius at Naples too," said Mrs. Copley. "It is a wonder to me how people can be so fond of being near it, when you never know what tricks it will play you."

"Mother, dear, the lava never comes so far as this, in the worst eruptions."

"The fact that it never did does not prove what it may do some time."

"You are not afraid of it, surely?" said Mr. Copley.

"No," said his wife. "But I have no pleasure in looking at anything that has done, and is going to do, so much mischief. It seems to me a kind of monster."

"You cannot be fond of the sea, at that rate, Mrs. Copley," Lawrence observed.

"No, you are right," she said. "The only thing I like about it is, that it is the way home."

"You don't want to see the way home just now, my dear," said Mr. Copley. "You have but now got to the place of your desires."

"If you ask me what that is, it is Boston," said Mrs. Copley.

But, however, for a while she did take satisfaction in the quiet and beauty and sweet air of Sorrento. Dolly revelled in it all. She was devoted to her mother and her mother's pleasure, it is true; and here as at Rome and Naples she was thus kept a good deal in the house. Nevertheless, here, at Sorrento, she tempted her mother to go out. A little carriage was procured to take her to the edge of one of the ravines which on three sides enclose the town; and then Dolly and her mother, with Rupert's help, would wind their way down amid the wilderness of lovely vegetation with which the sides and bottom of the ravine were grown. At the bottom of the dell they would provide Mrs. Copley with a soft bed of moss or a convenient stone to rest upon; while the younger people roved all about, gathering flowers, or finding something for Dolly to sketch, and coming back ever and anon to Mrs. Copley to show what they had found or tell what they had seen; and Mrs. Copley for the time forgot her ills, and even forgot Boston, and was amused, and enjoyed the warm air and the luxuriant and sweet nature of Italy. Sometimes Lawrence came instead of Rupert; and Dolly did not enjoy herself so well. But Lawrence was at his own risk now; she could not take care of him. Except by maintaining her calm, careless, disengaged manner; and that she did. There were other times when Dolly and Rupert went out in a boat on the sea. Steps in the rock led immediately down from the garden to the shore; on the shore were fishermen's huts, and a boat was always to be had. Long expeditions by water could not be undertaken, for Mrs. Copley could not be tempted out on the sea, and she might not be long left alone; but there were lovely hours, when Rupert rowed the boat over the golden and purple waves, when all the air seemed rosy and all the sea enamelled, and the sky and the clouds (as Rupert said) were as if they had come out of a fairy book; every colour was floating there and sending down a paradise of broken rainbows upon water and land and the heads of the two pleasure-takers.

But even at Sorrento there was a shadow over Dolly.

For the first weeks the gentlemen, that is, Mr. Copley and his supposed secretary, made numerous excursions. Mrs. Copley utterly declined to take part in anything that could be called an excursion; and Dolly would not go without her. Lawrence and Mr. Copley therefore went whither they would alone, and saw everything that could be seen within two or three days of Sorrento; for they were gone sometimes as long as that. They took provisions with them; and Dolly sadly feared, nay, she knew, that wines formed a large part of their travelling stock on these occasions; she feared, even, no small part of the attraction of them. Mr. Copley generally came back not exactly the same as when he went; there was an indescribable look and air which made Dolly's heart turn cold; a disreputable air of license, as if he had been indulging himself in spite of strong pledges given, and in disregard of gentle influences that were trying to deter him. And when he had not been on excursions, Dolly often knew that he had found his favourite beverage somewhere and was a trifle the worse for it. What could she do? she asked herself with a feeling almost of desperation. She had done all she knew; what remained? Her father was well aware how she felt. Yet no! not that. He could not have the faintest conception of the torture he gave his daughter by making her ashamed of him, nor of the fearful dread which lay upon her of what his habit of indulgence might end in. If he had, Mr. Copley could not, at this stage of things at least, have borne it. He must have yielded up anything or borne anything, rather than that she should bear this. But he was a man, and could not guess it; if he had been told, he would not have understood it; so he had his pleasure, and his child's heart was torn with sorrow and shame.

There came a day at last when in their lodgings Mr. Copley called for a bottle of wine at dinner. Dolly's heart gave a great jump.

"O father, we do not want wine!" she cried pleadingly.

"I do," said Mr. Copley, "and St. Leger does. Nonsense, my dear! no gentleman takes his dinner without his wine. Isn't it so, Lawrence?"

And the wine was brought, and the two gentlemen helped themselves. Mrs. Copley accepted a little; Rupert,—Dolly looked to see what he would do,—Rupert quietly put it by.

So it had come to this again. Not all her prayers and tears and known wishes could hold her father back from his desire. The desire must already be very strong! Dolly kept her composure with difficulty. She ate no more dinner. And it was a relief to thoughts she could scarcely bear, when Rupert in the evening asked her to go out and take a row on the water.

Such an evening as it was! Dolly ran gladly down the rocky steps which led to the shore, and eagerly followed Rupert into the boat. She thought to escape from her trouble for a while. Instead of that, when the boat got away from the shore, and Dolly was floating on the crimson and purple sea, with a flush of crimson and purple sent down upon her from the clouds, and everything in the world glowing with colour or tipped with gold,—her face as she gazed into the glory took such an expression of wan despair, that Rupert forgot where he was. Greatly he longed to say something to break up that look; and could not find the words. The beauty and the peace of the external world wrought, as it sometimes does, by the power of contrast; and had set Dolly to thinking of her father and of his and her very doubtful future. What would become of him if his present manner of life went on?—and what would become of his wife and of her? What could she do, more than she had done, in vain? Dolly tried to think, and could not find. Suddenly, by some sweet association of rays of light, there came into her mind the night before Christmas, and the moonshine in Christina's room, and the words that were so good to her then. "Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" Yes, thought Dolly,—that is sure. Nothing can come between. Nothing can take that joy from me; "neither death nor life; nor things present, nor things to come." But, oh! I wish my father and mother had it too!—With that came a rush of tears to her eyes; she turned her face away from Rupert so that he might not see them. Had she done anything, made any efforts, to bring them to that knowledge? With her mother, yes; with her father, no. It had seemed hopelessly difficult. How could she set about it? As she pondered this question, Rupert saw that the expression of her face had changed, and now he ventured to speak.

"Miss Dolly, you set me a thinking in Rome."

"Did I?" said Dolly, brightening. "About what?"

"And in Naples you drove the nail further in."

"What nail? what are you talking about, Rupert?"

"Do you remember what you said when we were coming from the Capitoline Museum? We were looking at the Colosseum."

"I do not recollect."

"I do. You drove the nail in then; and when we were in Naples, at the museum there, you gave it another hit. It's in now."

Dolly could not help laughing.

"You are quite a riddle, Rupert. I make nothing of it."

"Miss Dolly, I've been thinking that I will go home."

"Home?" And Dolly's face now grew very grave indeed.

"Yes. I've been splitting my head thinking; and I've about made up my mind. I think I'll go home." Rupert was very serious too, and pulled the oars with a leisurely, mechanical stroke, which showed he was not thinking of them.

"What home? London, do you mean?"

"Well, not exactly. I should think not! No, I mean Boston, or Lynn rather. There's my old mother."

"Oh!—your mother," said Dolly slowly. "And she is at Lynn. Is she alone there?"

"She's been alone ever since I left her; and I'm thinking that's what she hadn't ought to be."

Dolly paused. The indication seemed to be, that Rupert was taking up the notion of duty; duty towards others as well as pleasure for himself; and a great throb of gladness came up in her heart, along with the sudden shadow of what was not gladness.

"I think you are quite right, Rupert," she said soberly. "Then you are purposing to go back to Lynn to take care of her?"

"I set out to see the world and to be something," Rupert went on, looking thoughtfully out to sea;—"and I've done one o' the two. I've seen the world. I don' know as I should ever be anything, if I staid in it. But your talk that day—those days—wouldn't go out of my head; and I thought I'd give it up, and go home to my old mother."

"I'll tell you what I think, Rupert," said Dolly; "a man is a great deal more likely to come out right in the end and 'be something,' if he follows God's plan for him, than if he makes a plan for himself. Anyhow, I'd rather have that 'Well done,' by and by"—— She stopped.

"How's a man to find out God's plan for him?"

"Just the way you are doing. When work is set before you, take hold of it. When the Lord has some more for you He'll let you know."

"Then you think this is my work, Miss Dolly, to go home and take care of her? She wanted me to make a man of myself; and when Mr. Copley made me his offer, she didn't hold me back. But she cried some!"

"You cannot do another so manly a thing as this, Rupert. I wouldn't let her cry any more, if I were you."

"No more I ain't a-goin' to," said the young man energetically. "But, Miss Dolly"——

"What?"

"Do you think it is my duty, because I do one thing, to do t'other? Do you think I ought to take to shoemaking?"

"Why to shoemaking, Rupert?"

"Well, my father was a shoemaker. They're all shoemakers at Lynn, pretty much."

"That is no reason why you should be. Your education, the education you have got since you came over to this side, has fitted you for something else, if you like something else better."

"That's just what I do!" said Rupert with emphasis. "But I could make a good living that way—I was brought up to it, you see;—and I s'pose she'd like me to take up the old business; but I feel like driving an awl through a board whenever I think of it."

"I wouldn't do it, Rupert, if I could do something I was more fit for. People always do things best that they like to do. I think the choice of a business is your affair. Do what you can do best. But I'd make shoes rather than do nothing."

"I don't know what I am fit for," said Rupert, evidently relieved, "but—oh yes, I would cobble shoes rather than do nothing. I don't want to eat idle bread. Then I'll go."

"Your experience here, in London and on this journey, will not have been lost to you," Dolly observed.

"It's been the best thing ever happened to me, this journey," said the young man. "And you've done me more good, Miss Dolly, than anybody in this world,—if it ain't my mother."

"I? I am very glad. I am sure you have done a great deal for me, Rupert."

"You have put me upon thinking. And till a fellow begins to think, he ain't much more good than a cabbage."

"When will you go, Rupert? I wish we were going too!"

"Well, I guess my old mother has sat lookin' for me long enough. I guess I'll start pretty soon."

"Will you?" said Dolly. "But not before we have made our visit to Mrs. Thayer's villa? We are going there next week."

"I'll start then, I guess."

"And not go with us to the Thayers'?"

"I guess not."

"Didn't they invite you?"

"Not a bit of it! Took good care not, I should say."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, Miss Dolly, Mrs. Thayer was standing two feet from me and asking Mr. St. Leger, and she didn't look my way till she had got through and was talking of something else; and then she looked as if I had been a pane of glass and she was seeing something on the other side—as I suppose she was."

Dolly was silent for a few minutes and then she said, "How I shall miss you, Rupert!"—and tears were near, though she would not let them come.

And Rupert made no answer at all, but rowed the boat in.

Yes, Dolly knew she would miss him sadly. He had been her helper and standby and agent and escort and friend, in many a place now, and on many an occasion. He had done for her what there was no one else to do, ever since that first evening when he had made his appearance at Brierley and she had wished him away. So little do people recognise their blessings often at first sight. Now,—Dolly pondered as she climbed the cliff,—how would she get along without Rupert? How long would her father even be content to abide with her mother and her in their quiet way of living? she had seen symptoms of restlessness already. What should she do if he became impatient? if he left them to St. Leger's care and went back to London? or if he carried them off with him perhaps? To London again! And then afresh came the former question, what was there in her power, that might draw her father to take deeper and truer views of life and duty than he was taking now? A question that greatly bothered Dolly; for there was dimly looming up in the distance an answer that she did not like. To attack her father in private on the subject of religion, was a step that Dolly thought very hopeless; he simply would not hear her. But there was another thing she could do—could she do it? Persuade her father and mother to consent to have family prayer? Dolly's heart beat and her breath came quick as she passed through the little garden, sweet with roses and oleander and orange blossoms. How sweet the flowers were! how heavenly fair the sky over her head! So it ought to be in people's hearts, thought Dolly;—so in mine. And if it were, I should not be afraid of anything that was right to do. And this is right to do.

Dolly avoided the saloon where the rest of the family were, and betook herself to her own room; to consider and to pray over her difficulties, and also to get rid of a few tears and bring her face into its usual cheerful order. When at last she went down, she found her mother alone, but her father almost immediately joined them. The windows were open towards the sea, the warm, delicious air stole in caressingly, the scent of roses and orange blossoms and carnations filled the house and seemed to fill the world; moonlight trembled on the leaves of the fig-tree, and sent lines of silver light into the room. The lamp was lowered and Mrs. Copley sat doing nothing, in a position of satisfied enjoyment by the window.

As Dolly came in by one door, Mr. Copley entered by another, and flung himself down on a chair; his action speaking neither enjoyment nor satisfaction.

"Well!" said he. "How much longer do you think you can stand this sort of thing?"

"What sort of thing, father?"

"Do you sit in the dark usually?"

"Come here, father," said Dolly, "come to the window and see the moonshine on the sea. Do you call that dark?"

"Your father never cared for moonshine, Dolly," said Mrs. Copley.

"No, that's true," said Mr. Copley with a short laugh. "Haven't you got almost enough of it?"

"Of moonshine, father?"

"Yes—on the bay of Sorrento. It's a lazy place."

"You have not been very lazy since you have been here," said his wife.

"Well, I have seen all there is to be seen; and now I am ready for something else. Aren't you?"

"But, father," said Dolly, "I suppose, just because Sorrento is what you call a lazy place it is good for mother."

"Change is good for her too—hey, wife?"

"You will have a change next week, father; you know we are going for that visit to the Thayers."

"We shall not want to stay there long," said Mr. Copley; "and then we'll move."

Nobody answered. Dolly looked out sorrowfully upon the beautiful bright water. Sorrento had been a place of peace to her. Must she go so soon? The scent of myrtles and roses and oranges came in bewilderingly at the open window, pleading the cause of "lazy" Sorrento with wonderfully persuasive flatteries. Was there any other place in the world so sweet? Dolly clung to it, in heart; yearned towards it; the glories of the southern sun were what she had never imagined, and she longed to stay to enjoy and wonder at them. The fruits, the flowers, the sunny air, the fulness and variedness of the colouring on land and sea, the leisure and luxury of bountiful nature,—Dolly was loath, loath to leave them all. No other Sorrento, she was ready to believe, would ever reveal itself to her vision; and she shrank a little from the somewhat rough way she had been travelling before and must travel again. And now in the further way, Rupert, her helper and standby, would not be with her. Then again came the words of Christmas Eve to her—"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?"—and with the words came the recollection of the new bit of service Dolly had found to do in her return and answer to that love. Yet she hesitated, and her heart began to beat faster, and she made no move until her father began to ask if it were not time to leave the moonlight and go to bed. Dolly came from the window, then to the table where the lowered lamp stood.

"Mother and father, I should like to do something," she said with an interrupted breath. "Would you mind—may I—will you let me read a chapter to you before we go?"

"A chapter of what?" said her father; though he knew well enough.

"The Bible."

There was a pause. Mrs. Copley stirred uneasily, but left the answer for her husband to give. It came at last, coldly.

"There is no need for you to give yourself that trouble, my dear. I suppose we can all read the Bible for ourselves."

"But not as a family, father?"

"What do you mean, Dolly?"

"Father, don't you think we ought together, as a family,—don't you think we ought to read the Bible together? It concerns us all."

"It's very kind of you, my daughter; but I approve of everybody managing his own affairs," Mr. Copley said, as he rose and lounged, perhaps with affected carelessness, out of the room. Dolly stood a moment.

"May I read to you, mother?"

"If you like," said Mrs. Copley nervously; "though I don't see, as your father says, why we cannot every one read for ourselves. Why did you say that to your father, Dolly? He didn't like it."

Dolly made no reply. She knelt down by the low table to bring her Bible near the light, and read a psalm, her voice quivering a little. She wanted comfort for herself, and half unconsciously she chose the twenty-seventh psalm.

"'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?'"

Her voice grew steady as she went on; but when she has finished, her mother was crying.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

AT THE VILLA.

The place inhabited by the Thayers was a regular Italian villa. It had not been at all in order that suited English notions of comfort, or American either, when they moved in; but they had painted and matted and furnished, and filled the rooms with pretty things, pictures and statues and vases and flowers; till it looked now quite beautiful and festive. Its situation was perfect. The house stood high, on the shore overlooking the sea, with a full view of Vesuvius, and it was surrounded with a paradise of orange-trees, fig-trees, pomegranates, olives, oaks and oleanders, with roses and a multitude of other flowers; in a wealth of sweetness and luxuriance of growth that northern climes know nothing of. The reception the visitors met with was joyous.

"I am so glad you are come!" cried Christina, as she carried off Dolly through the hall to her particular room. "That bad boy, Sandie, has not reported yet; but he will come; and then we will go everywhere. Have you been everywhere already?"

"I have been nowhere. I have staid with mother, and she wanted to be quiet."

"Well, she can be quiet now with my mother; they can take care of each other. And you have not been to Capri?"

"No."

"Just think of it! How delightful! You have not seen the Grotta azzurra?"

"I have seen nothing."

"Nor the grotto of the Sirens? You have seen that? It was so near."

"No, I have not. I have been nowhere; only with mother to gather ferns and flowers in the dells around Sorrento. We used to take mother in a donkey cart—a calessino—to the edge of the side of the dell, and then help her down, and get loads of flowers and ferns. It was very pleasant."

"I wish Sandie would only come—the tiresome fellow! There's no counting on him. But he will come. He said he would if he could, and he can of course. I suppose you have not visited Paestum yet then?"

"I believe father went there. We did not."

"Nor we, yet. I don't care so much—only I like to keep going—but father is crazy to see the ruins. You know the ruins are wonderful. Do you care for ruins?"

"I believe I do," said Dolly, smiling, "when the ruins are of something beautiful. And those Greek temples—oh, I should like to see them."

"I would rather see beautiful things when they are perfect; not in ruins; ruins are sad, don't you think so?"

"I suppose they ought to be," said Dolly, laughing now. "But somehow, Christina, I believe the ruins give me more pleasure than if they were all new and perfect—or even old and perfect. It is a perverse taste, I suppose, but I do."

"Why? They are not so handsome in ruins."

"They are lovelier."

"Lovely!—for old ruins! I can understand papa's enthusiasm; he's a kind of antiquity worshipper; but you—and 'lovely!'"

"And interesting, Christina. Ruins tell of so much; they are such grand books of history, and witnesses for things gone by. But beautiful—oh yes, beautiful beyond all others, if you talk of buildings. What is St. Peter's, compared to the Colosseum?"

Christina stared at her friend. "What is St. Peter's? A most magnificent work of modern art, I should say; and you compare it to a tumbledown old bit of barbarism. That's too like Sandie. Do you and your friend agree as harmoniously as Sandie and I? We ought to exchange."

"I have no 'friend,' as you express it," said Dolly, pulling her wayward, curling locks into a little more order. "Mr. St. Leger is nothing to me—if you are speaking of him."

"I am sure, if he told the truth, he would not say that of you," said Christina, looking with secret admiration at the figure before her. It was a rare kind of beauty, not of the stereotyped or formal sort; like one of the dainty old vases of alabaster, elegant in form and delicate and exquisite in chiselling and design, with a pure inner light showing through. That was not the comparison in Christina's mind, and indeed she made none; but women's eyes are sometimes sharp to see feminine beauty; and she confessed that Dolly's was uncommon, not merely in degree but in kind. There was nothing conventional about it; there never had been; her curling hair took a wayward way of its own; her brown eyes had a look of thoughtfulness mingled with childlike innocence; they always had it more or less; now the wisdom was more sweet and the innocence more spiritual. Her figure and her manner were all in harmony, wearing unconscious grace and a very simple, free dignity.

"We cannot go to Paestum at this season of the year, they say," Christina began again, at a distance from her thoughts; "but one can go to the Punta di Campanella and Monte San Costanzo; and as soon as Sandie comes, we will. We will wait a day for him first."

Dolly was quite willing to wait for him; for, to tell the truth, one of her pleasures in the thought of this visit had been the possibility of seeing Mr. Shubrick again. She did not say so, however; and the two girls presently went back to the hall. This was a luxurious apartment, occupying the centre of the house; octagonal, and open to the outer world both at front and back. Warm and yet fresh air was playing through it; the odours of flowers filled it; the most commodious of light chairs and settees furnished it; and scattered about the wide, delicious space were the various members of the party. Mrs. Thayer and Mrs. Copley had been sitting together; just now, as the girls entered, Mrs. Thayer called St. Leger to her.

"I am delighted to see you here, Mr. St. Leger," she said graciously. "You know your father was a very old friend of mine."

"That gives me a sort of claim to your present kindness," said St. Leger.

"You might put in a claim to kindness anywhere," returned the lady. "Don't you get it, now, if you tell the truth?"

"I have no reason to complain—in general," said the young man, smiling.

"You are a little like your father. He was another. We were great cronies when I was a girl. In fact, he was an old beau of mine. We used to see a vast deal of each other;—flirting, I suppose you would call it; but how are young people to get along without flirting? I liked him very much, for I always had a fancy for handsome men; and if you ask him, he will tell you that I was handsome too at that time. Oh, I was! you may look at me and be incredulous; but I was a belle in those days; and I had a great many handsome men around me, and some not handsome. ....Was I English? No. You don't understand how I could have seen so much of your father. Well, never doubt a story till you have heard the whole of it. I was an American girl; but my father and mother were both dead, and I was sent to England, to be brought up by an aunt, who was the nearest relation I had in the world. She had married an Englishman and settled in England."

"Then we may claim you," said Lawrence. "To all intents and purposes you are English."

"Might have been," returned Mrs. Thayer. "The flirtation ran very high, I can tell you, between your father and me. He was a poor man then. I understand he has nobly recovered from that fault. Is it true? People say he is made of gold."

"There is no lack of the material article," Lawrence admitted.

"No. Well, the other sort we know he had, or this would never be true of him now. I did not look so far ahead then. There is no telling what would have happened, but for a little thing. Just see how things go. I might have married in England, and all my life would have been different; and then came along Mr. Thayer. And the way I came to know him was this. A cousin of mine in America was going to be married, and her friend was a friend of Mr. Thayer. Mr. Thayer was coming over to England, and my cousin charged him with a little piece of wedding cake in white paper to bring to me. Just that little white packet! and Mr. Thayer brought it, and we saw one another, and the end was, I have lived my life on the other side instead of on this side."