ulding) sat down
forlorn, and cried, and I retired to a private, place to pray. By and by
we all retired to our narrow German beds; and when Livy and I finished
talking across the room, it was all decided that we would rest 24 hours
then pay whatever damages were required, and straightway fly to the
south of France.

But you see, that was simply fatigue. Next morning the tribe fell in
love with the rooms, with the weather, with Munich, and head over heels
in love with Fraulein Dahlweiner. We got a larger parlor--an ample
one--threw two communicating bedrooms into one, for the children, and
now we are entirely comfortable. The only apprehension, at present, is
that the climate may not be just right for the children, in which case
we shall have to go to France, but it will be with the sincerest regret.

Now I brought the tribe through from Rome, myself. We never had so
little trouble before. The next time anybody has a courier to put out to
nurse, I shall not be in the market.

Last night the forlornities had all disappeared; so we gathered around
the lamp, after supper, with our beer and my pipe, and in a condition
of grateful snugness tackled the new magazines. I read your new story
aloud, amid thunders of applause, and we all agreed that Captain Jenness
and the old man with the accordion-hat are lovely people and most
skillfully drawn--and that cabin-boy, too, we like. Of course we are all
glad the girl is gone to Venice--for there is no place like Venice. Now
I easily understand that the old man couldn't go, because you have a
purpose in sending Lyddy by herself: but you could send the old man over
in another ship, and we particularly want him along. Suppose you don't
need him there? What of that? Can't you let him feed the doves?
Can't you let him fall in the canal occasionally? Can't you let his
good-natured purse be a daily prey to guides and beggar-boys? Can't you
let him find peace and rest and fellowship under Pere Jacopo's kindly
wing? (However, you are writing the book, not I--still, I am one of the
people you are writing it for, you understand.) I only want to insist,
in a friendly way, that the old man shall shed his sweet influence
frequently upon the page--that is all.

The first time we called at the convent, Pere Jacopo was absent; the
next (Just at this moment Miss Spaulding spoke up and said something
about Pere Jacopo--there is more in this acting of one mind upon another
than people think) time,