it was to
act as carrier. Her name was Luigia, and she was very picturesque
looking, and had the most beautiful dark eyes, though she always looked
fearfully sad. Daddy is fond of sketching, and he painted a picture of
her standing with her donkey under the vines. We guessed somehow that
she had a history, and we asked Sareda, our cook, about her. Sareda knew
everybody in the place. She was a dear old gossip. She got quite excited
over Luigia's story. She said it had been the talk of Tarana at the
time. Luigia used to be a lovely girl when she was young, and she was
quite wealthy for a peasant, because she owned a little lemon grove on
the hillside. She inherited it from her father, who was dead. Of course,
because she was beautiful and a village heiress, she soon found a
sweetheart, and became engaged to Francesco, a fisherman who lived down
on the Marina. Everything was going on very happily, and the wedding was
fixed, when suddenly it was found there was something wrong with
Luigia's glorious eyes. She went to a doctor in Naples, and he told her
that unless a certain operation were performed she would go blind. If
she went to Paris, to a specialist whom he named, her sight might be
saved. Poor Luigia sold her lemon grove in a hurry, to get the necessary
money, and packed up and started for Paris immediately. She was away six
months, and she came back penniless, but seeing as well as ever. She
trudged all the way from Liparo to Tarana, along the coast road, because
she could not afford to take the train. When she walked into her own
village, the first thing she saw was a wedding party leaving the church.
She stopped to watch, and as the procession passed her who should the
gayly-dressed bridegroom prove to be but her own faithless sweetheart
Francesco. She screamed and fainted, and some kindly neighbors took her
in and cared for her. She got work afterwards in the village, but she
did not find a husband, because her lemon grove was sold, and these
peasants will not marry a wife without a dowry. No wonder she looked so
sad. We were always frightfully sorry for her."

Sheila, who was the next entertainer, recited a ballad; and Delia also
"spoke a piece," an amusing episode of child life, which she rendered
with much humor. The next turn was Irene's, and the girls, who were in a
mood for listening, clamored for a story.

"I haven't any first-hand or original adventures," she declared. "My
aunts never have psychic experi