ius; another in the great Museum, so interesting with
its remains of antique sculptures, so destitute of important paintings;
the third in driving about the city, to San Martino, and around the
point of Posilipo, ending with a visit to Virgil's tomb.

Then came the Sabbath, and they attended morning service in the
Cathedral,--in the very chapel of San Januarius which is decorated with
pictures by Domenichino, Guido Reni, and Lanfranco, the completion of
which was prevented by the jealousy of the Neapolitan painters.

The next morning they went to Pompeii, where in the late afternoon
carriages were to meet them for beginning the drive through
Castellammare, Sorrento, and Amalfi to La Cava.

The absorbing charm of Pompeii, whose resurrection began after nearly
seventeen centuries of burial and is yet only partial, at once seized
them,--all of them,--for, visit the ruined city often as one may, yet
the sight of its worn streets with their high stepping-stones, its
broken pavements, its decorated walls, its shops,--all possess such an
atmosphere of departed life that its fascination is complete, and does
not yield to familiarity.

After hours of wandering about with their guide, seeing the points of
most interest,--the beautiful houses recently excavated, the homes of
Glaucus, of Pansa, of Sallust, of Orpheus, of Diomedes and very many
others; the forum, temples, and amphitheatre--they sat long amid the
ruins, looking at the fatal mountain, so close at hand, and the
desolation at its foot, and meditated upon the terrors of that fearful
night.

Malcom read aloud the story as related by Pliny, a volume of whose
letters he had put into his pocket, and Margery recited some lines of a
beautiful sonnet on Pompeii which she had once learned, whose author she
did not remember:--

"No chariot wheels invade her stony roads;
Priestless her temples, lone her vast abodes,
Deserted,--forum, palace, everywhere!
Yet are her chambers for the master fit,
Her shops are ready for the oil and wine,
Ploughed are her streets with many a chariot line,
And on her walls to-morrow's play is writ,--
Of that to-morrow which might never be!"

The spell was not broken until Mr. Sumner, looking at his watch,
declared it was quite time they should return to the little hotel, take
an afternoon lunch, and so be ready when the carriages should await
them.

The beauty of the drive from Naples to the Bay of Salerno ha