row. Miss Graves liked nothing
she saw, but walked on unmoved, save that at intervals she observed that
it was "deathly cold" in these "stony lanes," and "_must_ be unhealthy."
Mrs. Clary's assertion that the people looked remarkably vigorous only
called out a shake of the head; Miss Graves was set upon "fever." It was
amusing to see how carefully all the houses were numbered, up and down
these break-neck little streets, through the narrowest burrows, and
under the darkest arches. Here and there some citizen wealthier than his
neighbors had painted his section of front in bright pink or yellow, and
perhaps adorned his Madonna in her little shrine over the door with new
robes, those broadly contrasted blues and reds of Italy, which American
eyes must learn by gradual education to admire; or, if not by education,
then by residence; for he will find himself liking them naturally after
a while, as a relief from the unchanging white light of the Italian day.
We came down by way of the square or piazza on the hill-side, to and
from which broad flights of steps ascend and descend. Here are the two
churches of St. Michael and the White Penitents, whose campaniles, with
that of the Black Penitents beyond, make the "three spires of Mentone,"
which stand out so picturesquely one above the other, visible in profile
far to the east and the west on the sharp angle of the hill.

"The different use of the same word in different languages is droll,"
said Margaret. "French writers almost always speak of these little
country church-spires as 'coquettes.'"

"There is a Turkish lance here somewhere," said Inness, emerging
unexpectedly from what I had thought was a cellar. "It is in one of
these churches. It was taken at the battle of Lepanto, and is a
'glorious relic.' We must see it."

"No," said Janet, appearing with Baker at the top of a flight of steps
which I had supposed was the back entrance of a private house, "we will
not see it, but imagine it. I want to go homeward by the Rue Longue."

"Now, Janet, if you mean those dancing-dogs--" began Mrs. Trescott.

"I had forgotten their very existence, mamma. I was thinking of
something quite different." Here she turned towards the Professor. "I
was hoping that Professor Mackenzie would feel like telling me something
of Mentone in the past, as we walk through that quaint old street."

"He feels like it--feels like it day and night," said Baker to Inness,
behind me. "He's a perfect stat