?" asked Norman pointedly. Mae looked very reprovingly out from
her white wraps at him, but he smiled back composedly and admiringly,
and drew her hand a trifle closer in his arm. And saucy Mae began to
feel in that sort of purring mood women come to when they drop the
bristling, ready-for-fight air with which they start on an acquaintance.
Perhaps, if the steamer had been a sailing-vessel, there would have
been no story to tell about Mae Madden, for a long line of evenings,
and girls singing songs, and hurricane decks by moonlight, are dangerous
things. But the vessel was a fast steamer, and was swiftly nearing land
again.

CHAPTER II.

ROME, February, 18--.

MY DEAR MAMMA:--Yes, it is Rome, mamma, and everybody is impressed.
The boys talk of emperors all the time; Edith is wild over Madonnas
and saints, and Mrs. Jerrold runs from Paul's house to Paul's walks and
Paul's drives and Paul's stand at the prisoner's bar, and reads the Acts
through five times a day, in the most religious and Romanistic spirit.
No one could make more fuss over a patron saint, I am sure. For my part,
I feel as if I were in the most terrible ghost story. The old Romans are
all around me. Underneath the street noises, I seem to hear cries, and
in the air I half see a constant flashing of swords and scars and blood,
and I can't even put my foot on the Roman pavement without wondering
which dead Caesar my saucy Burt boot No. 2 is walking over. I shouldn't
mind trampling old Caligula, but I don't like the thought on general
principles. I feel all out of place, so modern and fixed up and
flimsy. If I could get into old picturesque clothes and out of the
English-speaking quarter, I should not be so oppressed and might worship
Rome. But I seriously think I shall die if I stay here much longer.
There's a spirit-malaria that eats into my life. I feel as if all the
volumes of Roman history bound in heavy vellum, that papa has in his
study, were laid right on top of my little heart, so that every time it
beats, it thumps against them, and I assure you, mamma, its worse than
dyspepsia. If I could only get out on a New England hillside, where
there were no graves more important than those of grasshoppers and
butterflies! What should I do when I got there? Take off my hat, and
scream for joy, and feel free and glad to be in a fresh country, with
rich, warm, untainted earth and young life.

But all this is nonsense, mamma, and I shouldn't be writing