nd here am I crushing down Rome, and raising Paris on
top of it. Indeed, I can't help it, for Paris is utterly intoxicating.
It takes away your moral nature and adds it all into your powers of
enjoyment. Well, good-bye, my dear, and keep writing me tremendous
letters, won't you; for I do love you dearly.

Your loving daughter,

MAE.

Mae felt a great deal better when she had finished the letter, and, like
a volatile girl as she was, buttoned her Burt boots and Paris gloves,
singing gaily a dash from Trovatore in a very light-hearted manner.

"Why, you look like a different girl," cried Eric, as she entered the
parlor, where he and Mr. Mann were sitting. "Mrs. Jerrold, Edith, and
Albert have gone on in a carriage, and you are left to my tender care;
will you ride or walk?"

"How can you ask? My feet are quite wild. No wonder I am a different
girl. Are we not going to the Pincian hill to look at the live world and
people? I have just unlocked the stop-gates and let the blood bound in
my veins as it wants to."

"It has been taking the cinque-pace, I should say from your long face
to-day."

"O, it has only been trying to keep step with the march of the ages, or
some such stately tread, but it was hard work, and now the dear life
of me hops, skips and jumps, like this," and Mae seized her brother and
danced across the room, stopping very near Mr. Mann, who stood with his
back to them, drumming on the window pane. She looked at him quizzically
and half raised her eyebrows.

Eric shook his head, and said aloud in his outspoken way: "You owe him
an apology, Mae, for this morning's rudeness."

Mr. Mann turned quickly. "I am surprised, Eric. Let your sister find out
for herself when she is rude."

"Bless me," cried Eric, "what is the row?"

Mae looked determined. "Are you going to the Pincian with us?" she
asked.

"No, I am going to stay home."

"Well, good-bye, then. Come, Eric." The door closed behind them.

Mr. Mann stood by the window and watched them walk away. Mae, with her
eager, restless, fresh life showing out in every motion; Eric, with his
boy-man air and his student swing and happy-go-lucky toss of his head.
Mr. Mann smiled and then he sighed. "That's a good boy, so square and
fair and merry--and a queer girl," he added. "Rome isn't the place for
her. She must get away, though why I should take care for her, or worry
about her, little vixen. I don't see." Still he smiled as one would over
a very w