t. I have been nowhere; only with mother to gather ferns
and flowers in the dells around Sorrento. We used to take mother in a
donkey cart--a calessino--to the edge of the side of the dell, and then
help her down, and get loads of flowers and ferns. It was very
pleasant."

"I wish Sandie would only come--the tiresome fellow! There's no
counting on him. But he will come. He said he would if he could, and he
can of course. I suppose you have not visited Paestum yet then?"

"I believe father went there. We did not."

"Nor we, yet. I don't care so much--only I like to keep going--but
father is crazy to see the ruins. You know the ruins are wonderful. Do
you care for ruins?"

"I believe I do," said Dolly, smiling, "when the ruins are of something
beautiful. And those Greek temples--oh, I _should_ like to see them."

"I would rather see beautiful things when they are perfect; not in
ruins; ruins are sad, don't you think so?"

"I suppose they ought to be," said Dolly, laughing now. "But somehow,
Christina, I believe the ruins give me more pleasure than if they were
all new and perfect--or even old and perfect. It is a perverse taste, I
suppose, but I do."

"Why? They are not so handsome in ruins."

"They are lovelier."

"Lovely!--for old ruins! I can understand papa's enthusiasm; he's a
kind of antiquity worshipper; but you--and 'lovely!'"

"And interesting, Christina. Ruins tell of so much; they are such grand
books of history, and witnesses for things gone by. But beautiful--oh
yes, beautiful beyond all others, if you talk of buildings. What is St.
Peter's, compared to the Colosseum?"

Christina stared at her friend. "What is St. Peter's? A most
magnificent work of modern art, I should say; and you compare it to a
tumbledown old bit of barbarism. That's _too_ like Sandie. Do you and
your friend agree as harmoniously as Sandie and I? We ought to
exchange."

"I have no 'friend,' as you express it," said Dolly, pulling her
wayward, curling locks into a little more order. "Mr. St. Leger is
nothing to me--if you are speaking of him."

"I am sure, if he told the truth, he would not say that of you," said
Christina, looking with secret admiration at the figure before her. It
was a rare kind of beauty, not of the stereotyped or formal sort; like
one of the dainty old vases of alabaster, elegant in form and delicate
and exquisite in chiselling and design, with a pure inner light showing
through. That was not the comp