ured her throne in Paradise.
She was only fifteen when she died, which shows how much is within the
reach of any school-girl. Those who think her life was unpractical need
only think of the victories upon Poggibonsi, San Gemignano, Volterra,
Siena itself--all gained through the invocation of her name; they need
only look at the church which rose over her grave. The grand schemes for
a marble facade were never carried out, and it is brown unfinished stone
until this day. But for the inside Giotto was summoned to decorate the
walls of the nave. Giotto came--that is to say, he did not come, German
research having decisively proved--but at all events the nave is covered
with frescoes, and so are two chapels in the left transept, and the
arch into the choir, and there are scraps in the choir itself. There the
decoration stopped, till in the full spring of the Renaissance a
great painter came to pay a few weeks' visit to his friend the Lord of
Monteriano. In the intervals between the banquets and the discussions on
Latin etymology and the dancing, he would stroll over to the church, and
there in the fifth chapel to the right he has painted two frescoes of
the death and burial of Santa Deodata. That is why Baedeker gives the
place a star.

Santa Deodata was better company than Harriet, and she kept Philip in a
pleasant dream until the legno drew up at the hotel. Every one there was
asleep, for it was still the hour when only idiots were moving. There
were not even any beggars about. The cabman put their bags down in the
passage--they had left heavy luggage at the station--and strolled about
till he came on the landlady's room and woke her, and sent her to them.

Then Harriet pronounced the monosyllable "Go!"

"Go where?" asked Philip, bowing to the landlady, who was swimming down
the stairs.

"To the Italian. Go."

"Buona sera, signora padrona. Si ritorna volontieri a Monteriano!"
(Don't be a goose. I'm not going now. You're in the way, too.) "Vorrei
due camere--"

"Go. This instant. Now. I'll stand it no longer. Go!"

"I'm damned if I'll go. I want my tea."

"Swear if you like!" she cried. "Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand,
I'm in earnest."

"Harriet, don't act. Or act better."

"We've come here to get the baby back, and for nothing else. I'll not
have this levity and slackness, and talk about pictures and churches.
Think of mother; did she send you out for THEM?"

"Think of mother and don't straddle across t