beside it was another man
dressed in the splendid uniform his driver had claimed that he had left
at home.

"Here--stop! Stop, I say!" he yelled at the man, angrily. But the fellow
seemed suddenly deaf, and paid no heed. He cracked his whip and rattled
away through the streets without a glance behind him. The girls laughed
and Uncle John stopped waving his arms and settled into his seat with a
groan.

"We've been swindled, my dears," he said; "swindled most beautifully.
But I suppose we may as well make the best of it."

"Better," agreed Patsy. "This rig is all right, Uncle. It may not be as
pretty as the other, but I expect that one is only kept to make
engagements with. When it comes to actual use, we don't get it."

"That's true enough," he returned. "But I'll get even with this rascal
before I've done with him, never fear."

It was a cold, raw morning, but the portiere at the Victoria had told
them the sun would be out presently and the day become more genial.
Indeed, the sun did come out, but only to give a discouraged look at the
landscape and retire again. During this one day in which they rode to
Amalfi and back, Uncle John afterward declared that they experienced
seven different kinds of weather. They had sunshine, rain, hail, snow
and a tornado; and then rain again and more sunshine. "Sunny Italy"
seemed a misnomer that day, as indeed it does many days in winter and
spring, when the climate is little better than that prevailing in the
eastern and central portions of the United States. And perhaps one
suffers more in Italy than in America, owing to the general lack of
means to keep warm on cold days. The Italian, shivering and blue, will
tell you it is not cold at all, for he will permit no reproach to lie on
his beloved land; but the traveller frequently becomes discouraged, and
the American contingent, especially, blames those misleading English
writers who, finding relief from their own bleak island in Italian
climes, exaggerated the conditions by apostrophizing the country as
"Sunny Italy" and for more than a century uttered such rhapsodies in its
praise that the whole world credited them--until it acquired personal
experience of the matter.

Italy is beautiful; it is charming and delightful; but seldom is this
true in winter or early spring.

The horses went along at a spanking pace that was astonishing. They
passed through the picturesque lanes of Sorrento, climbed the further
slope, and brought