but didn't,
because we were all too hungry to be sincerely interested in anything
absolutely unconnected with meals. Then turning towards Pavia, we turned
at the same moment into Arcadia. There were no more beasts in our path,
unless it was a squirrel or two; there were no houses, no people; there
was only quiet country, with a narrow but deliciously smooth road,
colonies of chestnut and acacia trees, and tall growths of scented
grasses and blossoming grain. It was more like a by-path through meadows
than an important road leading to a great town, and Mr. Barrymore had
begun to wonder aloud if he could possibly have made a mistake at some
cross-way, when we spun round a corner, and saw before us a wide yellow
river. It lay straight in front, and we had to pass to the other side on
the oddest bridge I ever saw; just old grey planks laid close together
on top of a long, long line of big black boats that moved up and down
with a lazy motion as the golden water of the Po flowed underneath.

"This is a famous bridge," said the Chauffeulier; so Mamma hurried to
get out her camera and take a picture, while we picked our way daintily
over the wobbly boards at a foot pace; and another of the man at the far
end, who made us pay toll--so much for each wheel, so much for each
passenger. Maida never takes photographs. She says she likes better just
to keep a picture-gallery in her brain. Mamma always takes them, but as
she usually has three or four on the same film, making a jumble of
Chicago street-cars with Italian faces, legs, and sun-dials, as
intricate as an Irish stew, I don't see that in the end they will be
much of an ornament to the journal of travel we're all keeping.

"This is where the Po and the Ticino meet, so we're near Pavia," Mr.
Barrymore told us; and if our eyes brightened behind our masks, it
wasn't so much with interest in his information, as at the thought of
lunch. For we were to lunch at Pavia, before seeing the Certosa that
Maida had been talking about for hours with the Chauffeulier; and before
us, as we crossed the Ticino--bridged by a dear, old, arching,
wooden-roofed thing supported with a hundred granite columns--bubbled
and soared a group of grey domes and campaniles against a turquoise sky.

The roofed bridge, that seemed to be a lounging place and promenade, led
into a stately city, which impressed me as a regular factory for turning
out Italian history, so old it was, and so conscious, in a dignifi