wn fond of canals since the neighbourhood of
Milan, finding them as companionable as rivers, if more tame. Indeed,
they seem like rivers that have gone to live in town, where they've
learned to be a bit stilted and mechanical in manner.

The farmhouses, standing but a short distance back from the level of the
road, were manorial in a queer way; two or three of them, exquisite old
things, their great roofed balconies covered with ivy and blossoming
creepers. The women we met were pretty, too--so pretty often that, as
Sir Ralph said, it wouldn't have been safe for them to walk out in the
feudal ages, as they would promptly have been kidnapped by the nearest
seignior. We might have guessed that we were not far out from Venice by
the gorgeous Titian hair of the peasant children playing by the wayside,
or a copper coil twisted above a girl's dark eyes.

"How long a time shall we spend in Padua, Countess?" asked the
Chauffeulier as we came within sight of a gateway, some domes and
campanili.

"Oh, don't let's make up our mind till we get there," replied Aunt
Kathryn comfortably.

"But we are there," said he. "In another minute the little men of the
_dazio_ will be tapping our bags as a doctor taps his patient's lungs."

Padua! Each time that we actually arrived in one of these wonderful old
places, it was an electric shock for me. I had to shake myself,
mentally, to make it seem true. But if it was like a dream to enter the
place of Petruchio's love story, what would it be by-and-by--oh, a very
quick-coming by-and-by--to see Venice? I hardly dared let my thoughts go
on to that moment for fear they should get lost in it, and refuse to
come back. Sufficient for the day was the Padua thereof.

Not so beautiful as Verona, still the learned and dignified old city had
a curiously individual charm of its own, which I felt instantly. I loved
the painted palaces, especially those where most of the paint had worn
off, leaving but a lovely face, or some folds of a velvet robe, or a
cardinal's hat to hint its story to the imagination. The old arcaded
streets were asleep, and grass sprouted among the cobbles. Where they
followed the river we had glimpses of gardens and arbours backed with
roses, or an almond tree--like a rosy bride leaning on a
soldier-lover's neck--peeped at us, side by side with a dark ilex, over
a high brick wall.

"How long _ought_ we to stay in Padua?" Aunt Kathryn deigned to ask, as
if in delayed answer to t