hich he filled with
water and offered to Edith.

As he looked beyond the girl, he met a piercing glance from a pair of
brilliant blue eyes. This time he knew the king at once, and saluted
him.

The king smiled, saying to his aide, "I have seen that boy before. He
wore the look then of an older Italy, but now he has the promise of
the young country in his eyes."

Rafael wrote his mother of that smile. "I could follow the king
anywhere for another like it," the letter said.

Then he wrote of the heavy Roman faces; the hard, tiresome pavements,
and the noisy clang of the street cars,--all so different from his
bright, silent Venice.

"But there are pleasant things," he wrote. "There are many beautiful
fountains where the water gushes all day; and I often go out of my way
for a sight of the Pope's soldiers, the Swiss Guard, standing at the
entrance to the Vatican. They make me think of our Venetian
mooring-posts with their many-colored stripes; and their stately
halberds are not unlike the prow of our gondolas. I am very grateful
to Michael Angelo for designing a costume which reminds me of home.

"Often we meet schools of boys walking two by two, wearing black
dress-suits and high, stiff black hats, and I am glad I am not one of
them."

His mother sighed as she read of his endless pleasure, and wondered if
it would estrange him from his quiet life in Venice. Then she wrote a
long letter in answer, in which she said, "Remember that the fine old
Roman character was weakened through ease and indulgence. Remember,
also, that our young king likes nothing so much as devotion to duty."

Her letter ended with a quotation from an English poet,--"Live pure,
speak true, right wrong, follow the king."

Rafael read between the lines that she feared he would learn to like
his happy life with the Spragues too well. He lifted his eyes from the
letter and acknowledged to himself that this freedom from care and
responsibility was very pleasant. Mrs. Sprague indulged him as she
indulged Edith. The treasures of the shops flowed into his own room as
well as hers, and no door which money could open remained closed to
them in this city of precious sights.

His eyes fell again to the letter, and a choking feeling filled his
throat as he pictured his mother sitting alone in the home in Venice.
"The dear, lonely mother!" he said to himself. "My letters have given
her sad thoughts."

Then, with a boy's carelessness, he said, laughing