r the next
morning, and again Blythe experienced the truth of her new theory.

It was our heroine's first glimpse of Europe, and no delectable detail
of their hour's drive, no exotic bloom, no strange Moorish costume, no
enchanting vista of cliff or sea, was lost upon her. Yet she felt that
even her enthusiasm paled before the deep, speechless ecstasy of the
little Cecilia. It was as if, in the tropical glow and fragrant
warmth, the child were breathing her native air,--as if she had come
to her own.

On their return, as the grimy old tug which had carried them across
the harbour came alongside the big steamer, the child suddenly
exclaimed, "_Ecco, il Signore!_" and, following the direction of her
gesture, their eyes met those of the Count looking down upon them. He
instantly moved away, and they had soon forgotten him, in the
pleasurable excitement of bestowing upon Giuditta the huge, hat-shaped
basket filled with fruit which they had brought for her.

Later in the day, as they weighed anchor and sailed out from the
shadow of the great Rock, Blythe found herself standing with Mr. Grey
at the stern-rail of their own deck, watching the face of the mighty
cliff as it changed with the varying perspective.

"Oh! I wish I were a poet or an artist or something!" she cried.

"Would you take that monstrous fortress for a subject?" he asked.

"Yes, and I should do something so splendid with it that nobody would
dare to be satirical!" and she glanced defiantly at her companion,
whose good-humoured countenance was wrinkling with amusement.

"Let us see," he said. "How would this do?" And he gravely repeated
the following:

"There once was a fortress named Gib,
Whose manners were haughty and--

What rhymes with Gib?"

"Glib!" Blythe cried.

"Good!

Whose manners were haughty and glib.
If you tried to get in,
She replied with a grin,--

Quick! Give me another rhyme for Gib."

"Rib!" Blythe suggested, audaciously.

"Excellent, excellent! Rib! Now, how does it go?

There once was a fortress named Gib,
Whose manners were haughty and glib!
If you tried to get in,
She replied, with a grin,
'I'm Great Britain's impregnable rib!'

Rather neat! Don't you think?"

"O Mr. Grey!" Blythe cried. "You've got to write that