nd hurrahed with
all their hearts and voices, as well they might, for it certainly was a
sight to see. The courage of the King, in trusting himself in a city
full of enemies, touched the people quite as much as the kindly motive
that brought him there, and kept him sacred in their eyes.

The girls had a second view of him on the balcony of the Quirinal; for
the populace clamoured so for another sight of 'Il Re,' that the Pope's
best velvet hangings were hastily spread, and Victor Emmanuel came out
and bowed to his people, 'who stood on their heads with joy,' as Amanda
expressed it.

He was in citizen's dress, and looked like a stout, brown, soldierly
man, not so ugly as the pictures of him, but not an Apollo by any means.

Hating ceremony and splendour, he would not have the fine apartments
prepared for him, but chose a plain room, saying, 'Keep the finery for
my son, if you like; I prefer this.'

He drove through the Ghetto, and all the desolated parts of the city,
to see with his own eyes the ruin made; and then desired the city
fathers to give to the poor the money they had set apart to make a
splendid welcome for him.

He only spent one day, and returned to Florence at night. All Rome was
at the station to see him off: ladies with carriages full of flowers,
troops of soldiers, and throngs of poor people blessing him like a
saint; for this kingly sympathy of his had won all hearts.

'When he does make his grand entry, we will decorate our balcony, and
have our six windows packed with loyal Yankees who will hurrah their
best for "the honest man," as they call Victor Emmanuel--and that is
high praise for a king.'

So said the three, and while waiting for the event (which did not occur
in their day, however,) they indulged in all the pastimes modern Rome
afforded. They shivered through endless galleries, getting 'cricks' in
their necks staring at frescoes, and injuring their optic nerves poring
over pictures so old that often nothing was visible but a
mahogany-coloured leg, an oily face, or the dim outline of a green saint
in a whirlwind of pink angels.

They grubbed in catacombs and came up mouldy. They picnicked in the tomb
of Caecelia Metella, flirted in the palace of the Caesars--not in the
classical manner, however,--got cold by moonlight in the Colosseum, and
went sketching in the Baths of Caracalla, which last amusement generally
ended in the gentlemen and ladies drawing each other, and returning
deligh