all the way from distant blue hills over countless orange, olive, and
mulberry groves filled the room, and fluttered the paper upon which the
girls were writing; it was their weekly letter budget.

The fair faces were flushed as they bent over the crowded sheets so soon
to be scanned by dear eyes at home. How much there was to tell of the
events of the past week! Drives through the streets of the famous city;
through the lovely Cascine; up to San Miniato and Fiesole; visits to
churches, palaces, and picture-galleries; days filled to overflowing
with the new life among foreign scenes.

Suddenly Barbara, throwing aside her pen, exclaimed:--

"Betty dear, don't you sometimes feel most horribly ignorant?"

"Why? when?"

"Oh! I am just writing about our visit to Santa Croce the other day. I
enjoyed so much the fine spaces within the church, the softened light,
and some of the monuments. But when we came to those chapels whose walls
are covered with paintings,--you remember, where we met that Mr. Sherman
and his daughters who came over on the _Kaiser_ with us,--I tried to
understand why they were so interested there. They were studying the
paintings for such a long time, and I heard some of the things they were
saying about them. They thought them perfectly wonderful; and that Miss
Sherman who has such lovely eyes said she thought it worth coming from
America to Italy just to see them and other works by the same artist.
Mr. Sumner, too, heard what she said, and gave her such a pleased,
admiring look. After they had gone out from the chapel where are
pictures representing scenes in the life of St. Francis, I went in and