a sigh, and Mae walked away with a sigh. It was only a little morning's
experience, sharp words, misunderstandings; but the child was young, far
from home and her mother, and it seemed hard to her. She was in a very
wild mood, a very hard mood, and yet all ready to be softened by a kind,
sympathetic word, so nearly do extremes of emotion meet.

"There's no one to care a pin about me," said she to herself, "not a
pin. I have a great mind to go and take the veil or drown myself in the
Tiber. Then they would be bound to search for me, and convent vows and
Tiber mud hold one fast. No, I won't, I'll go and sit in the Pincian
gardens and talk Italian with the very first person I meet and forget
all about myself. I wish Mr. Mann wouldn't pity me. Dear me, here I am
remembering these forlorn people again. I wish I could see mamma and
home this morning,--the dear old library. Why the house is shut up and
mamma's south. I forgot that, and here am I all alone. It is like being
dead. There, I have dropped a tear on my tie and spoiled it! Besides, if
one is dead, there comes Heaven. Why shouldn't I play dead, and make my
own Heaven?" Here Mae seated herself, for she was on the Pincio by this
time, and looked off at the view, at that wonderful view of St. Peter's,
the Tiber, all the domes and rising ruins and afar the campagna. "I
wouldn't make my Heaven here," thought this dreadful Mae, "not if it is
beautiful. I'd not stay here a single other day. Bah no!" and she shook
her irreverent little fist right down at the Eternal City.

At this moment, a small beggar, who had been pleading unnoticed at her
side, was lifted from his feet by a powerful hand, and a shower of soft
Italian imprecations fell on Mae's ear. She sprang up quickly, "No, no,"
she cried in Italian, "how dare you hurt a harmless boy?" She lifted
her face full toward that of the man who had inspired her wrath, and her
eyes met those of the Piedmontese officer. She blushed scarlet.