railway station. My heart beat high with joy and excitement, for I
succeeded in establishing Miss Van with Salemina in one gondola,
while I took all the luggage in another, ridding myself thus
cleverly of the disenchanting influence of Miss Van's company.

"Do come with us, Penelope," she said, as we issued from the
portico of the station and heard, instead of the usual cab-drivers'
pandemonium, only the soft lapping of waves against the marble
steps--"Do come with us, Penelope, and let us enter 'dangerous and
sweet-charmed Venice' together. It does, indeed, look a 'veritable
sea-bird's nest.'"

She had informed me before, in Milan, that Cassiodorus, Theodoric's
secretary, had thus styled Venice, but somehow her slightest remark
is out of key. I can always see it printed in small type in a
footnote at the bottom of the page, and I always wish to skip it,
as I do other footnotes, and annotations, and marginal notes and
addenda. If Miss Van's mother had only thought of it, Addenda
would have been a delightful Christian name for her, and much more
appropriate than Celia.

If I should be asked on bended knees, if I should be reminded that
every intelligent and sympathetic creature brings a pair of fresh
eyes to the study of the beautiful, if it should be affirmed that
the new note is as likely to be struck by the 'prentice as by the
master hand, if I should be assured that my diary would never be
read, I should still refuse to write my first impressions of
Venice. My best successes in life have been achieved by knowing
what not to do, and I consider it the finest common sense to step
modestly along in beaten paths, not stirring up, even there, any