The little bedroom off at one side is draped in coarse white
cotton, and is simple enough for a nun. Not a suggestion there of
the fripperies of a fine lady's toilet, but, in their stead, heads
of cherubs, wings of angels, slender bell-towers, friezes of
acanthus leaves,--beauty of line and form everywhere, and not a
hint of colour save in the riotous bunches of poppies and oleanders
that lie on the broad window-seats or stand upright in great blue
jars.

Here the Little Genius lives, like the hermit crab that she calls
herself; here she dwells apart from kith and kin, her mind and
heart and miracle-working hands taken captive by the charms of the
siren city of the world.

When we had explored Casa Rosa from turret to foundation stone we
went into the garden at the rear of the house--a garden of flowers
and grape-vines, of vegetables and fruit-trees, of birds and bee-
hives, a full acre of sweet summer sounds and odours, stretching to
the lagoon, which sparkled and shimmered under the blue Italian
skies. The garden completed our subjugation, and here we stay
until we are removed by force, or until the padrona's mortgage is
paid unto the last penny, when I feel that the Little Genius will
hang a banner on the outer ramparts, a banner bearing the
relentless inscription: "No paying guests allowed on these
premises until further notice."

Our domestics are unique and interesting. Rosalia, the cook, is a
graceful person with brown eyes, wavy hair, and long lashes, and
when she is coaxing her charcoal fire with a primitive fan of
cock's feathers, her cheeks as pink as oleanders, the Little Genius