Lucy was soon curled in her chair; but no, she wasn't! She was
under a blue, blue sky, as she had never dreamt of; clear, sharp,
purple hills rose up against it. There was a rippling little
fountain, bursting out of a rock, carved with old, old carvings,
broken now and defaced, but shadowed over by lovely maidenhair fern
and trailing bindweed; and in a niche above a little roof, a figure
of the Blessed Virgin. Some way off stood a long, low house propped
up against the rich yellow stone walls and pillars of another old,
old building, and with a great chestnut-tree shadowing it. It had
a balcony, and the gable end was open, and full of big yellow
pumpkins and clusters of grapes hung up to dry; and some goats
were feeding round.

Then came a merry, merry voice singing something about _la vendemmia_;
and though Lucy had never learnt Italian, her wonderful dream
knowledge made her sure that this meant the vintage, the grape-
gathering. Presently there came along a youth playing a violin and
a little girl singing. And a whole party of other children, all
loaded with as many grapes as they could carry, came leaping and
singing after them; their black hair loose, or sometimes twisted
with vine-leaves; their big black eyes dancing with merriment, and
their bare, brown legs with glee.

"Ah! Cecco, Cecco! cried the little girl, pausing as she beat her
tambourine, "here's a stranger who has no grapes; bring them here!"

"But," said Lucy, "aren't they your mamma's grapes; may you give
them away?"

"Ah, ah! 'tis the _vendemmia!_ all may eat grapes; as much as they