more Italian and French.

for me.

But others say I won't need the languages at all-they speak English everywhere. Old Mrs. Massey said that going by the southern route and seeing Italy first will just ruin France and England And Mr. Yeaton said that I'd appreciate England a lot more coming on it that way he says when you actually hear some English spoken after so many months, you just about pass away. Some say that they had the most awful times with the customs and the rest that they never had one bit of trouble. Some people tell me never under any circumstances to let myself go about unchaperoned, and others tell me that an American girl can go alone all over Europe. That friend of Mrs. Ellis's gave me a long list of things you could get cheaper in Europe and, after she was gone, Mrs. Ellis said you could get every one of them for half the price in the Boston department stores. Mrs. Haywood said I ought to be ashamed for not seeing my own wonderful country first, though I don't know what that's got to do with it. I've just about made up my mind, father, that I am not going to pay any attention whatever to what people say to me."

But the time came when, trunk packed for the last time, Phoebe stood on the wharf-a trim little navy-blue figure--beyond the reach of criticism or suggestion. One arm was slipped through her father's, the other was clasped tight about her mother's waist. "There's only one thing I want you to promise me," she said, the tears streaming down her cheeks, "and that is—when I come home, no matter what time I get in, day or night, you'll come into Boston to meet me.'

"Of course, child," Mrs. Martin said, her own eyes swimming, and "Sure, Phoebe!" Mr. Martin said, with a palpable assumption

of cheer.

DEAREST FAMILY

"Don't be worried, my dear. She knows what side her bread's buttered on." As for the ship's doctor, he spends all his evenings there he's a great big, fatherly Englishman. Whenever I telling him about one of her sicknesses or her came in during the evening Mrs. Warburton was operations. To-day she showed me a check for fifty dollars that she had made out for him. She says he's helped her a lot. How-I don't see. Unless it was just listening to her.

I simply adore life on board ship. In the first place, they have the nicest things to eat that I ever put in my face. And, in the second place, you do meet such interesting people. There's He lives summers Mr. Waring, for instance. "the colony"-it seems the people there are all in a place in New England, in what he calls painters and sculptors and writers and actors and musicians and things like that. The rest of the year he lives in Florence. I can't quite make up my mind whether he's young or old-I should say about forty. He's very plain, but most distinguished-looking. His hair is a little long, and he has awfully interesting hands. He wears the most wonderful clothes I ever saw in my life on ings and scarfpin match, if gray ditto. He talks a man. If his suit is brown, his tie and stock

very slowly, with a sort of accent-and, yet, it isn't an accent. Anyway, it has an awfully swell sound-cultured, if you know what I mean. I just love to listen to him. Especially when he talks about art-he's an artist. When we discuss books, we have awful fights. When I told him that I read all the best sellers in "The BookBut he fellow" lists, I thought he would swoon. needn't talk.

I never even heard of the writers had to read some of his essays in High, and maybe he's so crazy about-except Walter Pater. We he wasn't stupid!

Then there's a Mr. Anderson-the dearest old man I ever saw. He's short and stumpy, with twinkling eyes and a beard shaped just like a fan

he looks exactly like Santa Claus. Just think, mother, he went to Rome to study art when he was eighteen. He's been going to Rome whenever he could get a chance ever since. James Russell Lowell was of the party, and the stories he tells me about him and about Rome-oh, it's simply fascinating. He says Rome isn't anything like so beautiful now as it was then. Isn't it funny how nothing ever is so good as it was once when you get there? I guess the first thing the serpent said to Eve was, "Oh, my poor child, you should have seen the place the fifth day of creation?"

enough to condemn him. He still does those formal, academic, early-Victorian, late-Dutch, London-Graphic-Supplement things-old peasant grandmothers teaching little girls how to make lace, old peasant grandfathers teaching little boys how to walk."

There are no young girls on board ship, but some young men. I dance with them occasionally, and play shuffleboard-but not much. You know I'm not so crazy about young men as most girls are. I think they're very shallow.

We stopped at the Azores, but were not allowed to land. Oh, wasn't I heart-broken! But we had an hour at Gibraltar-Gib, you call it, if you want to be classy. Mother, you never saw anything like that rock. I got up before sunrise to see it, and it certainly looked like a monstrous crouching lion. When you get near, it's exactly like that advertisement in the magazines, only that's the side you get going away from it. The

so different. For a little while after we passed the Straits, we could see the coast of Africa. Father, you can't imagine what a queer sensation it gave me to think that Africa was over there. Just think of it! AFRICA! Then came the coast of Spain, France, Sardinia-mostly bare and rocky and terrifying, but beautiful. When we caught our first glimpse of Italy, you should have heard the Italians in the hold cheer. Now we're approaching Naples, and I must stop writing. You don't know how I miss you, my precious, lovely, beautiful family. Tell Ern to be careful about cramp when he goes in swimming.

Your loving,

РНОЕВЕ.

Oh, mother! Oh, father! Oh, Ern! Just as soon as I get home again, I shall begin saving up my money so that when I'm a lonely old maid, and nobody in the whole world cares for me, I can come here to Naples and spend the whole rest of my life. I thought that Gib was

wonderful-I never even think of it now. For,

compared with Naples, Gib is- If I only knew where to begin to tell you about it. But I don't. I'm up against it. It is all so simply heavenly!

Well, I hung over the rail all the way into Naples and I never saw such a panorama of beauty. Netta Walsh can stop bragging about San Francisco Bay, because I'm sure Naples has it stung to a frazzle. As for Naples itself—it's just tumbling down hill as fast as it can tumble. All the houses are painted the most extraordinary colors-pink and blue and purple and red and yellow, and they've all faded in the sun and rain. At first I thought that was a dreadful pity, but Mr. Waring told me that colors aren't attractive at all in the artistic sense until they're faded, and I see he's right now. At any rate, everybody says, "How beautifully it's faded!" to every blessed thing we look at. And they say, "That's nice-very nice," to the most gorgeous things. Think of saying a thing's nice when it's just perfectly swell ! In the midst of all these rainbow houses are beautiful gray churches and beautiful gray forts, greeny-gray stone pines like open umbrellas, and greeny-black cypresses like closed ones, and greeny-silver olives like a dusty mist, and stalwart peasant men and beautiful, madonna-looking peasant women and perfect cherubs and angels and cupids and ducks of darling little children. And beyond, the blue, blue bay, full of ships, and, above the blue, blue sky full of clouds. And as if that wasn't enough, a real live volcano smoking in the distance. Mother, it just beggars description.

Of course, we've been into some of the shops that are all of a shiny black wood with gilt lettering, and simply hung with coral and amber. And, Mother Martin, I bought you something in one of them though, which it is, amber or coral, I'm not going to tell. Maybe you're not going to look sweet in it! And we've been to churches and artgalleries and the beautiful Aquarium and, more wonderful than all these, up Vesuvius, and, most wonderful of all, to Pompeii. Father, I just live to go to Pompeii with you. I never was so thrilled in my life. I'm reading "The Last Days of Pompeii" all over again, and it's so exciting. Mr. Waring went with us, but he didn't seem to be very enthusiastic. He said that, after Egypt, Pompeii looked like a dust-heap. Mrs. Warbur

Mother Martin, you would never suppose that dirt would be beautiful, would you? Well, it is! Naples is the most beautiful place in the world, and the dirtiest. Mr. Waring said that, and Í guess he's right there. When I look back on disgustingly clean and regular, everything just so. Maywood, is seems such a strange little place, so We never will have any real artistic beauty in America until we learn to be dirty. At least, that's what Mr. Waring says. I think the Women's Clubs ought to do something about itreally. Oh, how I love you all, and how I miss world-to have you with me! you. What wouldn't I give anything in this

Your loving,

РНОЕВЕ.

"I don't know that I'd like a city to be too dirty," Mrs. Martin said.

"I must take Phoebe for a little walk on the dump when she comes back if she finds herself getting discontented," Mr. Martin said.

"Why didn't she say what the crater of Vesuvius looked like?" Ernest said. MY DEAREST FAMILY:

Well, here I am in Rome! And if you think that if I started now and just wrote for the rest of my life that I could tell you all about this place, you are very much mistaken, for I couldn't. I haven't words enough. I was wrong about Naples being the most lovely place in the world. Rome puts it all over Naples. Here's the place I'm going to live in when my ship comes in.

I'll begin with the very first day. Because whatever I tell you, I don't want to forget what Mr. Anderson did. You remember he was the lovely old artist on board ship. He was intending to go straight on to Siena, but the last day he said that there was something in Rome that he wanted to show me before anybody else got a chance, and he made an engagement with me for my first day. He called for me at the Hotel, and we took a long winding walk through the cityoh, family, it was so strange and so beautiful and so fascinating. We came to a corner, and Mr. Anderson said, "Now close your eyes!" and I did. He took my arm and led me for a little distance. Then he said. "Keep your eyes closed tight. We're going upstairs." And we did-until my knees ached. Then we walked, my eyes still closed, on level ground for a little while. "Now look!" he commanded. And, Mother and Father and Ern-what do you think? There I was on a kind of balcony or terrace, looking down on the Roman Forum. I could not speak for a moment.

The funny thing about it was that Mr. Anderson, who'd stopped off in Rome as far as I could see just to show me that, did not look at the Forum itself at first. He looked at me. And, mother, his eyes were full of tears. I guess that shows you how he loves it. I knew it was the Forum the instant I looked at it because it was exactly like that steel engraving of Aunt Mary's that hung so many years over the mantel, and I made you put in the barn when father got the new furniture. Maybe I'm not going to snake it out and hang it up again the moment I get home.

From there, Mr. Anderson

we turned a corner and there it was. Oh, family, such a great big, brown, faded heap of stone, the colonnades of monster pillars, the fountains like wedding-veils, the statues, and-and-everything. I just rose to my feet and said, "Oh! Oh!

took me round to the Campodoglio, down into the Forum, and over to the Coliseum. We went to lunch, and then we explored the Palatine Hill, and he took a carriage, and we went out to the Baths of Caracalla. And oh! the things he told me about all these places! When I went to bed that night, I could not sleep. Maybe I'm not going to study Roman history when I get home.

Mr. Anderson only stayed that one day. After he went away, I went about with Mr. Waring, who came on from Naples with us. You see, Mrs. Warburton hates touristing, and says she's seen all these things a dozen times before. She says it makes her blue to go into churches. Goodness, I can't understand that!-I just love them. There are four hundred churches in Rome, and I made up my mind that I'd see every one of them. Well, I haven't done that, and I guess I won't. You see, many of them are only opened once a year on the day of their tutelary saint and, unless you happen to be here at that time, you can't get in. I think I must have done a hundred, though I never pass a church that's open without going in. Mr. Waring only stayed a few days, and I was almost glad when he went on to Florence, for it used to make me so tired the way he knocked Rome. I've been about a good deal alone this last week. I wander around with my Baedecker in the morning, and in the afternoon Mrs. Warburton takes me to drive. Perhaps one reason why I love Rome so is because I've done so much of it by myself.

I go to St. Peter's every other day. The first time I went we took a street-car. I didn't realize that we were anywhere near it when, suddenly,

OH!" each one louder than the last. Everybody in the car looked at me and smiled, but so sympathetically, for they knew just what I was going through. I've been back there loads of times, and I have studied with the utmost care every bit of statuary and every painting and every chapel in it. Still, there are other churches in Rome I love more. St. Peter's

is not at all cozy, if you know what I mean.

Of course, I've been to the Vatican again and again. It simply fascinates me-there's such an air of mystery about it, and-and-oh, I don't know exactly how to put it-power-I guess.

There was the most wonderful man lived in Rome once. His name was Bernini. And I guess he was the busiest man that ever inhabited this earth. He just about did the entire decoration of Rome. I never had even heard of him before, but I think he's a very great genius. Whenever I read in Baedecker that there's something he did anywhere near where I am, I just beat it to it and study it hard.

What with the priests and monks and nuns that you see everywhere, and all the churches and masses and religious anniversaries, this place is just saturated with holiness. Sometimes I think I would rather be a nun than anything else in the world. I think it must be beautiful to lead a life of calm contemplation, away from the world, superior to it, and forgotten by it. I guess I'm not going to be so frivolous after this.

But, after all, it's the ruins of Rome that I love most. That's the great out about America, mother-there are no ruins there. If we could only have a tumble-down cathedral on Maywood Common, with broken pillars and things like that. I guess that's what I shall miss most when I get home.

Tell Ern that when he sees the place of the Cæsars on the Palatine Hill, he won't regret one moment that he spent slaving over his Latin.

Tell father that I chased all over Rome to get something that my heart was set on bringing

home to him. And I found it, too! It's the loveliest thing! I'm not going to say what it is, but it has something to do with Julius Cæsar. Loads of love and kisses to my sweetest, darlingest family!

РНОЕВЕ.

P. S.-I've seen Hilda's Tower and now I'm reading "The Marble Faun" all over again.

"What a fine man that Mr. Anderson must be," Mrs. Martin said.

"Yes, but I don't know that I care so much for Waring." Mr. Martin said.

"Gee, Phoebe'd make a healthy nun," Ernest said.

MY DEAREST FAMILY:

Well, here I am in Florence. And Florence is -I don't know how I'm going to describe it to you-but it's different from any other place I've seen. I guess on the whole I think it's the most beautiful city I've been in yet. It certainly puts it all over Naples. As for Rome-well, beside Florence, Rome seems kind of austere, if you know what I mean. Here you feel just like singing and laughing all the time. It's winsome -that's the only word I can think of to describe it, and that isn't exactly right. Then again, Rome had no real art-atmosphere. Here, the art-atmosphere is so thick-Mother, I wonder the place doesn't jell. Every moment I can get to myself, I'm reading "Romola," and I can't tell you how it illumines the city for me.

Florence itself is lovely-just a huddle of redbrown roofs and old stone walls thrown up and down the hills, and nestling about the river. And such interesting people come here-highbrow's no name for them. It's the thing to be mad about Florence, and I can understand how it's perfectly easy. Mr. Waring's here he has a villa in Fiesole. Mrs. Warburton and I go there quite often in the afternoon for tea. At first I thought his studio was the barest, strangest place I ever was in. But I see now that it's very, very artistic. To be artistic, mother, in any subtle sense, you must have only a few things about. In fact, his walls consist mainly of beautifully-managed bare spaces. Maybe I won't yank down all those passe-partout things I put up on our walls-the moment I get home. I'm going to revolutionize the whole house-I'm just full of ideas.

Mr. Waring has taught me a lot. He's been taking me about to the galleries. You see, Mrs. Warburton is all in after half an hour in a gallery, whereas I could live in one. So Mr. Waring has undertaken to teach me what's good and what isn't. I am so glad he's doing that, for I have been dead wrong about a whole lot of things. Take Rome, for instance! It seems that that Bernini, whose stuff I was so crazy about, is the extreme limit in the artistic world. He's baroque, and you might just as well do chromos as be baroque. How I first realized what breaks I was making was when I asked Mr. Waring if he didn't

think St. Peter's was wonderful, and he said, "Oh, the place itself is very noble, but it's absolutely ruined by all that shameless bric-a-brac."

Mother, I didn't dare tell him that I spent days and days studying everything in St. Peter's, and that I made a red-crayon cross in my Baedecker beside each thing as fast as I looked at it. But I am learning. I referred to Rome the other day as Berniniville-on-the-Tiber, and Mr. Waring laughed and put it down in his note-book.

But it is rather perplexing, for I naturally adore a whole lot of things he tells me I mustn't. But on one thing we're agreed-that's Botticelli's Primavera. Õh, mother, she is so much like Mrs. Raikes-more when you see the real thing with the colors in it. I sent her a picture post-card the other day, telling her so. I can sit before that picture for ages, just lost in contemplation. I like the other Botticellis too, but not so much. It's the most curious thing, mother-his women all look like Swedes to me.

Oh, mother, and father, and Ern, how I want to see you-how I want to see you. But sometimes I have an awful sinking in my heart when I think of living in America again. I could get along without the artistic dirtiness of Naples, and the ruins of Rome. But I shall miss this art atmosphere awfully. Once you get that in your system, it seems as if you could not possibly stand the newness and rawness and crudeness of America. Mr. Waring says you can't, and I guess you can't. You will understand when you come here. If I could map my life out, I'd save up all my money until I had enough to buy a villa here, and then just lead the idle delicious kind of life Mr. Waring leads, seeing only the best pictures, listening only to the best music, buying exquisitely-bound little books of poems and essays by people the hoi polloi never heard of, and exercising the utmost care not to meet the wrong people. Mr. Waring says he doesn't create, he appreciates. He says that he does not believe in doing, but in living exquisitely. That's a perfectly lovely idea, I think, but I guess you'd have to have an independent income.

Mother, I'd work my fingers to the bone for you all to see this wonderful old world.

Your loving, РНОЕВЕ.

"How carried away the child is!" Mrs. Martin said.

"I'm afraid we're in for another line of interior decoration when Phoebe gets home," Mr. Martin said.

"Wouldn't I like to hand that Waring a bunch of fives!" Ernest said.

TO THE DEAREST FAMILY ANY GIRL EVER HAD: I'm in Venice. I've written those words and looked at them hard. I guess it's true, because they don't vanish before my eyes. But I can't seem to make myself believe it. Venice, I'll write it again. VENICE! Mother, think of all the descriptions you ever read of it. Think of all