hotel. As every one was very tired and hungry Miss
Morley succumbed to the voice of this siren, and permitted her to escort
them by what she assured them would be a short cut and would save many
steps. But alas for Italian veracity! Their suave and smiling guide led
them down a path at the back of the hotel to a shabby and dirty little
restaurant of her own, where she vehemently assured them she would
provide them with a far cheaper meal, an offer which, at the sight of
the crumby table-cloth, they resolutely refused.

"The old humbug! I'd no idea she was decoying us away from the hotel.
Really nobody can be trusted up here," fumed Miss Morley. "Come along,
girls. I told the conductor to reserve a table for us, and there won't
be time to have lunch before the train starts unless we're quick."

So they all hurried back again up the path--much to the chagrin of the
siren--and found their own way into the hotel, where seats had been kept
for them in the restaurant, and dishes of macaroni and vegetables and
cups of hot coffee were in readiness.

The great attraction to the girls was the fact that if they bought
post-cards at the hotel these could be stamped by the conductor of the
train with the Vesuvius postmark, and posted in a special pillar-box at
the station. The idea of sending cards to their friends actually from
the volcano itself was most fascinating, and they scribbled away till
the last available moment.

"I guess some homes in America will be startled when they see these,"
purred Peachy, addressing flaming representations of an eruption. "It
ought just to make Nell Condy's eyes pop out."

"I'm only afraid they won't believe we've really been," sighed Delia,
skeptically.

"They'll have to, with the Vesuvius postmark. The post-office can't tell
fibs at any rate. I call these cards a bit of luck. Be a sport,
somebody, and lend me an extra stamp. I'm cleared out, and haven't so
much as a nickel left."

"Hurry, girls, or we shan't get places in the train," urged Miss Morley,
sweeping her party from the hotel into the station, where other tourists
were beginning to crowd into the carriages.

The platform was a characteristic Italian scene; a blind man with a
guitar was singing gay Neapolitan songs in a beautiful tenor voice, a
woman with a lovely brown-eyed baby was calling oranges, an old man with
a red cap and a faded blue umbrella under his arm offered specimens of
hand-made lace, while a roguish-looking