ds that pleases the ear
rather more than does our word 'cemetery,'" said Mr. Sumner.

"But there is something especially interesting about this Campo Santo,
isn't there?" queried Barbara, and added: "I do hope I shall remember
all such things after I have really seen the places!"

"You surely will, my dear," said Mrs. Douglas; "ever afterward they will
be realities to you, not mere stories."

Mr. Sumner resumed: "The Campo Santo of Pisa is the first one that was
laid out in Italy, and it is still by far the most beautiful. It
possesses the dimensions of Noah's Ark, and is literally holy ground,
for it was filled with fifty-three shiploads of earth brought from Mount
Calvary, so that the dead of Pisa repose in sacred ground. The inner
sides of its walls were decorated with noble paintings, many of which
are now completely faded. We will come to see those which remain some
day."

"How strange it all is!" said Bettina. "How different from anything we
see at home! Think of ships sent to the Holy Land for earth from Mount
Calvary, and their coming back over the Mediterranean laden with such a
cargo!"

"Only a superstitious, imaginative people, such as the Italians are,
would have done such a thing," said Mrs. Douglas; "and only in the
mediaeval age of the world."

"But," she went on with a bright smile, "it is the same spirit that has
reared such exquisite buildings for the worship of God and filled them
with rare, sacred marbles and paintings that are beyond price to the
world of art. I always feel when I come hither and see the present
poverty of the beautiful land that the whole world is its debtor, and
can never repay what it owes."

Chapter III.

In Beautiful Florence.

_For to the highest she did still aspyre;
Or, if ought higher were then that, did it desyre._

--SPENSER.

[Illustration: CHURCH OF THE ANNUNZIATA, FLORENCE.]

One afternoon, about two weeks later, Barbara and Bettina were sitting
in their pleasant room in Florence. The wide-open windows looked out
upon the slopes of that lovely hill on whose summit is perched Fiesole,
the poor little old mother of Florence, who still holds watch over her
beautiful daughter stretched at her feet. Scented airs which had swept
all the way from distant blue hills over countless orange, olive, and
mulberry groves filled the room, and fluttered the paper upon which the
girls were writing; it was their weekly letter budget.

The fair faces