he resolved that she
would study up every subject that presented itself, and set Rupert upon
doing the same. St. Leger might take care of himself. Yet Dolly's
conscience would not let him go so. No; one can be nobody's travelling
companion for days or weeks, without having duties to fulfil towards
him; but Dolly thought the duties were very difficult in this her
particular case. If her father would but come! And therewith Dolly sat
down and wrote him the tenderest, lovingest of letters, telling him
about their journey, and the glass windows; and begging him to meet
them in Dresden or before, so that they might see the fabulous Green
vaults together. In any case, she begged him to make such provision
that Mrs. Copley might not be disappointed of seeing them. All Dolly's
eloquence and some tears were poured out upon that sheet of paper; and
as she sealed it up she felt again that she was surely growing to be a
woman; the days of her childhood were gone.

Not so far off, however, but that Dolly's spirits sprang up again after
the letter was despatched, and were able to take exquisite pleasure in
everything the further journey offered. Even the unattractive was
novel, and what was not unattractive was so charming. She admired the
quaint, clean, bright, fanciful Dutch towns; the abundance of flowers
still to be seen abroad; the smiling country places surrounding the
towns; the strange carvings and devices on the houses; the crooked
streets.

"You are the first person I ever saw," Lawrence said admiringly, "who
found beauty in crooked streets."

"Do you like straight ones?" said Dolly.

"Certainly. Why not?"

"You look from end to end; you see all there is at once; walk and walk
as you may, there is no change, but the same wearisome lines of houses.
Now when streets are not straight, but have windings and turnings, you
are always coming to something new."

"I suppose you like them to be up hill and down too?"

"Oh, very much!"

"You do not find that in Holland."

"No, but in Boston."

"Ah, indeed!" said Lawrence.

"I wonder," Dolly went on, "what makes one nation so different from
another. _You_ are on an island; but here there is only a line between
Holland and Germany, and the people are not alike."

"Comes from what they eat," said Lawrence.

"Their _food?_" said Dolly.

"Yes. The Scotchman lives upon porridge, the Englishman on beef and
porter, the German on sausages and beer."

"The French?"

"Oh,