ow that the people
said this, which was well, for it might have made her vain.

It was six miles from the railway station to Mr. Connor's house. But the
house was in sight all the way; it was so high up on the mountain-side
that it showed plainly, and as it was painted white, you could see it in
all directions like a lighthouse. Mr. Connor liked to be able to see it
from all places when he was riding about the valley. He said it looked
friendly to him; as if it said, all the time, "Here I am, you can come
home any minute you want to."

After they had driven about half way, Mr. Connor said,--

"Children, do you see that big square house up there on the mountain?
That is Connorloa."

"Whose house is it, Uncle George?" said Jusy.

"Why, did you not hear?" replied Mr. Connor. "It is Connorloa."

The children looked still more puzzled.

"Oh," laughed their uncle. "Is it possible nobody has told you the name
of my house? I have called it Connorloa, from my own name, and 'loa,'
which is the word in the Sandwich Islands for 'hill.' I suppose I might
have called it Connor Hill, but I thought 'loa' was prettier."

"Oh, so do I," said Jusy. "It is lovely. Connorloa, Connorloa," he
repeated. "Doesn't it sound like some of the names in Italy, Rea?" he
said.

"Prettier!" said little Rea. "No word in Italy, so pretty as Connorloa;
nor so nice as Uncle George."

"You dear, loving little thing!" cried Uncle George, throwing his arms
around her. "You are for all the world your mother over again."

"That's just what I've been saying to myself all the way home, Mr.
George," said Jim. "It's seemed to me half the time as if it were Miss
Julia herself; but the boy is not much like you."

"No," said Jusy proudly, throwing back his handsome head, and his eyes
flashing. "I am always said to be exactly the portrait of my father; and
when I am a man, I am going back to Italy to live in the King's palace,
and wear my father's sword."

"I sha'n't go," said Rea, nestling close to her uncle. "I shall stay in
Connorloa with Uncle George. I hate palaces. Your house isn't a palace,
is it, Uncle George? It looks pretty big."

"No, my dear; not by any means," replied Mr. Connor, laughing heartily.
"But why do you hate palaces, my little Rea? Most people think it would
be the finest thing possible to live in a palace."

"I don't," said Rea. "I just hate them; the rooms are so big and so
cold; and the marble floors are so slip-py, I've had