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said with a shudder. "I never want to see Vesuvius again." She was plainly homesick. It was a sudden ending to the "long thoughts of youth" which had filled so many hours with bright anticipations; but she was in such a hurry to get away from the buried city that they took the next train back to Naples without even stopping to buy picture postcards of the ruins. When they reached their hotel in Naples they found a foreign war-ship anchored in the bay. "There is the old man-of-war threatening us from the land, and here is one in the bay," exclaimed Edith. "It makes me nervous!" Mrs. Sprague saw that her daughter was tired. "We will go back to Rome to-morrow," she said. "But I want to buy a lottery ticket before we leave Naples," said the girl. "Befana will fill your stockings with ashes if you do," said Rafael. "Everybody in Italy buys lottery tickets. Why should not I?" asked Edith perversely. "I do it not," said Rafael shortly. "That is because your wonderful king does not believe in it," she answered. "Is that not a good reason?" asked the boy. He looked at her with the same expression he wore in Venice, when she spoke slightingly of the superstitions of his country, and as she knew him better now, she laughed and agreed with him. "I did not really mean to do it," she said, and added, "Tell me more about Befana." "How I used to shake in my bed when I heard her bell ring!" he said with a laugh. "Did you really hear it ring?" asked Edith. He looked at her drolly, answering, "Of course I heard her bell. And often I heard the sheep talking to one another on Twelfth-night; or at least I thought I did." "Truly?" asked Edith in great delight. He nodded, smiling mischievously at her unexpected pleasure in hearing of the Italian superstitions. Befana is the Italian Lady Santa Claus. She is quite different from the fat, jolly man who drives his reindeer over the roofs at Christmas time. While Sir Santa is short and rosy, Befana is dark and tall; and while the kind old gentleman leaves something in every stocking, good and bad alike, this rather terrible old lady puts presents only in the good children's stockings, and drops bags of ashes into the others. Instead of happening at Christmas, as with us, the Italian festival is celebrated on the eve of Epiphany, the sixth of January. "Everyone is happy then," said Rafael, "and we shall forget Pompeii and the man-of-war which is alwa
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