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