iend's cause. The respect with which she
mentioned the name of the French critic, her exultation in his dictum,
were notes of a youthful idealism which interpreted the world nobly,
and took its stand on generous beliefs.

"Mr. Mallard will help you to see Naples, no doubt," said Miriam.

"Indeed, I wish he would. But he distinctly told us that he has no
time. He is going to Amalfi in a few days, to work. I begged him at
least to go to Pompeii with us, but he frowned--as he so often
does--and seemed unwilling to be persuaded; so I said no more. There
again, I feel sure he was afraid of being annoyed by trifling talk in
such places. But one mustn't judge an artist like other men. To be
sure, anything I could say or think would be trivial compared with what
is in _his_ mind."

"But isn't it rather discourteous?" Miriam observed impartially.

"Oh, I could never think of it in that way! An artist is privileged; he
must defend his time and his sensibilities. The common terms of society
have no application to him. Don't you feel that, Miriam?"

"I know so little of art and artists. But such a claim seems to me very
strange."

Cecily laughed.

"This is one of a thousand things we will talk about. Art is the
grandest thing in the world; it means everything that is strong and
beautiful--statues, pictures, poetry, music. How could one live without
art? The artist is born a prince among men. What has he to do with the
rules by which common people must direct their lives? Before long, you
will feel this as deeply as I do, Miriam. We are in Italy, Italy!"

"Shall we go back to the others?" Miriam suggested, in a voice which
contrasted curiously with that exultant cry.

"Yes; it is time."

Cecily's eyes fell on the plans of the chapel, which were still lying
open.

"What is this?" she asked. "Something in Naples? Oh no!"

"It's nothing," said Miriam, carelessly. "Come, Cecily."

The visitors took their leave just as the midday cannon boomed from
Sant' Elmo. They had promised to come and dine in a day or two. After
their departure, Miriam showed as little disposition to make comments
as she had to indulge in expectation before their arrival. Eleanor and
her husband put less restraint upon themselves.

"Heavens!" cried Spence, when they were alone; "what astounding
capacity of growth was in that child!"

"She is a swift and beautiful creature!" said Eleanor, in a warm
undertone characteristic of her when she expressed