lt disposed might
make an excursion to Marlia to visit a celebrated villa there, whose
gardens alone were amongst the great sights of Northern Italy. All had
heard of this charming residence; views of it had been seen in every
print-shop. It had its historical associations from a very early period.
There were chambers where murders had been committed, conspiracies held,
confederates poisoned. King and Kaiser had passed the night there; all
of which were duly and faithfully chronicled in "John," and impressively
recited by Mr. Gorman O'Shea in the richest accents of his native Doric.
"There you have it now," said he, as he closed the volume; "and I will
say, it has n't its equal anywhere for galleries, terraces, carved
architraves, stuccoed ceilings, and frescos, and all the other
balderdash peculiar to these places."

"Oh, Mr. O'Shea, what profanation!" interposed Mrs. Morris; "walls
immortalized by Giotto and Cimabue!"

"Have n't they got stunning names of their own?" broke in Quackinboss.
"That's one of the smallest dodges to secure fame. You must be something
out of the common. There was a fellow up at Syracuse townland, Measles,
North Carolina, and his name was Flay Harris; they called him Flea--"

"That ceiling of the great hall was a work of Guido's, you said?"
inquired Mrs. Morris.

"A pupil of Guido's, a certain Simone Affretti, who afterwards made the
designs for the Twelve Apostles in the window of the chapter-room at
Sienna," read out Mr. O'Shea.

"Who can vouch for one word of all that, sir?" burst in Mr. Morgan, with
a choleric warmth. "Who is to tell me, sir, that you did n't write that,
or Peter Noakes, or John Murray himself, if there be such a man."

"I can vouch for the last," said a pale, gentle-looking young fellow,
who was arranging the flies in a fishing-book under a tree at a little
distance. "If it will relieve you from any embarrassments on the score
of belief, I can assist you so far."

If there was a faint irony in this speech, the mild look of the speaker
and his softened accents made it seem of the very faintest, and so even
the bluff Mr. Morgan himself appeared to acknowledge.

"As you say so, Mr. Layton, I will consent to suppose there is such a
man; not that the fact, in the slightest degree, touches my original
proposition."

"Certainly not, Tom," chimed in Mrs. Morgan, in a thick voice, like one
drowning.

"But if you doubt Guido, you may doubt Raphael, Titian, Michael Angel