Warner Susan
The End of a Coil

"Comes from what they eat," said Lawrence.

"Their food?" said Dolly.

"Yes. The Scotchman lives upon porridge, the Englishman on beef and porter, the German on sausages and beer."

"The French?"

"Oh, on soup and salad and sour wine."

"And Italians?"

"On grapes and olives."

"That will do to talk about," said Dolly; "but it does not touch the question."

"Not touch the question! I beg your pardon – but it does touch it most essentially. Do you think it makes no difference to a man what sort of a dinner he eats?"

"A great difference to some men; but does it make much difference in him?"

"Yes," said Rupert; and "Yes!" said Lawrence, with a unanimity which made Dolly smile. "I can tell you," the latter went on, "a man is one thing or another for the day, according to whether he has had a good breakfast or a bad one."

"I understand. That's temper."

"It is not temper at all. It is physical condition."

"It's feeling put to rights, I think," said Rupert.

"I suppose all these people are suited, in their several ways," said Dolly. "Will mother like Venice, Mr. St. Leger, when we get there? What is it like?"

"Like a city afloat. You will like it, for the strangeness and the beautiful things you will find there. I can't say about Mrs. Copley, I'm sure."

"What do they drink there?" said Rupert. "Water?"

"Well, not exactly. You can judge for yourself, my good fellow."

"But that is Italy," said Dolly. "I suppose there is no beer or porter?"

"Well, you can find it, of course, if you want it; there are people enough coming and going that do want it; but in Venice you can have pure wine, and at a reasonable price, too."

"At hotels, of course," said Dolly faintly.

"Of course, at some of them. But I was not thinking of hotels."

"Of what, then?"

"Wine-shops.''

"Wine-shops! Not for people who only want a glass, or two glasses?"

"Just for them. A glass or two, or half a dozen."

"Restaurants, you mean?"

"No, I do not mean restaurants. They are just wine-shops; sell nothing but wine. Odd little places. There's no show; there's no set out; there are just the casks from which the wine is drawn, and the glasses-mugs, I should say; queer things; pints and quarts, and so on. Nothing else is there, but the customers and the people who serve you."

"And people go into such places to drink wine? merely to drink, without eating anything?"

"They can eat, if they like. There are street venders, that watch the custom and come in immediately after any one enters; they bring fruit and confections and trifles."

"You do not mean that gentlemen go to these places, Mr. St. Leger?"

"Certainly. The wine is pure, and sold at a reasonable rate. Gentlemen go, of course – if they know where to go."

Dolly's heart sank. In Venice this! – where she had hoped to have her father with her safe. She had known there was wine enough to be had in hotels; but that, she knew too, costs money, if people will have it good; and Mr. Copley liked no other. But cheap wine-shops, "if you know where to go," – therefore retired and comparatively private places, – were those to be found in Venice, the goal of her hopes? Dolly's cheeks grew perceptibly pale.

"What is the matter, Miss Dolly?" Lawrence asked, watching her. But Dolly could not answer; and she thought he knew, besides.

"There is no harm in pure wine," he went on.

Dolly flashed a look at him upon that, a most involuntary, innocent look; yet one which he would have worked half a day for if it could have been obtained so. It was eloquent, it was brilliant, it was tender; it carried a fiery appeal against the truth of his words, and at the same time a most moving deprecation of his acting in consonance with them. She dared not speak plainer, and she could not have spoken plainer, if she had talked for an hour. Lawrence would have urged further his view of the subject, but that look stopped him. Indeed, the beauty of it put for the moment the occasion of it out of his head.

Thanks to Rupert's efficient agency, they were able to spend that night at Utrecht, and the next day went on. It seemed to Dolly that every hour was separating her further from her father; which to be sure literally was true; nevertheless she had to give herself up to the witchery of that drive. The varied beauty, and the constant novelty on every hand, were a perpetual entertainment. Mrs. Copley even forgot herself and her grievances in looking out of the carriage windows; indeed, the only trouble she gave was in her frequent changing places with Dolly to secure now this and now that view.

"We haven't got such roads in Massachusetts," remarked Rupert. "This is what I call first-rate going."

"Have you got such anything else there?" Lawrence inquired smoothly.

"Not such land, I'm bound to say."

"No," said Dolly, "this is not in the least like Massachusetts, in anything. O mother, look at those cattle! why there must be thousands of them; how beautiful! You would not find such an immense level green plain in Massachusetts, Mr. St. Leger. I never saw such a one anywhere."

Mrs. Copley took that side of the carriage.

"It wouldn't be used for a pasture ground, if we had it there," said Rupert.

"Perhaps it would. I fancy it is too wet for grain," St. Leger answered.

"Now here is a lake again," said Dolly. "How large, and how pretty! Miles and miles, it must be. How pretty those little islands are, Mr. Babbage!"

Mrs. Copley exchanged again, and immediately burst out —

"Dolly, Dolly, did you see that woman's earrings? I declare they were a foot long."

"I beg your pardon – half a foot, Mrs. Copley."

"What do you suppose they are made of?"

"True gold or silver."

"Mercy! that's the oddest thing I've seen yet. I suppose Holland is a very rich country."

"And here come country houses and gardens again," said Dolly. "There's a garden filled with marble statues, mother."

Mrs. Copley shifted her seat to the other side to look at the statues, and directly after went back to see some curiously trimmed yews in another garden. So it went on; Dolly and her mother getting a good deal of exercise by the way. Mrs. Copley was ready for her dinner, and enjoyed it; and Dolly perceiving this enjoyed hers too.

Then they were delighted with Arnheim. They drove into the town towards evening; and the quaint, picturesque look of the place, lying bright in the sunshine of a warm September day, took the hearts of both ladies. The odd gables, the endless variety of building, the balconies hung with climbing vines; and above all, the little gardens, gay with fall flowers and furnished with arbours or some sort of shelter, under some of which people were taking tea, while in others the wooden tables and chairs stood ready though empty, testifying to a good deal of habitual out-of-door life; they stirred Dolly's fancy and Mrs. Copley's curiosity. Both of them were glad to spend the night in such a pretty place.

After they had had supper comfortably, Dolly left her mother talking to St. Leger and slipped out quietly to take a walk, having privately summoned Rupert to attend her. The walk was full of enjoyment. It lasted a good while; till Dolly began to grow a little tired, and the evening light was dying away; then the steps slackened which had been very brisk at setting out, and Dolly began to let her thoughts go beyond what was immediately before her. She was very much inclined to be glad now of Rupert's presence in the party. She perceived that he was already devoted to her service; not with Mr. St. Leger's pretensions, but with something more like the adoration a heathen devotee pays to his goddess. Rupert already watched her eyes and followed her wishes, sometimes before they were spoken. It was plain that she might rely upon him for all to which his powers would reach; and a strong element of good-will began to mix with her confidence in him. What could she do, to help make this journey a benefit to the boy? He had known little of good or gentle influences in his life; yet he was gentle himself and much inclined to be good, she thought. And he might be very important to her yet, before she got home.

"I don't know the first thing about this country," he broke the silence. "It was always a little spot in the corner of the map that I thought was no sort of count. Why, it's a grand place!"

"You ought to read about it in history."

"I never read much history, that's a fact," Rupert answered. "Never had much to read," he added with a laugh. "Fact is, my life up to now has been pretty much of a scrimmage for the needful."

"Knowledge is needful," said Dolly.

"That's a fact; but a fellow must live first, you see. And that warn't always easy once."

"And what are your plans or prospects? What do you mean to be – or do? what do you mean to make of yourself?"

Rupert half laughed. "I haven't any prospects – to speak of. In fact, I don't see ahead any further than Venice. As to what I am to be, or do, – I expect that will be settled without any choice of mine. I've got along, so far, somehow; I guess I'll get along yet."

"Are you a Christian?" Dolly asked, following a sudden impulse.

"I guess I ain't what you mean by that."

"What do you mean by it?"

"Well – where I come from, they call Christians folks that have j'ined the church."

"That's making a profession," said Dolly.

"Yes, I've heard folks call it that."

"But what is the reality? What do you think a man professes when he joins the church?"

"I'll be shot if I know," Rupert answered, looking at her hard in the fading light. "I'd like first-rate to hear you say."

"It is just to be a servant of Christ," said Dolly. "A true servant, 'doing the will of God from the heart.'"

"How are you going to know what His will is? I should be bothered if you asked me."

"Oh, He has told us that," said Dolly, surprised. "In the Bible."

"Then I s'pose you've got to study that considerable."

"Certainly."

"Well, don't it say things pretty different from what most folks do?"

"Yes. What then?"

"Then it wouldn't be just easy to get along with it, I should think."

"What then?"

"Well!" said Rupert, – "how are you going to live in the world, and not do as the world do?"

"Then you have studied the Bible a little?"

"No, fact, I haven't," said Rupert. "But I've heard folks talk now and again; and that's what I think about it."

"Suppose it is difficult?" said Dolly. "But it is really not difficult, if one is a true servant of God and not only make-believe. Suppose it were difficult, though. Do you remember what Christ said of the two ways, serving Him and not serving Him?"

Rupert shook his head.

"Have you got a Bible of your own?"

"No," said Rupert. "That's an article I never owned yet. I've always wanted other things more, you see."

"And I would rather want everything else in the world," said Dolly. "I mean, I would rather be without everything else."

"Surely!" said Rupert.

"Because I am a servant of Christ, you see. Now that is what I want you to be. And as to the question of ease or difficulty – this is what I was going to repeat to you. Jesus said, that those who hear and obey Him are like a house planted on a rock; fixed and firm; a house that when the storms come and the winds blow, is never so much as shaken. But those who do not obey Him are like a house built on the sand. When the storms blow and the winds beat, it will fall terribly and all to ruins. It seems to me, Mr. Babbage, that that is harder than the other."

"Suppose the storms do not come?" said Rupert.

"I guess they come to most people," said Dolly soberly. "But the Lord did not mean these storms merely. I don't know whether He meant them at all. He meant the time by and by. – Come, we must go home," said Dolly, beginning to go forward again. "I wish you would be a servant of Christ, Mr. Babbage!"

"Why?"

"Oh, because all that is sure and strong and safe and happy is on that side," said Dolly, speaking eagerly. "All that is noble and true and good. You are sure of nothing if you are not a Christian, Mr. Babbage; you are not sure even of yourself. Temptation may whirl you, you don't know where, and before you know it and before you can help it. And when the storms come, those storms – your house will – go down – in the sands" – And to Rupert's enormous astonishment, Dolly's voice broke here, and for a second she stood still, drawing long sobs; then she lifted her head with an effort, took his arm and went swiftly back on the way to the hotel. He had not been able to say one word. Rupert could not have the faintest notion of the experience which had pointed and sharpened Dolly's last words; he could not imagine why, as they walked home, she should catch a hasty breath now and then, as he knew she did, a breath which was almost a sob; but Rupert Babbage was Dolly's devoted slave from that day.

Lawrence himself marvelled somewhat at the appearance and manner of the young lady in the evening. The talk and the thoughts had roused and stirred Dolly, with partly the stir of pain, but partly also the sense of work to do and the calling up of all her loving strength to do it. Her cheek had a little more colour than usual, her eye a soft hidden fire, her voice a thrill of tender power. She was like, Lawrence thought, a most rare wild wood flower, some spiritual orchis or delicious and delicate geranium; in contrast to the severely trained, massive and immoveable tulips and camellias of society. She was at a vexatious distance from him, however; and handled him with a calm superiority which no woman of the world could have improved upon. Only it was nature with Dolly.

CHAPTER XIX
SEEING SIGHTS

The next day's journey was uninteresting and slow. Mrs. Copley grew tired; and even dinner and rest at a good hotel failed to restore her spirits.

"How many more days will it be before we get to Dresden?" she desired to know.

"Keep up your courage, Mrs. Copley," said Lawrence. "Remember the Green vaults! We have some work before us yet to get there."

"We shall not get there to-morrow?"

"We shall hardly do more than reach Cassel to-morrow."

"I don't know anything about Cassel. Will it be nothing but sand all the way, like to-day? We have left everything pretty behind us in Holland."

"I think the way will mend a little," Lawrence allowed.

"What place is next to Cassel?"

"As our resting place for the night? I am afraid it will take us two days to get to Weimar."

"And then Dresden?"

"No, then Leipzig."

"Oh, I should like to see Leipzig," cried Dolly.

"What for?" said her mother. "I am sure all these places are nothing to us, and I think the country is very stupid. And I like travelling where I know what the people say. I feel as if I had got five thousand miles from anywhere. What do you suppose keeps your father, Dolly?"

"I don't know, mother."

"You may write and tell him, if he don't come to us in Dresden I shall go back. This isn't my notion of pleasure."

"But it is doing you good, mother."

"I hadn't anything I could eat this evening. If you don't mind, Dolly, I'll go to bed."

Dolly did mind, for she longed for a walk again among the strange scenes and people. As it was not to be had this time, she sat at her window and looked out. It was moonlight, soft weather; and her eye was at least filled with novelty enough, even so. But her thoughts went back to what was not novel. The day had been dull and fatiguing. Dolly's spirits were quiet. She too was longing for her father, with a craving, anxious longing that was more full of fear than of hope. And as she thought it over again, she did not like her position. Her mother was little of a shield between her and what she wanted to escape, Lawrence St. Leger's attentions; and she could but imperfectly protect herself. True, she knew she gave him no direct encouragement. Yet he was constantly with her, he had the right of taking care of her, he let her see daily what a pleasure it was, and she was not able to turn it into the reverse of pleasure. She could not repulse him, unless he pushed his advances beyond a certain point; and Lawrence was clever enough to see that he had better not do that. He took things for granted a little, in a way that annoyed Dolly. She knew she gave him no proper encouragement; nevertheless, the things she could not forbid might seem to weave a tacit claim by and by. She wished for her father on her own account. But when she thought of what was keeping him, Dolly's head went down in agony. "O father, father!" she cried in the depths of her heart, "why don't you come? how can you let us ask in vain? and what dreadful, dreadful entanglement it must be that has such power over you to make you do things so unlike yourself! Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do? I cannot reach him now – only by letters."

Mrs. Copley got up next morning in renewed spirits. "Dolly," she inquired while she was dressing, in which business Dolly always helped her, – "is anything settled between St. Leger and you?"

"Settled, mother? He is father's secretary, – at least so he calls himself, – taking care of us in father's absence. There is nothing else settled, nor to be settled."

"You know why he is here, child."

"Because father isn't, mother; and I should like to make the exchange as quickly as possible."

"What's the matter with him, Dolly?"

"The principal thing is, he won't take a hint."

"No, no; I mean, what fault do you find in him?"

"That, mother. Nothing else."

"He worships the ground you tread on."

"Mother, I think that is a pity. Don't you?"

"I think you ought to be very glad of it. I am. Dolly, the St. Legers are very well off; he is rich, and his father is rich; and there is that beautiful place, and position, and everything you could desire."

"Position!" Dolly repeated. "Mother, I think I make my own position. At any rate, I like it better than his."

"O Dolly! the St. Legers" —

"They are not anything particular, mother. Rich bankers; that is all."

"And isn't that enough?"

"Well, no," said Dolly, laughing. "It would take a good deal more to tempt me away from you and father."

"But, child, you've got to go. And Mr. St. Leger is as fond of you as ever he can be."

"He will not break his heart, mother. He is not that sort. Don't think it."

"I don't care if he did!" said Mrs. Copley, half crying. "It is not him I am thinking of; it is you."

"Thank you, mother," said Dolly, putting her arms round her mother's neck and kissing her repeatedly. "But I am not going to leave you for any such person. And I don't think so much of money as you do."

"Dolly, Dolly, money is a good thing."

"There is not enough of it in the world to buy me, mother. Don't try to fix my price."

The rest of that day Dolly was gay. Whether from the reaction of spirits natural to seventeen, or whether she were lightened in heart by the explicitness of her talk with her mother in the morning, she was the life of the day's journey. The road itself mended; the landscape was often noble, with fine oak and beech woods, and lovely in its rich cultivation; meadows and ploughed fields and tracts of young grain and smiling villages alternating with one another. There was no tedium in the carriage from morning to night. St. Leger and Rupert laughed at Dolly, and with her; and Mrs. Copley, in spite of chewing the cud of mortification at Dolly's impracticableness, was beguiled into forgetting herself. Sometimes this happy effect could be managed; at other times it was impossible. But more days followed, not so gay.

"I'm as tired as I can be!" was Mrs. Copley's declaration, as they were approaching Leipzig.

"We'll soon get to our hotel now," said Lawrence soothingly.

"'Tain't that," said Mrs. Copley; "I am tired of hotels too. I am tired of going from one place to another. I should like to stay still somewhere."

"But it is doing you good, mother."

"I don't see it," said Mrs. Copley. "And what do you mean by its doing me good, Dolly? What is good that you don't feel? It's like something handsome that you can't see; and if you call that good, I don't. I wonder if life's to everybody what it is to me!"

"Not exactly," said Lawrence. "Not everybody can go where he likes and do what he will, and have such an attendant handmaiden everywhere."

"Do what I will!" cried Mrs. Copley, who like other dissatisfied people did not like to have her case proved against her, – "much you know about it, Mr. St. Leger! If I had my will, I would go back to America."

"Then you would have to do without your handmaiden," said Lawrence. "You do not think that we on this side are so careless of our own advantage as to let such a valuable article go out of the country?"

It was said with just such a mixture of jest and earnest that Dolly could hardly take it up. The words soothed Mrs. Copley, though her answer hardly sounded so.

"I suppose that is what mothers have to make up their minds to," she said. "Just when their children are ready to be some comfort to them, off they go, to begin the same game on their own account. I sometimes wonder whether it is worth while to live at all!"

"But one can't help that," said Rupert.

"I don't see what it amounts to."

"Mother, think of the Dresden Green vaults," said Dolly.

"Well, I do," said Mrs. Copley. "That keeps me up. But when I have seen them, Dolly, what will keep me up then?"

"Why, Venice, mother."

"And suppose I don't like Venice? I sometimes think I shan't."

"Then we will not stay there, dear. We will go on to Sorrento."

"After all, Dolly, one can't keep always going somewhere. One must come to a stop."

"The best way is not to think of that till one is obliged to do it," said Lawrence. "Enjoy while you have to enjoy."

"That ain't a very safe maxim, seems to me," said Rupert. "One's rope might get twisted up."

"It is the maxim of a great many wise men," said Lawrence, ignoring the figure.

"Is it wise?" said Dolly. "Would you spend your money so, like your time? spend to the last farthing, before you made any provision for what was to be next?"

"No, for I need not. In money matters one can always take care to have means ahead."

"So you can in the other thing."

"How?" said Rupert, and "How?" said Lawrence, in the same breath. "You cannot always, as Mrs. Copley said, go on finding new places to go to and new things to see."

"I'd have what would put me above the need of that."

"What? Philosophy? Stoicism?"

"No," said Dolly softly.

"Have you discovered the philosopher's stone?" said Lawrence; "and can you turn common things into gold for your purposes?"

"Yes," said Dolly in the same way.

"Let us hear how, won't you? Is it books, or writing, or art perhaps? You are very fond of that, I know."

"No," said Dolly slowly; "and I cannot show it to you, either, Mr. St. Leger. It is like the golden water in the story in the Arabian Nights, which was at the top of a hill, and people went up the hill to get it; but on the way so many strange voices sounded in their ears that they were tempted to look round; and if they looked round they were turned to stone. So the way was marked with stones."

"And nobody got the golden water?"

"Yes. At last one went up, who being forewarned, stopped her ears and never looked round. She got to the top and found the golden water. We in these times give it another name. It is the water of life."

"What are you talking about, Dolly?" said her mother.

"Must one go up the hill with one's ears stopped now, to get the wonderful water?" Lawrence asked. Dolly nodded.

"And when you have got it – what then?"

"Then you have got it," said Dolly. "It is the water of life. And you have done with this dry wilderness that mother is complaining of, and you are recommending."

Lawrence stroked and pulled his moustache, as he might have done if a lady had spoken to him in polite Sanscrit. Rupert looked gravely out of the carriage window. Neither answered, and nobody spoke another word, till Mrs. Copley exclaimed, "There's Leipzig!"

"Looks sort o' peaceful now," remarked Rupert.

"Peaceful? Why, ain't the place quiet?" Mrs. Copley asked anxiously.

"Quiet enough," said Lawrence; "but there was a time, not so long ago, when it wasn't exactly so."

"When was that?"

"When all the uniforms of Europe were chasing through it," said Dolly; "some chased and some chasing; when the country was covered with armies; when a half a million of men or so fought a long battle here, and the suburbs of Leipzig were full of dead and wounded and sick and starving; there was not much peace then in or out of the city; though there was some rejoicing."

"Oh," said Mrs. Copley, "you mean" —

"When Napoleon was beaten here, mother."

"War's a mean thing!" said Rupert.

"That's not precisely the view civilised peoples take of it," said Lawrence with a slight sneer.

"True, though," said Dolly.

"Mean?" said Lawrence. "Do you think it was a mean thing for Germany to rise up and cast out the power that had been oppressing her? or for the other powers of Europe to help?"

"No; but very mean for the side that had given the occasion."

"That's as you look at it," said Lawrence.

"No, but how God looks at it. You cannot possibly think," said Dolly slowly, going back to her old childish expression, – "that He likes it."

Lawrence could not help smiling at this very original view. "Very few people that make war ask that question," he said.

"God will ask them, though," said Dolly, "why they did not. I think few people ask that question, Mr. St. Leger, about anything."

"It is not usual, except for a little saint here and there like you," he allowed.

"And yet it is the only question. There is nothing else to be asked about a matter; almost nothing else. If that is settled, it is all settled."

"If we were only all saints," Lawrence put in.

"Why are not we?"

"I don't know. I suppose everybody is not cut out for such a vocation."

"Everybody ought to be a saint."

"Do you mean that?" cried Rupert. "I thought, – I mean, I thought it was a special gift."

"Yes," said Dolly with a smile at him; "but God gives it to every one that wants it. And when the King comes, Mr. St. Leger, He will gather His saints to Him, and none others; don't yon want to be counted among them then? – I do!"

I don't know what had wrought up Dolly to this sudden burst; but she dropped her veil upon eyes all alight, while some soft dripping tears were falling from them like diamonds. Every one knows the peculiar brilliancy of a sunlit shower; and the two young men remained fairly dazzled. Rupert, however, looked very grave, while the other wore a cloud on his brow.

Dolly was as matter-of-fact as possible when she came out from under her veil again; and declared she should not go to a hotel in Dresden, but take a lodging.

"Why?" Lawrence enquired.

"Cheaper. And pleasanter. And much quieter. We shall probably have to stay several days in Dresden. We must get letters there."

"But you do not know where to go to find lodgings."

"Yes, I do. Or I shall. I hope so. I have sent for the address of the woman with whom Lady Brierley had lodgings a whole winter."

"Where do you expect to receive this address?"

"In Leipzig, I hope."

"Really, Dolly, you take a good deal upon you, considering how old you are," said her mother. "Don't you think Mr. St. Leger knows best?"

"No, mother, not for you and me. Oh, he can go to a hotel. He will, of course."

However, this Mr. St. Leger did not desire. He was obliged to do it, nevertheless. The letter was found at Leipzig, the lodgings were found in Dresden, but not roomy enough to hold them all. Mrs. Copley and her daughter and their attendant Rupert were very comfortably accommodated; and to Dolly's great joy found themselves alone. Frau Wetterhahn was all obligingness, hearing Lady Brierley's name, and made them right welcome. This Frau Wetterhahn! She was the most lively, active, capable, talkative, bright-eyed, good-humoured, free and easy little woman that you can imagine. She was really capable, and cooked them a nice supper. Dolly had unpacked a few things, and felt herself at home, and the three sat down comfortably to their meal.

"Now, mother, dear," said Dolly, "this is pleasant!"

"Well," said Mrs. Copley, "I think it is. If you only hadn't sent Lawrence away!"

"He couldn't stay, mother. Frau Wetterhahn sent him away – not I. Change will be good for him. And for me too. I am going to make believe we are at home for a little while. And you are going to see the Green vaults; and I am going to see everything. And these rooms are so cosy!"

"Aren't you going to see the Green vaults too?"

"Indeed, I hope so. But we may have to wait a day or two, dear mother; that will be good, and you can have a rest."

"I'm sure I'm glad of it," said Mrs. Copley. "I am just tired of riding, and more tired yet of seeing everlasting new things. I am aching for something I've seen before in my life."

"Well, here's a cup of coffee, mother."

Mrs. Copley tasted.

"If you think that's like anything I used to have at home, I'm sorry for you!" she said with a reproachful look.

"Don't you like it? I do. I like it because it is different. But I think it is very good, mother. And look – here is some delicious bread."

"It's like no bread I ever saw till I came to Germany. Oh, mercy! why must folks have so many ways? I wonder how things will be at Venice!"

"Stranger than ever, mother, I'm afraid."

"Then I shall get tired of it. Isn't this a very roundabout way that we are going to Venice – round this way by Dresden?"

"Why, yes, mother, of course; but the Green vaults are here, and you were bound to see the Green vaults."

"I wouldn't have come, if I had known it was so far," said Mrs. Copley.

But she relished her supper, and was not nervous, and slept well; and Dolly was somewhat in hopes that Dresden was not a bad move after all. They had to wait, as she said, for letters, and for the sight of the glories that had attracted them hither. Several days passed by.

They passed in delights, for Dolly. Two mornings were spent in the great picture gallery. Mrs. Copley's desires and expectations having focussed upon the Green vaults, were hardly able to see anything else clearly; indeed, she declared that she did not think the wonderful Madonna was so very wonderful after all; no woman could stand upon clouds in that way, and as she was a woman, she did not see why the painter did not exhibit her in a possible situation; and those little angels at the foot of the picture – where was the other half of them supposed to be? she did not like half of anything. But Dolly dreamed in rapture, before this and many another wonder of art. Mrs. Copley made processions round the rooms constantly, drawing, of course, St. Leger with her; she could not be still. But Dolly would stop before a picture and be immoveable for half an hour, drinking in pleasure and feeding upon knowledge; and Rupert generally took post behind her and acted as body-guard. What he made of the show, I do not know. Dolly asked him how he liked it? He said, "first-rate."