"Your father never cared for moonshine, Dolly," said Mrs. Copley.
"No, that's true," said Mr. Copley with a short laugh. "Haven't you got almost enough of it?"
"Of moonshine, father?"
"Yes--on the bay of Sorrento. It's a lazy place."
"You have not been very lazy since you have been here," said his wife.
"Well, I have seen all there is to be seen; and now I am ready for something else. Aren't you?"
"But, father," said Dolly, "I suppose, just because Sorrento is what you call a lazy place it is good for mother."
"Change is good for her too--hey, wife?"
"You will have a change next week, father; you know we are going for that visit to the Thayers."
"We shall not want to stay there long," said Mr. Copley; "and then we'll move."
Nobody answered. Dolly looked out sorrowfully upon the beautiful bright water. Sorrento had been a place of peace to her. Must she go so soon?
The scent of myrtles and roses and oranges came in bewilderingly at the open window, pleading the cause of "lazy" Sorrento with wonderfully persuasive flatteries. Was there any other place in the world so sweet?
Dolly clung to it, in heart; yearned towards it; the glories of the southern sun were what she had never imagined, and she longed to stay to enjoy and wonder at them. The fruits, the flowers, the sunny air, the fulness and variedness of the colouring on land and sea, the leisure and luxury of bountiful nature,--Dolly was loath, loath to leave them all. No other Sorrento, she was ready to believe, would ever reveal itself to her vision; and she shrank a little from the somewhat rough way she had been travelling before and must travel again. And now in the further way, Rupert, her helper and standby, would not be with her. Then again came the words of Christmas Eve to her--"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?"--and with the words came the recollection of the new bit of service Dolly had found to do in her return and answer to that love. Yet she hesitated, and her heart began to beat faster, and she made no move until her father began to ask if it were not time to leave the moonlight and go to bed. Dolly came from the window, then to the table where the lowered lamp stood.
"Mother and father, I should like to do something," she said with an interrupted breath. "Would you mind--may I--will you let me read a chapter to you before we go?"
"A chapter of what?" said her father; though he knew well enough.
"The Bible."
There was a pause. Mrs. Copley stirred uneasily, but left the answer for her husband to give. It came at last, coldly.
"There is no need for you to give yourself that trouble, my dear. I suppose we can all read the Bible for ourselves."
"But not as a family, father?"
"What do you mean, Dolly?"
"Father, don't you think we ought together, as a family,--don't you think we ought to read the Bible together? It concerns us all."
"It's very kind of you, my daughter; but I approve of everybody managing his own affairs," Mr. Copley said, as he rose and lounged, perhaps with affected carelessness, out of the room. Dolly stood a moment.
"May I read to you, mother?"
"If you like," said Mrs. Copley nervously; "though I don't see, as your father says, why we cannot every one read for ourselves. Why did you say that to your father, Dolly? He didn't like it."
Dolly made no reply. She knelt down by the low table to bring her Bible near the light, and read a psalm, her voice quivering a little. She wanted comfort for herself, and half unconsciously she chose the twenty-seventh psalm.
"'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?'"
Her voice grew steady as she went on; but when she has finished, her mother was crying.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
AT THE VILLA.
The place inhabited by the Thayers was a regular Italian villa. It had not been at all in order that suited English notions of comfort, or American either, when they moved in; but they had painted and matted and furnished, and filled the rooms with pretty things, pictures and statues and vases and flowers; till it looked now quite beautiful and festive. Its situation was perfect. The house stood high, on the shore overlooking the sea, with a full view of Vesuvius, and it was surrounded with a paradise of orange-trees, fig-trees, pomegranates, olives, oaks and oleanders, with roses and a multitude of other flowers; in a wealth of sweetness and luxuriance of growth that northern climes know nothing of. The reception the visitors met with was joyous.
"I am so glad you are come!" cried Christina, as she carried off Dolly through the hall to her particular room. "That bad boy, Sandie, has not reported yet; but he will come; and then we will go everywhere. Have you been everywhere already?"
"I have been nowhere. I have staid with mother, and she wanted to be quiet."
"Well, she can be quiet now with my mother; they can take care of each other. And you have not been to Capri?"
"No."
"Just think of it! How delightful! You have not seen the Grotta azzurra?"
"I have seen nothing."
"Nor the grotto of the Sirens? You have seen _that?_ It was so near."
"No, I have not. I have been nowhere; only with mother to gather ferns and flowers in the dells around Sorrento. We used to take mother in a donkey cart--a calessino--to the edge of the side of the dell, and then help her down, and get loads of flowers and ferns. It was very pleasant."
"I wish Sandie would only come--the tiresome fellow! There's no counting on him. But he will come. He said he would if he could, and he can of course. I suppose you have not visited Paestum yet then?"
"I believe father went there. We did not."
"Nor we, yet. I don't care so much--only I like to keep going--but father is crazy to see the ruins. You know the ruins are wonderful. Do you care for ruins?"
"I believe I do," said Dolly, smiling, "when the ruins are of something beautiful. And those Greek temples--oh, I _should_ like to see them."
"I would rather see beautiful things when they are perfect; not in ruins; ruins are sad, don't you think so?"
"I suppose they ought to be," said Dolly, laughing now. "But somehow, Christina, I believe the ruins give me more pleasure than if they were all new and perfect--or even old and perfect. It is a perverse taste, I suppose, but I do."
"Why? They are not so handsome in ruins."
"They are lovelier."
"Lovely!--for old ruins! I can understand papa's enthusiasm; he's a kind of antiquity worshipper; but you--and 'lovely!'"
"And interesting, Christina. Ruins tell of so much; they are such grand books of history, and witnesses for things gone by. But beautiful--oh yes, beautiful beyond all others, if you talk of buildings. What is St.
Peter's, compared to the Colosseum?"
Christina stared at her friend. "What is St. Peter's? A most magnificent work of modern art, I should say; and you compare it to a tumbledown old bit of barbarism. That's _too_ like Sandie. Do you and your friend agree as harmoniously as Sandie and I? We ought to exchange."
"I have no 'friend,' as you express it," said Dolly, pulling her wayward, curling locks into a little more order. "Mr. St. Leger is nothing to me--if you are speaking of him."