"Italy, Mother! Father must go to Italy? Where is that?"

It was Saturday morning. During the week, every one had been busy helping to prepare for the voyage; but as Mary was still too weak to do more than sit up in a big chair for a short time every day, she saw and heard nothing that was going on outside her own room.

"Italy is a country in the southern part of Europe, dear. Have you ever seen a map of Europe?"

"I am not sure, Mother. One warm day at school, Sister took us across the hall to a cooler room. There were big maps hanging on the walls; and she showed us the one of our country, and put her pointer right on New York. She couldn't find Maryvale; but only large cities are shown on that map; and Maryvale is not even in the village, you know. It is more than a mile beyond it."

"Maryvale is the name of the convent grounds only; and though they are very large, they could not be shown on such a map."

"But about Europe, Mother. There is another map hanging next to the one where New York is. P'r'aps that is Europe. There is one country at the lower part of it shaped exactly like a boot sticking out into the sea. Rome, the city where the Pope lives, is in that country."

"And that country is Italy, dear, and Rome is the very city to which Father is going."

"Oh, will Father see the Pope?"

"He will surely go to see the Holy Father."

"Father Lacey saw the Holy Father last summer when he went to Rome and took the audience with him. Of course, the whole audience didn't go—you and Father and Uncle Frank and Rosemary's mother and some others who were in the audience on the last day of school didn't go."

Mrs. Selwyn laughed merrily.

"If you were to ask Father Lacey about his companions, he would tell you that he made that trip alone. He had an audience with the Holy Father, dear; that is, he was allowed to see the Pope and speak with him. The word audience, like many other words, has more than one meaning."

"Dear, me," sighed the little girl, "there is so much to learn; isn't there, Mother? It seems to me that I just get a thing all fixed in my mind when I have to upset it and fix it over again a different way."

"Then your first idea was not the correct one. You should ask the meaning of new words instead of trying to decide for yourself?"

"That's exactly what I shall do after this. But—but, Mother,—don't you—isn't it just a little strange for Father to go to Italy by himself? He has never gone away without us, you know. But I s'pose he will be back in a few days, and he thinks it would be too hard for you to travel with the babies. Is he going soon?"

"The steamer sails at two o'clock Monday afternoon and will take a week to reach England where Father must stay for two or three days. Then, there is the trip across the Channel to France, and from there by train to Italy. We must allow two weeks for the entire trip."

"Two weeks! Two weeks! Why, Mother! Father to be away two whole weeks!—But no,—he will be gone much longer, because it will take two more weeks to come home, and besides that, he will have to stay in Italy a few days to attend to that business. Two weeks and two weeks are four weeks and—why, he will be gone at least five weeks, and what shall we ever do without him, Mother?"

Mrs. Selwyn's heart sank. How was she to tell the child of the long, long separation to come? But Mary must hear of it without more delay; and taking the little girl on her lap, she began: "I have something to say to you, darling, that you will not like to hear any better than I like to tell it. Father cannot put off this trip. If he had only himself and us to think of, he would surely do so even though he would lose the chance of opening a branch of the business in Rome. But he must think of his partners in the bank. Now, this is where the trouble lies. Father must be away from home, not for five or six weeks, but for a year, and Mother should be with him. It would never do, you know, to have him living alone in a hotel for a year. In case of illness or accident, it would take me nearly two weeks to reach him."

"Of course you should be with him, Mother. That is why I said it seemed strange for Father to go away without us. But Uncle Frank—can he go, too?"

"No, dear."

"But—but—won't he be very lonely without us, Mother? Oh, dear, me! How can we go away for a whole year and leave him here all by himself? But I s'pose there isn't any other way to fix it. Mother, I think I ought to try to walk to-day. I am sure I can if you and Sister will hold my hands. Then to-morrow, I shall try going down stairs so as to be ready for Monday."

"No, no, Mary, you are far too weak to do any walking yet. I fear that it will be many days before Uncle will allow you to try that. Remember, he said that you must not sit up in the big chair longer than an hour at a time. Whether you could walk or not by Monday would make no difference if you were strong enough otherwise. Father or Uncle Frank could easily carry you down to the carriage and on the steamer; but——"

"Why—why, Mother!" Mary fixed her startled eyes on Mrs. Selwyn's face. "You—you sound as if—as if you mean that I am not—not able to go!"

"That is what Mother does mean, darling," Mrs. Selwyn murmured in a husky voice, pressing her lips to the bright little head. "Uncle says that the voyage at this time of year would kill you; that the cold and dampness would bring on a relapse, and you would die before we could reach England. Oh, my baby! Father and Mother feel very, very bad about leaving you. What we should do were it not for dear Uncle Frank, I do not know. It will be a great comfort to us to feel that you are safe with him, darling, and that you are helping him not to be too lonely. He loves you so dearly and has the most beautiful plans to keep you happy and make you well and strong. He will help you to write long letters to us every Sunday, and I shall write to you every day to tell you just what we are doing and how fast the babies are growing and——"

Mary had been very, very quiet; but at this—"O Mother, Mother! don't—don't take the babies away from me," she wailed. "I can't b—bear that! I d—d—don't see how—I can—l—let you and Father—g—go, but oh! d—don't t—t—take the b—babies away from m—m—me! Aunt Mandy—a—and Liza will—t—take good care of them, a—and I will h—help; oh!—I will, I will! I d—don't care wh—what Uncle s—s—says! I d—don't care if I n—n—never learn—a—anything! I don't care if—I gr—grow up to b—be a d—dunce! I'm going—t—to help—t—take care of the b—b—babies!"

"Darling, darling! there, there! You will make yourself ill again! Listen to Mother a moment!"

Mrs. Selwyn was really alarmed, for never before had the child given way to such an outburst. She knew that Mary felt things more deeply than do most children of her age, and had dreaded the hour when she should be obliged to tell her the sad news. She saw that the little girl was much weaker after her illness than she had thought. By degrees, she quieted her, and then resolved to appeal to her generous nature.

"Of course, dear, Father will go alone to Italy rather than have you make yourself ill again. He loves you so much that he would suffer loneliness and many other things all his life if by so doing he could keep you well and happy. If Mother goes with him, she must take the babies. They are too young to be left with even so good a nurse as dear old Aunt Mandy. But I am going to let you decide whether I shall go or stay. I know that will be very, very hard for you to do, because you are not selfish; and I am perfectly sure of what your answer would be if you were a little stronger. I know my little bluebird too well to doubt it. But if you really feel that you cannot do without Father and Mother and the babies and Aunt Mandy—for, of course, I shall need her—you must not fear to tell me so. Now, I am going to put you to bed and give you some broth; and then I shall go away for a little while to let you have time to think."

The frail little arms went round her neck as Mary whispered, "No, no, Mother, I don't need time to think. I know now. I will stay," she gulped hard, "with Uncle. I'm sorry—I was so selfish and horrid, and that I said I wouldn't mind Uncle. I will, Mother, everything he tells me. But—but I'll just have to cry a little bit now."