IT was the day before the Fairfields were to leave Rome.

Patty and Peter Homer sat on one of the upper flights of the Spanish Steps, waiting for Flo and Snippy, who were in a neighbouring shop.

The beginning of the sunset hour cast a warm, happy light, and Patty, who was very sensitive to the peculiar charms of this most delightful part of Rome, was gazing at the beautiful staircase that seemed to ripple down from the Church of Trinita dei Monti to the fountain below.

Peter had called her attention before to the construction of these steps, and she had learned to love the wonderful effect as they separated and joined again, like a cascading river.

“Why is it that steps are so beautiful?” she said to Peter, who was also enjoying the view.

“Not exactly because they are steps,” he replied. “A flight of stairs is not necessarily beautiful. But when designed by a master mind, with knowledge of architectural effect and symmetry, they can be made to express a great deal. But don’t try too hard to understand, just look at it all, and wonder.”

“I do. And I shall always remember this, my last afternoon in Rome, sitting here in the sunset——”

“With me,” interrupted Peter.

“Yes, with you. I have to thank you for much of my pleasure in Rome. Without what you have told me and taught me, I should not have known anything about the real Rominess of Rome.”

“You don’t know much about it yet, nor do I. But we’ve seen a little of it together, and I, too, shall always remember our good times here.”

“Very frivolous times. What a lot of fun we’ve had with our foolish picnics and games.”

“Yes; but you know Italy of itself is not a humorous country. Whatever fun one gets out of it, one must take to it.”

“I wonder you’re so fond of fun,” said Patty, musingly, “when you’re so sentimental.”

“What! I? Sentimental? Never! I’m the most practical man in the world.”

“Oh, yes, you’re practical enough, but you’re sentimental, too.”

“And aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. No, I don’t think I am.”

“I don’t think you are, exactly, either. But I think you will be some day. And as a beginning, couldn’t you cultivate a little sentiment toward me?”

Patty looked around her,—at the gold and violet sunset sky above them, the sparkling fountain plashing below them, the soft twilight atmosphere about them, and the Roman monuments both near and far,—and answered:

“If I ever could be sentimental, it would be here and now.”

“Nonsense!” cried Peter. “I don’t want you to be sentimental! Save that for Venice. Child, don’t you know the difference between sentiment and sentimentality?”

“No,” said Patty, in surprise, “is there any?”

“You’re hopeless! Doesn’t this exquisite moment, here and now, inspire you with impulses of noble sentiment quite removed from mawkish sentimentality?”

“I don’t know,” said honest Patty. “What sentiment ought I to feel?”

“Oh, I don’t want to suggest. Look in your own heart, and tell me if there’s no pleasant thought there, for this especial moment,—and for me?”

Patty shut her eyes tight, and pondered.

“Yes,” she said, triumphantly, “I know what you mean. I looked in my heart, and it’s overflowing with a sentiment of gratitude for your kindness to me.”

For once Patty saw Peter Homer look positively angry.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he exclaimed; “or, rather, I ought to. I should know better than to expect a child like you to have any real feelings.”

“I’m not a child!” said Patty, offended in her turn. “I’m over eighteen, and I’ve lots of real feeling, but as you don’t seem to care for it, I won’t waste it on you!”

Peter laughed at the indignant look on Patty’s pretty face, and said, gaily: “You’ve plenty of time, little one. Your sentiments are sprouting, and they’ll grow rapidly enough, once they’re started. Thank Heaven, your sense of humour will keep them from growing too rank. Now, soothe my wounded feelings by telling me you’ve a nice kind sentiment of friendship sprouting in your heart for me.”

“Sprouting! Why, my friendship for you sprouted long ago. Now, it’s grown to a big tree, and on every leaf is written a kindly thought of you.”

“Ah, you have imagination; and that’s closely akin to sentiment. Dear little Patty, I wish I could teach you to see life as I’ve taught you to see Rome.”

Patty looked up quickly, surprised at the note of earnestness in his voice, and found Peter’s dark eyes looking steadily into her own.

“I wish you could,” she said, simply, as her own clear blue eyes frankly returned his gaze.

“Being desirous of making the acquaintance of the pretty girl on the steps, the wayfarer sat down beside her,” declaimed the ridiculous voice of Floyd Austin, as he appeared before them, and dropped down on the step beside Patty.

“Why, Floyd,” she cried, “I didn’t see you coming. Where have you been?”

“Seeing Rome, and hoping I’d see you, which, by good luck I did. What are you two babes in the wood doing here all alone?”

“Waiting for Flo and Snippy. They’re in that shop over there, buying photographs.”

“Um,—yes. Don’t you care for photographs?”

“I’ve bought all I can carry, already. I shall have to use them for wall paper, when I get home. It would take a Maine forest to frame them all.”

“I saw a room papered with photographs once,” said Peter. “They were divided by narrow mouldings, you know, but the pictures were pasted right on the walls.”

“Wasn’t it horrid?” asked Patty.

“Awful. Photographs in great quantities are awful, anyhow. But, while we’re on the subject, won’t you give me one of yourself? To hang on my memory chain, you know.”

“I’d ask for one too,” put in Floyd, “but I’ve seven of you already, Patty. Snapshots, but good ones.”

“I don’t see why he should have seven, and I none,” said Peter, in a plaintive voice.

“I’ll give you one,” said Floyd, generously.

“No, thank you,—I don’t want it. But what I do want, Patty, is to take a snapshot of you, right now, here on the Spanish Steps.”

“You’ve no camera,” said Patty.

“I can get one in a minute, in that photograph shop. They keep all sorts, and I’ll just borrow one long enough to take you. May I?”

“Yes, if the light’s good enough. I don’t care,” said Patty, indifferently.

Peter looked at her curiously, and then went off for the camera.

“Having achieved his heart’s desire, the young man tripped gaily away,” said Floyd, mischievously smiling at Patty.

“Here comes Flo,” cried Patty, as Snippy and her charge appeared, laden with long pasteboard rolls. “Now we can all be in the picture.”

“So we can!” said Floyd. “Homer will be so pleased!”

Mr. Homer returned with his camera to find a group ready posed for him.

Floyd had arranged them, and Snippy sat on one step, with her arms outspread in a classic attitude, while the two girls stood demurely with clasped hands on either side, a step below. Floyd, above and behind, held out one hand with beneficent gesture, and in the other was a long pasteboard roll, which he used as a trumpet.

“It’s an allegorical group,” he announced, “of ‘Fame blessing a bunch of Tourists.’”

Entering into the spirit of the thing, Peter focussed his camera, and secured what afterward turned out to be a delightfully ludicrous picture.

“Now,” said Peter, in the tone he used when he had no intention of being contradicted, “I will take a picture of Patty alone.”

“All right,” said Flo, not caring, and she turned away to talk to Floyd Austin.

“Lean lightly against the balustrade,” said Peter, as Patty stood carelessly on the steps. She fell into the position he had suggested, and against the background of innumerable steps, above, below, and on either side, the girlish figure stood out in fair relief. The white serge frock, with its graceful long coat opening over a soft white blouse, was a becoming style to Patty, and suited well the scheme of the picture. Her soft, white, felt hat, turned back from her ripply, gold hair, and a filmy white Liberty scarf trailed from it, and fluttered over her shoulder. She was the embodiment of quiet, graceful, American girlhood, and the picturesque Roman surroundings accented her charm.

Peter Homer held his breath as he adjusted the camera.

“Don’t move,” he begged; “it’s perfect.”

“I’ve no intention of moving,” said Patty, calmly; “take your time.”

It was one of the girl’s best traits that she was never self-conscious; and so she was never embarrassed at posing for a picture. In fact, she rather enjoyed it, as she was fond of photographs of all sorts.

“All over,” announced Peter Homer, as he snapped the camera for the last time. “Now, if you people will wait till I take this machine back to its home, I’ll invite you all to tea right here and now.”

“Goody!” cried Patty; “I’m starving, and they have the loveliest cakes in this tearoom of all Rome.”

Snippy was graciously pleased to accept the invitation, and soon they were gathered round a tea table, and Patty had all the cakes she desired.

“When can we see the pictures?” asked Flo.

“As soon as I can get them developed. You may each have copies of that stunning classic group you posed in, but the landscape of Miss Fairfield is all for my little own self.”

“Can’t I have one?” asked Patty.

“No, madame. They are not for general circulation.”

“Pooh!” said Patty, “I don’t want a picture of myself, anyway. I’d rather have one of you.”

“I’ll send you one,” said Peter, quietly.

“Not being members of the picture exchange, the other guests turned their attention to tea and muffins,” said Floyd, in a resigned way, as he appropriated more muffins, and begged Snippy to pour him another cup of tea.

“It doesn’t seem possible,” said Flo, “that we’ve been here over a month; does it, Patty?”

“No, indeed, seems more like a week. Oh, I know I shan’t like Florence as well as Rome, and then, too, all you boys won’t be there. I do love boys,” said Patty, contemplatively, as she broke a bit of frosting off her cake and gazed at the two young men before her.

“Thank you, old lady,” said Floyd. “And do you class this stalwart gentleman and myself among your beloved ‘boys’?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose you are too old to be called boys; but anyway, you’re the ones I meant. You and Lank and Caddy. Why, I’m so used to having you all bothering around, I’ll be awfully lonesome in Florence, I know I shall.”

“You’ll have me,” said Flo. “I’m nice.”

“Yes, you are. And perhaps we’ll have more fun without the boys. ‘They do tease so,’ as Alice said about the elephants.”

Patty’s roguish smile contradicted her speech, and both men knew it.

“Don’t be so sure you won’t see us in Florence,” said Floyd. “My ticket is most accommodating; isn’t yours, Homer?”

“No,” said Peter, shortly. “At least it doesn’t include Florence among its coupons.”

“I’m sorry,” said Patty, gently. “I’d be glad to see you there. Are you really coming, Floyd?”

“I don’t know yet. How long shall you be there?”

“About a fortnight, I think. Perhaps longer. It depends on how father and Nan like it.”

“And you?”

“Yes, and I. But I’m so good-natured I always agree with them.”

“That’s a good one!” said Floyd, “when it’s well known that you’re the dictator of the Fairfield Forum.”

“Only when I care,” said Patty, “and I don’t often care.”

“Well, I care that you’re going away,” said Floyd, “and I shall follow you, if possible, as soon as I can.”