THE first night that Patty spent in Florence she awoke about midnight, thinking she heard music.

“I must have been dreaming,” she said to herself, and then, again, she heard lovely strains, as of some one singing outside her window.

She jumped up and ran to peep through the blinds. Sure enough a small crowd of people stood in the white roadway that divided the hotel from the river, and four men were singing beautiful music. The others were passers-by, who had stopped to listen, and who stood about or sat on the low parapet.

“I’m being serenaded!” thought Patty; “it must be by those two Italian soldiers!”

Flinging on a kimono, she flew into the next room to wake Flo.

“Get up!” she cried, shaking the sleeping girl. “Get up! Signor Vaselino, or whatever his name is, is serenading us!”

“What?” murmured sleepy Flo.

“Oh, get up, you slow thing! Get up first, and understand afterward. Here’s your dressing-gown,—here are your slippers. Put your foot in!”

Jamming the worsted slippers on Flo’s bare feet, Patty gave her one more shake and succeeded in fully wakening her.

They went to Flo’s window, and opening the blinds, stepped out on the little balcony.

It was a perfect night. Although the first of October, it was warm and balmy, and the great full moon cast a golden glow on the smooth water of the Arno.

The four men who were singing wore picturesque Italian costumes, and their broad-brimmed hats, turned up with feathers, gave the effect of a comic opera chorus.

The bright moonlight made the shadows of the people clear and distinct along the white road, and the river, with the buildings rising on its other bank, was a perfect background.

“Isn’t it great!” whispered Patty, squeezing Flo’s arm. “Do you suppose it’s our Italian friend that we met on the train?”

“No, you goose,” said Flo, laughing. “This isn’t a serenade especially for us. They’re professional singers, and they’re serenading the whole hotel. See the other people on their balconies.”

Sure enough every room in the hotel that had its own balcony showed its occupants standing out there to enjoy the music. And windows that had no balconies were thrown wide open, and faces appeared at each.

“Well,” said Patty, “this is a nice country, where the opera singers give free concerts at midnight.”

“They’re not entirely free,” said Flo, who seemed to know more about the matter than Patty. “Observe what now happens.”

The song came to an end, and after flourishing bows, the quartette stood expectantly waiting. Soon something was thrown from a window, and, as it fell in the road, one of the singers stooped for it, and then they all bowed again.

It was a coin flung by one of the hotel guests, and it was quickly followed by others, until the singers were all four scrambling on the ground picking up the coppers and small silver bits that had rained down upon them. Sometimes a coin was flung wide of the mark, and this was picked up by the idle bystanders and usually given to one of the singers.

Then they sang again, and this time Patty ran for her purse, to take part in the recognition of the music. After this song, she and Flo threw down coins too, and it was great fun to watch the musicians pick them up. Probably from much practice they were very deft at this, and as the hotel was a large one and well filled with people, they reaped a fine harvest. At last, having doubtless noticed American voices among their audience, they sang Yankee Doodle, though a very much Italianised version of that classic composition. However, it struck a patriotic chord, and from many of the hotel windows American voices joined in the chorus. After this tribute to her native land, Patty flung down all her small change, and finally the minstrels wandered away to serenade some other hostelry.

“Wasn’t that fun?” said Patty, as she and Flo returned to their rooms. “I think Italians must be very honest people, or the others would have taken the money instead of the singers.”

“Perhaps they did,” said Flo, “or some of those others may have been friends of the singers who picked up the money for them.”

“Well it’s a pretty trick,” said Patty, “much nicer than hand-organs, I think.”

“Yes, or street pianos,” agreed Flo; “and now if you’ll kindly go back where you belong, I’ll return to my own slumbers, and don’t wake me up again to-night, if the United States Marine Band comes over to give a concert.”

“Indeed I won’t, you ungrateful creature; I’ll just enjoy it all by myself.”

So Patty went back to bed and slept until the sun shone high over the Arno, in place of the moon.

The weeks in Florence passed rapidly, it seemed to the two girls. Each day Patty grew to love the beautiful city more.

“It goes along so smoothly,” she said to Nan, one day. “In Rome we were always flying around after some excitement, but Florence days just flow by, all exactly alike.”

“Why, Patty, I think our days are varied a great deal,” replied Nan, who was tying her veil, and was devoting most of her attention to that.

“No, they’re not. We always go to picture galleries in the morning. And shopping or for a drive in the gardens in the afternoon, and then dinner takes up most of the evening. But I like it; I’m not complaining at all. And I’m learning heaps about pictures. I didn’t know I could learn so much just by looking at them. Why, some of my favourites, I almost feel as if I had painted myself.”

“It must be fine to have such a good opinion of yourself,” laughed Nan. “Where are you going this morning?”

“Oh, Snippy’s laid aside with a headache, and as you and dad are going off on an excursion, he said Flo and I might go out with Carlo.”

“Well, have a good time. We’ll be back by tea time, so be in the palm room by five. Some people are coming.”

Nan ran away to go off on a day’s jaunt with her husband, and Flo and Patty put on their hats to go for a drive with Carlo.

This very useful Italian citizen was a well-trained guide, who had been recommended to Mr. Fairfield by an old friend. Carlo was experienced in all styles of sight-seeing, and moreover was trusty and reliable in every way. So Mr. Fairfield allowed Flo and Patty to go with him to galleries and museums, and Carlo proved a most satisfactory cicerone and chaperon. To-day the cab came to the door and Carlo assisted the two girls into it.

“Where to, ladies?” he asked, as he stood at attention.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Patty; “we’ve seen ’most everything. Where shall we go, Flo?”

“To Dante’s House,” was the prompt reply. “We haven’t seen that.”

“All right,” said Patty; “to Dante’s House, Carlo.”

“Non, ladies, non,” was the unexpected reply. “To the great galleries? yes. To the great monuments? yes. To the gardens? yes. But to a house—a so plain, uncertain house—which in maybe Dante was born,—maybe no,—no, we do not go to Dante’s house. It is a foolishness.”

Patty laughed. She well knew Carlo’s dictatorial ways, and if he didn’t think Dante’s House worth seeing, it probably wasn’t.

“I don’t care, Carlo,” she said, “go where you like. It’s a lovely morning, and I’m so amiable I’d follow anybody’s advice. You don’t care; do you, Flo?”

“Not a bit. Let’s leave it to Carlo.”

“Then, ladies, I take you once again to the Baptistery. I wish you to look again at the bronze doors of Ghiberti.”

“Go ahead,” said Patty. “I know those doors by heart; I know what Michael Angelo said about them, and I have both sepia and coloured postcards of them. But go on, we can’t have too much of the bronze doors.”

Carlo, though he spoke English, was not always quick enough to grasp the whole of Patty’s raillery, but he saw she was willing to follow his advice, so he took the seat beside the cabdriver, and they rumbled away.

When they reached the Baptistery, they stood in front of the great doors, and listened patiently while Carlo repeated the meanings of the designs. It was owing to these repeated descriptions of Carlo’s that Patty was acquiring a really good appreciation of painting and sculpture, and though she mildly chaffed the good-natured guide, she listened thoughtfully to his lectures.

“You’re a fine guide, Carlo,” she said; “you told all that exactly as you told it last time. I think you’re the best guide in all Florence.”

“Oh, no, lady,” said Carlo, with a gesture of deprecation. “Verra pore guide. I simply do my best to serve the kind patrons who honour me. I speak but only eight of the languages.”

“Only eight?” exclaimed Patty, in a teasing tone, for she well knew this was mock modesty, and Carlo was really proud of his linguistic acquirements.

“Yes; eight. It is but few.”

“Oh, well, it will do for us,” said Patty; “I only know one, myself.”

“That is enough for a lady,” said Carlo, so gallantly that Flo and Patty laughed.

“You know a lot of languages, Carlo,” Patty said, “and better than that, you can be tactful in all of them.”

“Ah, I am a Florentine,” said Carlo, bowing, with native pride in his birth that he scorned to admit in his acquirements. “But, ladies, here comes a so good opportunity. A bambino—a baby—is arriving for baptism. We will go in and observe the ceremony.”

“We will, indeed,” said Patty. “I’ve always just missed it, before. Come on, Flo.”

Inside the Baptistery they went and found a priest and a few officials gathered around the font.

With great interest they watched the baptism of the tiny three-days’ old infant. The little one was carried by its father, and accompanied by a nurse and an Italian lady, presumably an aunt or other relative. The child was robed in a grand conglomeration of laces, ribbons, jewelry, and swathed in voluminous outer wrappings.

After the short ceremonial was over, the girls lingered to look at the mosaics in the choir, a study in which Patty was taking a great interest.

As they stood there Patty heard a voice over her shoulder, addressing her in Italian. She turned, and saw the Italian soldier, Signor Grimaldi, accompanied by his friend Balotti.

They had not seen these men since the meeting on the train, and they had wondered what had become of them.

“Oh, Signor, how do you do?” cried Patty, quite forgetting that he couldn’t understand her.

But he understood the smile and gesture and shook hands cordially with Patty and Flo, and then presented Signor Balotti.

This introduction was in Italian but the girls assumed its intent, and smiled pleasantly at both men, though at a loss how to continue the conversation.

“We can talk through Carlo,” said Patty, with a sudden inspiration. “What’s the use of his eight languages if he can’t help us out in a case like this? Carlo, these are two friends of ours, but they can’t speak English, nor we Italian, so you must act as interpreter. See?”

“Yes, lady,” said Carlo, a little hesitatingly. “They are your before acquaintances?”

“Oh, yes,” said Patty, laughing at his air of caution; “we met them on the train coming from Rome. At least we met Mr. Grimaldi, and were properly introduced. Ask him why he hasn’t been to see us.”

Reassured, Carlo talked to the young men, and translated back and forth for the benefit of both sides. It seemed that the Italians had mistaken the name of the hotel where the Fairfields were, and had not been able to find them, they themselves being at a different one.

“But I spik a very small Angleesh,” volunteered Signor Balotti, timidly, and the girls turned to him in delight.

“Oh, do you?” said Flo. “Then you can help us all out.”

So they chatted away, and as each only understood about a quarter of what the other said, the conversation was mostly laughter and gestures.

At last with the help of Carlo the young men conveyed to the girls an invitation to visit some certain of the Royal apartments in the Pitti Palace, which are not usually shown to visitors.

The idea appealed to Carlo, who wanted his patrons to see all that they could, but he hesitated about accepting the escort of these handsome young strangers.

“Oh, yes, we’ll go,” cried Patty, after she learned of the invitation; “don’t be a goose, Carlo, you’re worse than Snippy! I’ll take the responsibility, and I’ll tell father all about it, and he’ll say, ‘Bless you, my children.’ Come on, Flo.”

Then turning to Signor Balotti, she smiled, and said:

“Si, signor, we will go avec pleasure.”

The polyglot sentence was not very intelligible, but the smile was, and Carlo allowed himself to be persuaded to carry out the plan.

Their cab was dismissed, and a larger carriage called, which would hold the four, and again Carlo climbed to the seat beside the driver, and they were off.

Conversation was now difficult, but that made it only more interesting.

“Where do you live?” asked Patty, choosing a simple question as a beginning.

This Signor Balotti understood, but his reply was entirely unintelligible, and as Patty didn’t care where they lived, she gave it up.

“The Boboli gardens are very beautiful,” volunteered Flo, willing to do her share to break a silence that might become embarrassing.

“Boboli? No—not this hora,” said Balotti, with a regretful smile.

“Goodness!” said Flo, “he thinks I’m asking him to take us there, and he says not at this hora. That’s hour, isn’t it, Patty?”

“Yes. She doesn’t mean we want to go there, but that it is beautiful,—bella,—bellissimo! See?”

“Si,” responded Balotti, repeating, without understanding.

“So pretty, you know,” Patty floundered on; “so green and trees, and flowers,—flora,—gracious, Flo, what is Italian for flowers, you ought to know!”

“I don’t,” said Flo; “but, look this way!” and Flo sniffed vigorously at an imaginary bouquet. Her dramatic instinct was so strong that her meaning was quite evident, and one could almost imagine she had beautiful flowers in her hands.

“Si, Si, Si!” exclaimed the gallant Balotti, and with an order in Italian for the driver to stop, he sprang from the carriage and flew over to a neighbouring flower stand. He returned with two huge nosegays which he bestowed upon the girls, with a voluble flow of Italian compliments.

“Oh, Patty,” said Flo, blushing with mortification, “he thinks we asked him for flowers!”

“Si, si, flowers!” said Balotti, beaming with pleasure at having gratified the wishes of the young ladies.

To Patty’s surprise Carlo took the flower episode calmly, and she concluded that a gift of flowers in Italy must mean even less than in America.

“Yes,” said Carlo, when she asked him this; “yes, the Signori mean to present the compliments they cannot speak, by means of the so beautiful bouquets.”

“Thank them very much,” said Patty, “they are most kind.”

But her own smiling bows of appreciation were quite as welcome to the gallant Balotti as Carlo’s expressed thanks.

And now gloom settled on the handsome face of Signor Grimaldi.

“He wants that he too,” said Balotti.

This seemed obscure, at first, but the discontented expression helped Patty’s quick wit, and she exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Grimaldi wants to give us flowers also?”

“Yes,” said Balotti, “or—or another.”

“Yes,” said Flo, assisting him, “or something else. Well, Patty, we must accept another gift,—I see that clearly. What do you suggest that we can take with propriety, and thus bring smiles to Grimaldi’s face as well as Spaghetti’s, I mean Balotti’s?”

Patty looked about on either side.

“Postcards!” she exclaimed, as she saw a vendor with his tray.

“Just the thing!” cried Flo. “Tell him, Carlo, that the young ladies would be overjoyed to receive the gift of half a dozen postcards each.”

Carlo translated this, and Signor Grimaldi’s face broke into wide smiles as he sprang in his turn from the carriage.

“Tell him only a half dozen, Carlo,” warned Patty, for Grimaldi’s enthusiasm betokened his buying the whole tray, and sending the man for more.

But he obeyed Carlo’s strict orders, and returned, bringing Flo and Patty each six of the most celebrated monuments of Florence.

The girls made charming protestations of gratitude and appreciation of this courtesy, and the drive continued. The two Italians, pleased with their own performances, seemed content to sit and beam pleasantly for the remainder of the way, and soon they were at the portals of the Pitti Palace.

As the young men had promised they were able to show them through some magnificent Royal apartments, rarely shown to strangers, and where even Carlo himself had never been before.

The sights were most interesting, and after a pleasant hour spent there, they all drove back to the hotel. The Italian gentlemen took leave, and through the interpretations of Carlo, Patty asked them to return late in the afternoon and take tea with them, and this the young men readily promised to do.