THE days in Venice rippled by so happily that Patty couldn’t realise how fast they were going. Their own party was usually joined by some or all of the three young men, whose hotel was not far away.

Although it was in early November, the weather was only pleasantly crisp, and during much of the day it was warm, with an Indian summer haze in the air.

“What mood this morning, oh, Fair One with golden locks?” said Floyd Austin, as he came into the hotel and found Patty idly sitting in the reading-room.

“Aimless and amiable,” she replied, smiling at him.

“Ha! ’tis a mood that well befitteth mine own. Let’s go and feed the pigeons.”

“All right, let’s. Flo’s having her hair washed, and Nan and father have gone off somewhere, so I’m glad to have somebody to play with.”

“H’m—a doubtful compliment,—but I’ll forgive you. Get your hat.”

Patty flew for her hat and cloak, and paused to look in at Flo’s door.

“I’m going to the Piazza,” she said, “with Floyd, to feed the pigeons. Come on over, when your hair is dry.”

“All right, I will,” said Flo, as intelligibly as she could through masses of wet locks.

Patty ran on downstairs, and joined Floyd, and together they sauntered along toward the Piazza.

“I can’t imagine being busy in Venice,” said Patty, looking at the idlers of all castes that were everywhere about. “I don’t see how they ever get anything done.”

“They don’t,” said Floyd; “nobody has anything to do,—or if he does, he doesn’t do it. Let’s cross over here, and look in the shop windows.”

“Yes; I love to look in windows. And I want to get some silver things for my memory chain. What shall I get?”

“Absurd question! Of course you must get a little silver gondola,—there’s a beauty, see it? And a Lion of St. Mark; and a pigeon,—oh, Venice has so many typical toys,—it’s too easy!”

“Yes, so it is. I had hard work to find anything in Florence, though.”

They went into several shops, one after another, and Patty bought little trinkets to hang on her chain, and other souvenirs beside.

“What a very long tail the lion has,” she said, as she looked at some bronze paper-weights that were models of the famous beast.

“Yes; it would make a lovely poem. ‘The Lion of St. Mark’s, with his very long tail,’——Go on.”

“‘Wept a whole week ’cos he wasn’t a whale,’” said Patty, promptly; for making verses was one of their favourite games; “go on, yourself.”

“‘For,’ he said, ‘here is water all over the place,——’”

“‘And I’m sure I could swim with exquisite grace.’”

“Good for you, Patty; you had the rhyming lines, that’s hardest. I’ll take ’em next time.”

“All right; here you are! ‘A poor little pigeon was hungry one day——’”

“‘And he hoped Floyd and Patty would come by that way.’”

“‘As they were approaching, he spied them afar,——’”

“And he said, ‘What a fine-looking couple they are!’”

“Oh, Floyd, how vain you are!”

“Speak for yourself! You don’t seem to object to your own share of the pigeon’s opinion.”

“Of course I don’t. Come on; after that compliment from the pigeon, we must give him a whole heap of corn.”

“How will you know which pigeon’s the one?”

“Oh, I can tell by the expression in his eye. Get some corn, please; a lot of it.”

As they neared the east end of the Piazza, they had to step carefully, lest they tread on the hundreds of pigeons which crowded their feet, eager for corn.

Floyd bought the corn from the vendors near by, and handed a parcel to Patty.

“Now I see why they call these cornucopias,” she said, taking the paper horn that held the yellow kernels. “I suppose this shaped twist of paper was first used to hold corn for St. Mark’s pigeons.”

“Of course it was. Somebody had a corner in corn, and so he had to invent cornucopias to hold it all.”

“What nonsense you do talk,” said Patty, giggling at his foolishness. “There, that’s the pigeon who has been watching and waiting for us.”

She pointed to a very large, fat bird, who stood with a pompous air, a little aloof from the rest. His neck and breast shone in the sunlight, and the iridescent gleams shimmered with every graceful movement.

“He’s proud,” said Patty, “and won’t deign to coax for corn, like the others.”

“He’s stuffed, you mean! I don’t believe he could eat another grain unless it was pushed down his throat for him. The last three letters of his name should be pronounced silent.”

“P-i-g. Oh! he isn’t any such thing! He’s simply more polite than the rest. Watch him eat.”

Patty threw some corn to him, and the pigeon ate it with a quiet dignity, but they soon realised that any more might give him a fit of apoplexy, so they fed it all to the others.

It was great fun to watch the pigeons, and especially to watch the little children feed them. Babies of two or three years would timidly throw a grain of corn, and then run squealing away from the commotion it produced.

“Let’s go and see something,” said Patty, when their corn was all gone and she had grown tired of sitting still.

“All right, but don’t go far. Shall it be the Cathedral or the Doge’s Palace?”

“The Palace. I want to go into those horrible dungeons once more before I leave Venice.”

So they loitered slowly through the rooms of the Palace, and then crossed the Bridge of Sighs.

“I always smile when I cross this bridge,” said Patty, “because the poor old bridge has had so many weeping people cross it, that I’m sure it’s glad of the change.”

“Of course it is. We ought to stand here and grin for a week, to make up for the groans and wails with which these poor old walls must be saturated. But I say, Patty, here’s a small party of tourists with a guide. Let’s join them to go through the dungeons.”

As visitors were not allowed in the prisons without being officially conducted, this was a good plan, and once again Patty made the tour of the dark, dismal holes, where prisoners were confined, tortured, and put to death.

“Ugh!” said Floyd, as they at last came out into the sunlight again, “how can you want to see those horrors, when you can look at this instead!”

They stood on the sidewalk in front of the Palace—and saw, spread out before them, the blue water, sparkling with gold ripples; the blue sky, flecked with soft, white clouds; and all the beautiful vista of Venice.

“I don’t know,” said Patty, thoughtfully. “I didn’t enjoy it as a spectacle, but I wanted a memory of those prison cells, as well as of the beautiful things. Oh, here comes Flo,—isn’t she the beautiful thing, with her raving locks all freshly washed and ironed!”

Flo came smiling toward them, followed by the inevitable Snippy, who, having had her lesson, never let her young mistress stir without her. But nobody minded, for Snippy was an agreeable, if not very merry companion, and, too, she had a kind habit of effacing herself from the conversation, when the young people wanted to chatter nonsense.

The last evening of their stay in Venice, Mr. Fairfield gave a water-party. They had made a number of pleasant acquaintances, and these, in addition to their own immediate party, made about two score.

Several gondolas had been engaged, and these the gondoliers, with rival pride, had decorated gaily.

Lanterns swung from the cabins, and flowers and gay streamers gave the craft a festal air. The gondoliers, too, wore brilliant garb, and as the fleet floated away from the hotel, it was a picturesque sight.

Patty wore a fluffy, light blue dress, and a long, light blue cloak, lined with white silk, which enveloped her from head to foot. It had an ermine collar, for the evenings were growing chill; and a dainty blue toque, edged with ermine, sat saucily on Patty’s gold curls.

“You look a picture!” said Peter Homer, as he handed her into a gondola.

“An old master?” asked Patty, smiling gaily at him.

“No, indeed. Rather like one of your new American masters, who draw such fascinating girls.”

“Thank you for a subtle compliment,” said Patty, comfortably arranging herself on the red-cushioned seat. “You may sit beside me for that.”

“Thank you. My effort was not in vain, then. Virtue, like Venice, is its own reward.”

The fleet started and made a delightful pre-arranged trip along the Grand Canal, and through many of the most picturesque smaller canals. Their gondolas kept together as much as possible, and gay chat was tossed across from one to another. Returning, they stopped at the Piazza, and sat for a time, or strolled about, listening to the music of the band. Then all walked the short distance to the Royal Danieli, and gathered in one of the smaller ballrooms, which Mr. Fairfield had engaged.

Some musicians played, and a delightful dance ensued. Patty always enjoyed dancing, and treated quite impartially the many would-be partners who begged to be favoured.

“Isn’t she a wonder?” said Caddy Oram to Peter Homer, as Patty waltzed by with Floyd.

“The most sunshiny girl I have ever seen,” said Peter, gazing at graceful Patty, who smiled back at him over Floyd’s shoulder.

The dance ended all too soon, and then the guests were ushered to the dining-room, where a supper was spread on small tables.

“It would be a lovely party,” said Patty, “if it weren’t to celebrate our last evening in Venice. That makes me sad.”

“It makes me heart-broken,” said Floyd; “Venice without you is as dust and ashes. My soul is as a crushed cauliflower! Alack-a-day, and wae’s me!”

“Come along with us,” said Patty, ignoring his show of grief. “The Venetians will let you off, I’m sure.”

“That may be, madame. But I’ve affairs of more importance than trailing an American girl all over the map of Europe.”

“I’d like to follow the trail,” said Peter Homer, “but I’ve been summoned back to London, and ‘England expects.’”

“I wish I could take you all home with me,” said Patty, enthusiastically; “you’re a lovely bunch of boys, and you’d grace any country.”

“Thank ye, ma’am,” said Floyd, as they all bowed politely.

And when they took leave, the three declared that they would be on hand next morning to conduct the Fairfield party to the railway station.

True to their word, they appeared in ample time to escort the travellers.

Several gondolas were required, and it somehow happened that Peter Homer and Patty, with one or two trunks, occupied one of them alone.

“This is as it should be,” he said, in a tone of satisfaction. “I’m glad to be with you as you see the last of Venice. But I hope we shall meet here again sometime.”

“I hope so,” said Patty, carelessly. “I suppose I shall come again,—everybody does,—but will you be here then?”

“Yes, if you call me. I’ll have to be here to guide your impressions in the right channels.”

“Canals, you mean,” said Patty, laughing at his serious face.

“Very well, canals. You are an apt pupil. Tell me, now, what is Venice like this morning?”

Patty looked around at the glowing scene. The autumn sunshine, the crisp, fine air, the beauty of form and colour everywhere. Then she said:

“Liquid sunlight, streaming down, as if strained through a golden sieve.”

“Rubbish!” cried Floyd, as, in another gondola, he drifted alongside. “Where’d you get that padded plush sentiment, Patty?”

“Isn’t it poetic?” she said, turning to Peter, with a look of mock anxiety.

“No,” he replied, “it’s forced and ridiculous, and you know it.”

“Yes, so I do,” said Patty, her face dimpling into smiles. “But you always make me feel as if I ought to feel that way about Venice.”

“Oh, well, you’re so foolishly young, yet. But you’ll get over it. Meantime, will you accept a tiny souvenir of the Grand Canal?”

Peter offered her a little gold gondola, of such exquisite workmanship that Patty gave a cry of delight.

“It’s lovely!” she said. “Far too pretty for my ‘memory chain.’ I shall hang it on my watchguard.”

She fastened it to the slender chain that held her watch, and smiled her thanks at Peter.

“I shall always think of you when I see it,” she said; “and sometimes when I don’t.”

“I shall often think of you,” he responded, “and shall look forward to meeting you again sometime, somewhere.”

“Oh, come to New York,” cried Patty; “you are coming, aren’t you? And we’ll have an Italian Days Reunion. Will you come, Floyd? And Flo?”

The other gondola had drifted near again, and all were gaily promising to meet again in New York, when the quay of the railway station was reached, and everybody scrambled out.

Then, in the general flurry of looking after luggage, and getting seats in the train, there was no opportunity for further talk, but Peter said, earnestly:

“May I write to you, Patty? And will you answer my letters?”

“Oh, indeed I will! I’d love to hear from you, and of course I’ll write back.”

She gave him her card, and then after general farewells, intermingled with much nonsense and laughter, the Fairfield family, with Flo and Snippy, started for Rome.