“But, Betty, we have shared everything all our lives.  I do not know how to have or use anything that is not yours as well as mine.  If Howard had known my heart, he would have had it just as I would.  I shall give you half, Betty.  Do not, oh! do not refuse it.  I shall not be happy with it unless you are willing.  Then you and I will work with it and enjoy it together.  It is the only way.  Say yes, dear,” and Barbara looked at her sister with an almost piteous entreaty.

Bettina could say nothing for a time.  Then, as if impelled by the force of Barbara’s desire, said:—­

“Wait until we get home.  Then, if you wish it as you do now, I will do as papa and mamma think best; for, darling,” in a somewhat quavering voice, “I know if the money were all mine, I should feel just as you do.”  And a loving kiss sealed the compact.

Meanwhile the days in Rome were passing,—­lovely in nature as only spring days in Italy can be; days filled to overflowing with delightful and unique interest.  For cities, as well as people, possess their own characteristic individualities, and Rome is distinctively an individual city.

From her foundation by the shepherd-kings far beyond the outermost threshold of history, down through the six or seven centuries during which she was engaged in conquering the nations; through the five hundred years of her undisputed reign as proud mistress of the world; in her sad decay and fall; and to-day in her resurrection, she is only herself—­unlike all other cities.

The fragmentary ruins of her great heathen temples arise close beside her Christian churches,—­some are even foundations for them,—­while the trappings of many have furnished the rich adornments of Christian altars.  Her mediaeval castles and palaces, crowded to overflowing with heart-breaking traditions, look out over smiling gardens in the midst of which stand the quiet, orderly, innocent homes of the present race of commonplace men and women.  Her vast Colosseum is only an immense quarry.  Her proud mausoleum of the Julian Caesars is an unimportant circus.

We drive or walk on the Corso, along which the Caesars triumphantly led processions of captives; through which, centuries later, numberless papal pageants made proud entries of the city; where the maddest jollities of carnival seasons have raged:  and we see nothing more important than modern carriages filled with gayly dressed women, and shops brilliant with modern jewellery and pretty colored fabrics; and we purchase gloves, handkerchiefs, and photographs close to some spot over which, perchance, Queen Zenobia passed laden with the golden chains that fettered her as she graced the triumph of Emperor Aurelian; or Cleopatra, when she came conqueror of the proud heart of Julius Caesar.

We linger on the Pincio, listening to the sweet music of the Roman band, while our eyes wander out over the myriad roofs and domes to where great St. Peter’s meets the western horizon; and we forget utterly those dark centuries during which this lovely hill was given over to Nero’s fearful ghost, until a Pope, with his own hands, cut down the grand trees that crowned its summit, thus exorcising the demon birds which the people believed to linger in them and still to work the wicked emperor’s will.