Then came the Sabbath, and they attended morning service in the Cathedral,—­in the very chapel of San Januarius which is decorated with pictures by Domenichino, Guido Reni, and Lanfranco, the completion of which was prevented by the jealousy of the Neapolitan painters.

The next morning they went to Pompeii, where in the late afternoon carriages were to meet them for beginning the drive through Castellammare, Sorrento, and Amalfi to La Cava.

The absorbing charm of Pompeii, whose resurrection began after nearly seventeen centuries of burial and is yet only partial, at once seized them,—­all of them,—­for, visit the ruined city often as one may, yet the sight of its worn streets with their high stepping-stones, its broken pavements, its decorated walls, its shops,—­all possess such an atmosphere of departed life that its fascination is complete, and does not yield to familiarity.

After hours of wandering about with their guide, seeing the points of most interest,—­the beautiful houses recently excavated, the homes of Glaucus, of Pansa, of Sallust, of Orpheus, of Diomedes and very many others; the forum, temples, and amphitheatre—­they sat long amid the ruins, looking at the fatal mountain, so close at hand, and the desolation at its foot, and meditated upon the terrors of that fearful night.

Malcom read aloud the story as related by Pliny, a volume of whose letters he had put into his pocket, and Margery recited some lines of a beautiful sonnet on Pompeii which she had once learned, whose author she did not remember:—­

    “No chariot wheels invade her stony roads;
    Priestless her temples, lone her vast abodes,
    Deserted,—­forum, palace, everywhere! 
    Yet are her chambers for the master fit,
    Her shops are ready for the oil and wine,
    Ploughed are her streets with many a chariot line,
    And on her walls to-morrow’s play is writ,—­
    Of that to-morrow which might never be!”

The spell was not broken until Mr. Sumner, looking at his watch, declared it was quite time they should return to the little hotel, take an afternoon lunch, and so be ready when the carriages should await them.

The beauty of the drive from Naples to the Bay of Salerno has been set forth, by many writers, in prose and song and poem, and remembering this, Barbara’s and Bettina’s faces were radiant with expectation as they started upon it.  Malcom and Margery were in the carriage with them; the atmosphere was perfection; the sun shone with just the right degree of heat; the waters of the beautiful Bay of Naples were just rippling beneath the soft breeze, and seventeen miles of incomparable loveliness lay between them and Sorrento, where they were to spend the night.  What wonder they were happy!

Just as they were entering the town of Castellammare (the ancient Stabiae, where the elder Pliny perished) the carriage containing Mrs. Douglas, Miss Sherman, and Mr. Sumner, which had thus far followed them, dashed past, and its occupants were greeted with a merry peal of laughter from the four young voices.