_Rome,
A week later._
I’m so glad we’re going to stay here in Rome for a while! Aunt has
taken the upper floor of an old palace, and we’re all nicely settled
for the spring. Up on the roof is our little terrace garden, so tiny
but so perfect, with its stone paths and its borders of pussy-faced
pansies and violets. In the corners are huge earthen jars bubbling
over with pink roses, and the trellis to one side is covered with
big-leaved vines where Cæsar, the mockingbird, hangs in his yellow
wicker cage in the shade and makes joyful noises.
The sky is always so blue and the sun so warm and golden up there, and
yet, it makes you cool just to let your eyes wander off to the
snow-capped mountains in the distance. The dome of St. Peter’s is not
far off, and the Vatican--I wonder what plans the clever old Pope is
devising over there.
Sometimes I stand by the stone balustrade and gaze down into the
narrow dark street far below, where there are small black creatures
scurrying and hurrying about, and the bad odors of the city come up,
and I hear faintly the shrill cries of the vendors. It is wonderful
way up there, in the sunshine, and still lovelier at night when the
great moon is sailing in the sky. I hope everybody down in the street
has a terrace to go to and be happy on, sometime in their lives.
There’s a little room off the roof garden where we go when the chill
of late afternoon creeps over Rome and drives us indoors. After the
sun has set behind the clouds, we start an open fire and make tea by
candle-light. It’s an artistic little nook, with old carved furniture
and brocades and sketches by well-known painters. A wonderful place
for beaux!
Just as I finished writing the last entry in my journal, Louisa, our
pretty Italian maid, with a great air of secrecy, brought me a sealed
letter that a foreign gentleman, so she said, gave her. My Roman
adventures have begun!
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