across the ocean. But I hear your father's footsteps. Let us go and meet him."

The artist was not alone, for Tessa was with him. She was looking much pleased.

"It is raining hard," said Mr. Gray, "and I have just seen Tessa's father and asked him to let her spend the night with us. It is too great a storm for her to go out in. The little girl has done finely for me to-day, and she sat so well that I got along on my picture quite rapidly. So she will dine with us to-night and I will tell you stories in Italian. After that, we will have games."

Lucy ran and put her arms around Tessa's neck.

"What a good time we shall have," she cried. "Father tells lovely stories. Oh, Tessa, I wish you were my own sister."

Tessa turned her big dark eyes to the floor. There were tears in them, but they were tears of gladness. She had never had a cross word spoken to her in her whole life. She had never been punished for any little fault. But her loving little heart had not expected this: that the American child who was always dressed so beautifully, whose parents seemed so rich in her eyes, should wish a sister like her, a peasant girl. She could scarcely believe it.

The dinner seemed a very grand one to Tessa. One surprise was brought in after another. There were four separate courses! Last, came a delicious ice and frosted cakes. It seemed to the little Italian like a feast of the fairies.

After the dinner was over, the family went into the great drawing-room. Rugs were stretched here and there over the marble floor. There were soft couches and odd, spider-legged tables and chairs.

"We don't own the furniture," Lucy told her visitor. "It belongs here in the palace and is the same kind as the prince uses. He lives below us. It is beautiful, father thinks, but he does wish we could be warmer on these cold, windy days. You have very queer stoves in your country, Tessa. You should feel the heat that comes from ours in America." And Lucy held her hands over the jar filled with burning charcoal. It certainly gave the room little extra warmth.

"You look cold," Tessa answered, with her voice full of sympathy. "I do not feel so, though. I suppose it is because I have lived out-of-doors most of my life. But think, we do not have much weather like this, and it will soon be spring."

Yes, it was true. Christmas would be here in a few days, and then, then, the lovely spring would open with its violets, its daisies, and its strawberries.

"Are you ready with your story, father?" asked Lucy, as she perched herself on the arm of his chair. Arthur stretched himself on a rug at his father's feet, and at the same time drew Tessa on her low stool to his side.

"I shall have to be ready, at any rate, I think," her father answered, laughing. "So prepare to listen closely, for I must speak in Italian, that Tessa may understand.

"I wish you to imagine a time of long ago," he went on. "It was before any history was written about this country. There were many different tribes of people who lived along the shores of the rivers and built temples to strange gods. Those people believed in a god of the forest, and others of the ocean, the fruits, and the grains. Festivals were held in their honour.

"After many years, the country became great and powerful. This city was built and ships were sent from it to all parts of the known world. It was at this time also that art and poetry flourished. Sculptors modelled beautiful statues that we count among our greatest treasures to-day. And men wrote great books that you, Lucy and Arthur, will study, by and by.

"One of these writers was Virgil. He wrote in Latin, the language spoken by these people. The soft Italian words in use now are pleasant to the ear, but not as strong and grand as the old Latin tongue."

"Doesn't any one speak in Latin now, father?" asked Lucy.

"No, my dear. But it is studied, and the books written in Latin are read by scholars. Our own English language would be very poor if it had not received a great deal of help from the Latin. In fact, the same thing can be said of nearly every language used in the Western world to-day. But I am afraid you are getting tired. I will go back to my story.

"It was written by the poet Virgil, and tells of the wonderful things that happened to a prince called Æneas. He lived in Troy and was always called the Pious Æneas. This was because he was so good to his old father, and honoured the gods in whom he believed."

"Did he really live, father, or is this only a legend?" asked Arthur.

"We think now it is a legend, but the story is written as if every word were true, and belonged to the real history of Italy. But let me go on with my story.

"Æneas and his people had been conquered in a great battle, and their city was given up to their enemies. The young prince fled in the darkness, carrying his father on his back, and leading his little boy by the hand. His wife followed behind them. The old man carefully held some little images. They must not be left behind or lost, for they represented the gods in whom the Trojans believed and whom they worshipped.

"When they had gone a little way, Æneas found that his wife was no longer following them. What could have happened to her? He looked for her everywhere, but it was of no use. No trace of her could be found, and she was never heard of again.

"When Æneas and his men reached Mount Ida they built some ships and set sail. They would find a new home for themselves."

"But where was their old home, father? You called it Troy," said Lucy.

"Troy was a place in Asia Minor, near the strait with the long name of the Hellespont. This strait separates that part of Asia from Greece, and the rest of Europe. You can easily find it on your map. But remember this, as I go on,—in olden times the ships were small and people knew little about the seas or the great ocean, and seldom went far from home. What you would think of as a short voyage would have seemed a very long one to the people then.

"Many wonderful things happened to Æneas after he left Troy. After a while his provisions gave out, and he landed on the shore of an island to get some food. He found wild goats grazing there, and his men killed some of them. While they were feasting on the flesh of these creatures, the harpies appeared. They had the bodies of birds, but the faces of ugly old women."

Tessa shuddered. "Are there any real harpies?" she asked, eagerly.

"No, no, Tessa. Remember that this is only a legend.

"These horrible bird-hags flew down into the midst of the Trojans and destroyed their dinner. The men shot at them, but the arrows glanced off of the feathers, and not one of the harpies was harmed. Although most of them flew far away, they were very angry. One of them stayed long enough to cry in a harsh voice:

"'You Trojans shall be punished for troubling us. You shall be tossed about on the ocean until you reach Italy, and you shall not build a city for yourselves until you are so hungry that you will be willing to eat the trenchers containing the food.'

"This was what people called a prophecy, and, as Æneas and his men believed in such things, it made them feel far from cheerful.

"He sailed away, however, and came at length to another place, where he found old friends. His cousin, Helenus, who had also been driven away from Troy, was ruling there, and he had built a new city for himself and his comrades.

"Helenus was a prophet, as it seemed, and he told Æneas that after he reached