"Look! you have the same bit of ribbon; pull it!"

Dorothy did as she was told, and, to her delight, the net was raised in a pretty festoon.

"Isn't it funny?" she said; "what can the curtains be for? Are they just for prettiness?"

"No, for use; they are mosquito curtains; and I remember some very like them in India."

"What are mosquitoes?"

"Little gnats, very, very thin and small, but they sting dreadfully, and especially at night, and make big b.u.mps on your forehead, and the curtains shut them out. I should like to get up now," Irene said; "for I ought to go to grannie."

"Oh, I don't want you to go to your grannie; you must stay with me."

"I don't think that would do," Irene said, "for father wished me to live with grannie and the cousins."

"I'm so sorry," Dorothy exclaimed, "for I know I shan't like the cousins. I think--I really do--you are the only playmate I ever cared for; not that we've _played_ together, but that's the word every one uses. Dr. Bell said I wanted playmates; and Ingleby says so; and Uncle Crannie says so; and so did that dreadful Mrs. Thompson. Ah! when I had my Nino, and m.u.f.f and Puff, I wanted n.o.body;" and Dorothy was beginning to cry, when Ingleby, hearing the children's voices, now came from another room, where she had begun unpacking, bearing in her arms a bundle of clean, fresh clothes for Dorothy.

"Well, you have been asleep ever since eleven, and it is nearly four o'clock. You must want your dinner, I am sure; and then Miss Packingham is to go to her grandmamma's house. Your box was taken there, my dear, and so I cannot give you fresh things, but I must brush your frock and bend your hat straight."

The children were ready in a few minutes, and presented a strong contrast, as usual.

Dorothy was a little _too_ smart in her pale blue cashmere with grebe tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, and it was hard to believe she had been in the train all night; for they had left Paris in the morning of the preceding day, and had reached San Remo at half-past ten. Irene, on the contrary, looked travel-worn, and she was a good deal more tired than Dorothy, who had slept off her fatigue and her sorrow for poor Nino's loss, and looked--so Ingleby said to herself--"as fresh as any daisy."

When the two little girls reached the sitting-room, which, like Lady Burnside's, opened on a verandah, they heard voices outside, and presently a boy and a girl stepped into the room.

Ella shrank back, but w.i.l.l.y, who never knew what shyness meant, said,--

"Grannie said we might come and fetch Irene--she is to come home now, if she is ready."

As w.i.l.l.y surveyed the two girls, he wondered which was his cousin. The thought pa.s.sed through his mind, "I hope it is the pretty one!" and advancing, he said to Dorothy,--

"Grannie has sent us to take you to the Villa Lucia; are you ready?"

Ingleby, who was busy looking after the travelling basket, from which she was taking some of Dorothy's favourite biscuits, said,--

"Your cousin, Miss Packingham, had better take her dinner before she goes with you; perhaps you will sit down with her and Miss Dorothy. Now, my dear," Ingleby continued, addressing Dorothy, "I hope you will be able to fancy something," as Stefano brought in a tray with coffee and crescent-shaped rolls, and a dainty omelette done to a turn by his wife.

Willie now put his hand out to Irene, and said, in a tone in which there was a little ring of disappointment,--

"Then _you_ are my cousin?"

"Yes," Irene said, "and I am very glad to come and see you all--and grannie."

"Do you remember her?" Willie asked.

"Just a _very_ little, but she always writes me very kind letters, so I feel as if I remembered her."

"Come, Ella, don't be so silly," w.i.l.l.y said, pushing his sister forward; "go and speak to Irene."

Irene took Ella's hand, and then, at Ingleby's advice, they all sat down to their meal together.

Two thick-edged white cups were brought by Stefano, and w.i.l.l.y and Ella enjoyed the good things more than the two tired travellers did.

Irene could scarcely touch the omelette, and Dorothy, in spite of Ingleby's entreaties, only nibbled a quant.i.ty of her own biscuits, which were, as Ingleby said, "not fit to make a meal of." They were those little pink and white fluffy light b.a.l.l.s, flavoured with vanilla and rose, a large tin of which had been bought in Paris, and were Dorothy's favourite food just then.

They found favour with w.i.l.l.y, and he took a handful from the box several times. Dorothy did not approve of this, and said to Ingleby,--

"Put the lid on the box, Jingle; there won't be any biscuits left."

This was not very polite, and w.i.l.l.y shrugged his shoulders, and said to himself, "After all, I am glad she is _not_ my cousin."

Irene was really thankful when w.i.l.l.y said it was time to go, for her head ached, and she was far more tired than Dorothy was.

And now poor Dorothy began to cry, and say she did not want Irene to go away--that she must stay with her, and not go and live with that big boy who was so greedy.

"Hush! hush! my dear," said Ingleby; "you must not forget yourself."

"I don't mind," said w.i.l.l.y, good-temperedly; "she is only a baby, and is tired."

"A baby!" sobbed Dorothy. "I am _not_ a baby, and I love Irene, and she is _not_ to go away with you."

Ingleby was anxious to cut the parting short, and said to Irene, who was trying to comfort Dorothy,--

"Make haste and have it over. She will forget it, and----"

"I shan't forget Irene. You said I should forget Nino--dear, dear Nino.

I don't forget him, and now--now I have lost him, I want Irene, I do!"

"I shall see you very often," Irene said, kissing her; "don't begin to cry again."

"Dear me!" w.i.l.l.y said, as they left the house; "she is worse than you, Ella. At first I thought her so pretty, and now I find she is only a little spoiled thing. However, we will soon teach her better, won't we, Ella?"

Ella, who had possessed herself of Irene's hand, said,--

"You must not be so rude to Dorothy as you are to me, w.i.l.l.y, or you will make her cry."

"No, I'll cure her of crying. But here we are. This is Villa Lucia."

Irene followed w.i.l.l.y into the house, and very soon Irene felt she was no longer lonely--a stranger in a strange land.

Irene had not seen her grannie for some years, and, with the instinct of childhood, she had discovered, without being told, that her father did not care much for her grannie. He rarely mentioned her, and, indeed, he always called her step-mother's mother "grannie" when he had occasion to write of her.

Till Irene had seen Lady Burnside she felt no difference between them.

Mrs. Roscoe was a very grand, fashionable lady, who had called on her at Mrs. Baker's sometimes, and sent her large boxes of chocolate and French sweets.

But _that_ did not make Irene feel as if she belonged to her; and now, when the gentle lady by the fire rose to greet her and folded her in a warm embrace, Irene felt a strange choking sensation in her throat, and when she looked up at her grannie she saw tears were on her cheeks.

"I feel as if I had come home," she said, simply, "and it _is_ so nice."