So Dorothy thought she would address it herself, and taking the pen, made a great blot to begin with, which was not ornamental; then she made a very wide C, which quite overshadowed the "anon" for "Canon."

"Percival" would by no means allow itself to be put on the same line, and had to go beneath it. As to "Coldchester," it was so cramped up in the corner that it was hardly legible, but imitating a letter which she had seen Mr. Martyn address one day, she made up for it by a big "England" at the top. The envelope was not fastened down, and Dorothy remembered Irene said she had seen some dear little "Happy New Year"

cards at a shop in the street, and that she would ask Ingleby to take her with Dorothy to buy one, and put it in the letter before it was posted.

"I'll go and get a card," Dorothy thought, "and post my own letter, and then come back, or go home to mother. I'll go and get ready directly."

As it happened, Dorothy's hat and pretty velvet jacket, trimmed with lovely soft fur, were kept in a little closet, with a window in it, behind the schoolroom. They were put there when she came to the Villa Lucia every morning by Ingleby, who never failed to send her in to see Lady Burnside, drawing secret comparisons between the appearance of her darling and that of Miss Packingham or little Miss Ella Montague.

Dorothy had some difficulty in getting herself into her jacket, and her hair notched into the elastic of her hat, which, springing back, caught her in the eyes, and made them water. Then, when she thought she was ready, she remembered she had not taken off the ap.r.o.n which was stained with the little crimson spot. A little rim of white showed under the jacket between the fur and the edge of her frock, but she pushed it up under the band, and then went softly down the hall to the gla.s.s door, and lifting the _portire_, or thick curtain, which hung over the outer door, she found herself in the road. For the Villa Lucia did not open into the garden which lay between the Villa and sloping ground and the blue sea, but from the back, into a road which led towards the old town of San Remo.

Dorothy held the letter firmly in her hand, and walked on with some dignity. It was rather nice to go to the post by herself, and she measured the distance in her own mind, as she had often been there with Ingleby and Crawley.

The shop where the New Year's cards were sold was near the post-office, and she had two shillings in her little leather purse at the bottom of her pocket.

Several Italian women, carrying heavy burdens on their heads, pa.s.sed her and smiled, and said in a pleasant voice, "Buon gionno!" and one young woman, with a patient baby tightly swathed and fastened to her back, called out,--

"Ah, la piccola bella!"

Somehow Dorothy was so lost in meditation upon herself and her own cleverness in finding the way to the post, that she missed the first turning which would have led her down to the English part of the town.

She took the next, but that brought her out beyond the shops and the post-office.

She did not at first notice this, and when she found she was much farther from home than she expected, she began to run, but still she did not get any nearer the shops and the post-office. Now the street of the English part of San Remo runs almost parallel with the sea, and there are several narrow lanes between the houses, which lead down to the quay, where all the boats sail from the pier, and where a great many women are mending the holes in the brown nets.

There are streets also leading up to the old town--that quaint old town, which was built on the steep sides of the hill, long, long before any English people thought of erecting their new houses and villas below it.

The streets of the old town are so steep that they are climbed by steps, or rather ridges, of pavement, which are set at rather long intervals.

These streets are very narrow, and there are arches across them, like little bridges, from one house to another.

The houses in old Italian towns were built with these arches or little bridges because they formed a support to the tall houses, which were sometimes shaken by earthquakes.

Now it happened that as Dorothy was wondering how it could be that she had missed the post-office, she caught sight of a little white fluffy dog, with brown ears, running up towards the opening of one of these narrow streets.

"My Nino! my Nino!" she exclaimed. "It must be Nino." She did not stop to consider that Nino would have answered her call, if, indeed, it had been he. She did not stop to consider that he was old, and could never have run so fast uphill as this little dog could run. She turned out of the broad street into one of the narrow ones, and chased the little white dog till she was out of breath.

There were not many people about, and no one took much notice of her; and she never stopped till she found herself in the market square of the old town, where, out of breath and exhausted, she sat down on a flight of steps, hopeless of catching the dog, who had now quite disappeared.

An old and dirty-looking church was before her, and several peasant women, with their baskets on their heads, were pa.s.sing in and out. Red and yellow handkerchiefs were bound round their dark hair, and some of them wore pretty beads round their necks. One or two stopped to look at Dorothy, and talked and made signs to her; but she could not understand what they said, and they smiled at her and pa.s.sed on. The streets leading up from the market square looked very dim and very steep, and Dorothy began to feel lonely and frightened, especially when an old woman, who might have been a hundred years old, so wrinkled was her face and so bowed her back, stopped before her as she sat on the steps, and began to mumble, and make grimaces, and open her mouth, where no teeth were to be seen, and point at Dorothy with her lean, bony, brown fingers.

Dorothy got up and began to run down towards the town again as quickly as she had come up, when, alas! her foot caught against the corner of a rough stone step before one of the tall houses, and she fell with some violence on the uneven, rugged pavement, hitting her head a sharp blow.

Poor little Dorothy! Getting her own way, and doing exactly as she wished, had brought her now a heavy punishment. While Ella and w.i.l.l.y and Baby Bob, with their two little friends, were enjoying the contents of the luncheon basket at La Colla, Dorothy was lying all alone amongst strangers in the old town of San Remo!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Swallow and b.u.t.terfly]

CHAPTER IX.

LOST.

Ingleby arrived at the Villa Lucia at the usual time, and went, as was her custom, to the schoolroom door, and knocked.

She was generally answered by a rush to the door by Ella and Dorothy, and a cry of--

"Grannie says she is to stay to luncheon to-day," or, "Don't take her away yet."

But to-day silence reigned, and when Ingleby looked in, the schoolroom was empty.

She turned away, and met the maid who waited on Constance with a tray in her hand and a cup of cocoa, which she was taking upstairs.

"Where is Miss Dorothy, and where are the children?"

"All gone out on donkeys to Colla," was the answer. "Her ladyship was glad to get the house quiet, for Miss Constance has had a very bad night."

"Talk of bad nights!" exclaimed Ingleby; "my mistress has done nothing but cough since four o'clock this morning. Well, I hope Miss Dorothy was well wrapped up, for the wind is cold enough out of the sun, though Stefano is angry if I say so. I wish we were back in England. I know, what with the nasty wood fires, and the 'squitoes, and the draughts, and----"

Ingleby was interrupted here by Lady Burnside, who came out of the drawing-room.

"Good-morning, Ingleby; how is Mrs. Acheson?"

"But very poorly, my lady; she has had a bad night."

"Ah! that is why you have not gone to Colla with the party. But I am sure Crawley will take care of Miss Dorothy, and Miss Irene is quite to be trusted."

"I knew nothing of the party going to Colla, my lady. I hope it is not one of those break-neck roads, like going up the side of a house."

"It is very steep in some parts, but the donkeys are well used to climbing. Give my love to Mrs. Acheson, and say I will come and see her to-morrow."

Ingleby walked back rather sadly. She wished she had known of the expedition, for there was safety for her darling when she could walk behind the donkey going uphill, and by its head coming down again. What did it matter that the fatigue was great, and that she panted for breath as she tried to keep up? She held Dorothy's safety before her own, and all personal fatigue was as nothing to secure that.

If any little girls who read this story have kind, faithful nurses like Ingleby, I hope they will never forget to be grateful to them for their patience and kindness in their childish days when childhood has pa.s.sed away, and they no longer need their watchful care. Ingleby's love was not, perhaps, wise love, but it was very true and real, and had very deep roots in the attachment she felt for her mistress, whom she had served so faithfully for many years.

Between Stefano and Ingleby no great friendship subsisted, and when she returned alone from the Villa Lucia, he said,--

"Where's the little signora, then?"

"Where? you may well ask! gone up one of those steep mountains to Colla on a donkey."

"_Si!_ well, and why not?"

"Why not? Because it is very dangerous, and I think fellows who take other people's children from them ought at least to give notice of it."

"_Si!_ well," was Stefano's rejoinder, "that's a fine ride up to Colla, and there are more books there than there are days in the year, and pictures, and----"

"Come now, Stefano," his wife called, "it is time to stop thy talking, and to get the luncheon ready. Gone to Colla, do you say, Mrs. Ingleby?--a very pretty excursion; and there, high up in the heart of the hills, is a wonderful library of books, and many fine pictures, collected by a good priest, who starved himself to buy them and store them there."

But Ingleby was not to be interested in any details of the library at Colla, which is visited with so much delight by many who spend a winter at San Remo. She was anxious about Dorothy, and Stefano said,--