This conjecture proved correct, for at the end of the street they came upon a large building, evidently a home for old men.

"Why is the driver so anxious to have us go inside? We really must make him understand. No, no. No, no!" continued Aunt Caroline, and finally, by repeating "No, no," and using gesticulations more emphatic than his own, she made him turn about. But he still continued his pantomime of carrying his hand to his mouth, as if in the act of eating. This he varied by occasionally pointing toward the windows of the houses he was pa.s.sing, where, as their eyes followed the direction of his finger, Irma and Aunt Caroline saw other blue-coated old men eating at tables close to the window.

"I begin to understand," said Aunt Caroline, "he wished us to give these old men money that they could eat macaroni for us. Now we will let him do what he will. He has some plan."

A moment later he had driven them to an open s.p.a.ce at the junction of two streets, where a man was cooking macaroni in a large copper vessel.

Two or three little boys who had been following the carriage now stepped up beside the horses, and they, too, made the gesture in imitation of eating, at the same time crying, "_Soldi, soldi_."

"Oh, yes, I recall it all now," said Aunt Caroline, laughing. "It was the same when we were here before." Then she threw some coppers to the little boys, who immediately handed them over to the man at the cooking stall. He, in his turn, gave each a heaped-up plate of macaroni cooked with tomato.

"It would be worth three times the price, though I don't know just what you gave them, Aunt Caroline, to see those boys eat such a quant.i.ty, and it all disappeared in an instant."

"It is one of the accomplishments of the Neapolitan street boy to devour at lightning speed great plates of macaroni, in return for the _soldi_ of the stranger. Their manner of conveying the macaroni to their mouths with the sole use of their fingers is indeed a regular circus trick."

"If the same boys repeat the trick many times a day, I should think they might have indigestion."

"They are willing to suffer, for they love macaroni. The poorest Neapolitans eat much uncooked food, not only fruits, but fish and raw vegetables. But the macaroni with _pomo d'oro_ is a real delicacy. Some of those old men would probably have done the trick as adroitly as the boys."

The driver, smiling broadly on account of his success, as he turned about drove again through squalid narrow streets. Those in the carriage could here look through open doors into the one untidy room, the _ba.s.so_ that formed the abiding place often for a large family.

"In warm weather the men of the family usually sleep in the street,"

said Aunt Caroline, "and when you see the dark, windowless room that is the only home that many thousands can call their own, you cannot wonder that day and night so many Neapolitans prefer the streets."

Sometimes a wretched beggar would run after the carriage. "We must make it a rule in Italy to take no notice of these poor creatures.

Fortunately, I am told, they are far less numerous than they used to be, and the only way to stop begging is for each to refuse alms. Gradually they are finding other ways of helping the poor here."

"I feel sorrier for the horses here than for the people," responded Irma. "There are so many of them, and most look half starved, as well as ill treated."

"The cruelty of the cab men of Naples is known the world over. Cabs are cheap, and every one drives, and the cabmen not only snap their long whips freely, but use them viciously, if so inclined. But some one I was talking with says that a S. P. C. A. has been started here, and already has accomplished much good."

"But the donkeys here seem much better cared for. I have noticed several that look almost fat, and they have pompons of bright wool, and some metal decorations shining on their harness, and altogether they are quite gay."

"Those queer-shaped bits of metal," said her aunt, "are devices, sometimes pagan, and sometimes Christian, that the superst.i.tious Italian wishes his animals to wear to guard against the evil eye or other ills.

But here we are at the hotel."

"Where do you suppose we have been?" asked Uncle Jim, greeting Irma and her aunt, as they entered their sitting-room. "And what will you give for what I have for you?"

"Letters, letters! Give them to us quickly."

"Yes, letters. I found them at our bankers, and also obliged him to honor my letter of credit, but just now I dare say you would rather have the letters than the money."

The letters, written so soon after their departure, contained little news. Yet Irma found hers particularly cheering, because they brought her so closely in touch with the family at home.

"Napoleon," her mother wrote, "was very low spirited the day you left home, but with the fickleness of his kind, he now wags his tail hopefully as if he expected you to-morrow. Mahala's grief is mitigated by her expectation of post cards from strange places, and Tessie is wondering about presents. The boys, I am sorry to say, do not let your absence weigh upon them. Baseball is now the one important thing."

Then followed some directions about taking care of herself, and making the most of her opportunities.

A short letter from Lucy gave her school news, but Irma sighed, because there was no word from Gertrude.

That evening, as Irma sat on the balcony after dinner, Marion came near her.

"You were very good to go with Uncle Jim for our letters. It makes home seem so much nearer, to know that letters can reach me."

"Yes," said Marion, "I suppose so."

"Was there good news in yours, too?" continued Irma, after a moment of silence.

Without answering, Marion walked forward to the edge of the balcony.

"Shall I ever learn to practice what mother always preaches," thought Irma, conscience-stricken lest she had disturbed Marion, "not to ask direct personal questions?"

Marion continued to walk up and down with his hands in his pockets. Then he stopped directly in front of Irma. "Tell me what was in your letters," he said abruptly. "I had none."

So surprised was Irma by Marion's interest, that at first she could hardly reply.

"Yes," he continued, dropping into a chair beside her, "I should like to hear about some one else's relations."

Then Irma found her voice, and prefacing her remarks with, "There really was not much news in the letters I had to-day," she soon found herself telling Marion all about home, about her father and mother, about Tessie and the boys and Mahala, and last, but not least, about Nap.

Marion listened attentively, occasionally making some comment that showed he was really interested in what Irma said.

Then, after perhaps half an hour, he rose as abruptly as he had sat down, and with a hasty "good night," went indoors.

"Yet after all I have told him, he didn't say a word about his own family. How queer he is!" thought Irma.

"As we have been better than most travellers in going to morning service," said Uncle Jim, on Sunday, "we will do as they do by driving this afternoon. I, for one, wish to see the Cathedral, and there are other churches worth visiting."

Toward the middle of the afternoon, therefore, the four travellers set forth for the Cathedral dedicated to San Gennaro (St. Januarius), the patron saint of Naples. In a cross street, on their way, their carriage drew up to let a funeral procession pa.s.s.

It was a typically Neapolitan procession, yet uncommonly gorgeous, with its white, open-sided hea.r.s.e, showing a coffin covered with beautiful flowers. The hea.r.s.e was drawn by eight horses, their heads decorated with yellow, and saddlecloths trimmed with gilt. Close to the horses were a number of priests carrying lighted candles, and after them two or three carriages heaped with wreaths.

Irma's attention, however, was most attracted by a dozen weird-looking men in long, loose garments, with dominoes over their faces, with holes cut out for eyes, that made them almost ghostly.

"Who are they?" she whispered to Aunt Caroline.

"Professional mourners, my dear, and those men in uniform in the last carriages are probably family servants."

"Oh, yes," interposed Marion, "that is the way the Romans did. It's one of their old customs handed down--to have a whole retinue of retainers in the funeral procession."

As they turned into the broad street toward the Cathedral, the sidewalks were thronged, and in the distance they heard the music of a band.

Aunt Caroline translated briefly the succession of rapid sentences with which the driver answered her.

"He says there was a special service in the Cathedral to-day. But the music goes the other way, and we cannot see the procession."

Inside the church, persons of all ages and conditions were walking about, boys and girls, young men and women, some of whom carried a baby in arms, bent old men and women, too, and as there was no service then, when acquaintances met, they stopped for a chat, as if on a street corner.

"The Cathedral," explained Aunt Caroline, "is dedicated to St.

Januarius, Naples's patron saint, Bishop of Beneventum, whom Diocletian put to death. Some of his blood, gathered up by a Christian woman, is preserved in a vessel in his chapel here. The precious relic is locked up in boxes within boxes, but twice a year it is brought out with great ceremony. If the blood liquefies quickly, the superst.i.tious people believe it a favorable omen for the city; if it does not, they are downcast at the prospect of great misfortunes for the next six months."