"Indeed you did not; but you might have written to me."

"Indeed I hadn't the slightest idea how to reach you. But no matter, I hope you will be in Venice a week at least."

"Yes, indeed; and here is Marion Horton. You remember him."

At this moment Mademoiselle Potin came forward from the shade of one of the arcades in front of the shops, where she had been watching Muriel, and while Marion talked with her politely for a few minutes, Muriel, speaking in an undertone, said, "How much brighter Marion Horton looks.

And is it possible that he goes about with you? He was generally so glum and unsocial on the ship. He looks stronger now, too."

"Oh, Aunt Caroline says he has gained in every way, and lately we have been travelling with a Mrs. Sanford and her son and daughter and----"

"Richard and Ellen? Oh, I know them quite well."

"Then you know how lively Richard is, and I think their being with us has made Marion come out of his sh.e.l.l."

"When he's pleasant I should think he might be very good company. But Mademoiselle Potin has been telling me about him, and I should think he has had good reason to feel a little melancholy."

"There," thought Irma, "I won't let another day pa.s.s without finding out from Aunt Caroline what it is that every one else knows about Marion, that makes him seem an object of sympathy."

Meanwhile Marion had approached the girls.

"Of course you both have some story to account for the pigeons, and each story is probably different."

"I have no story, except that they are regarded as almost sacred, and it would be a great sin for any one to kill them."

"To be _caught_ killing them," interposed Marion, "but I have an idea that many a pigeon pie in Venice is indebted to these same pigeons of St. Mark's. But if you have nothing better, I will tell my story. It is simply that some carrier pigeons brought good news to Enrico Dandolo, the Crusader, when he was besieging Candia, and since that time these pigeons and their descendants have been under the special protection of the city."

"It is certainly great fun to feed them," said Muriel, "and if you come here often, you'll see all kinds of people doing it,--old and young, rich and poor. Why, I have seen a man sit for an hour by that pillar, feeding them."

"As your basket quite emptied itself when you let it fall, let us go over to one of those little tables outside the restaurant and have some tea. We may, may we not, Mademoiselle Potin? And you will join us?"

During the pleasant half hour spent over the tea and cakes, pigeon after pigeon approached them, looking, evidently, for stray crumbs. One was even so bold as to hop up on the table, and would not be driven away until Muriel had fed it.

"It is all delightful," said Irma, "only I must write to Tessie about these pigeons, and I have so much to do. I am growing selfish. The air of Venice makes me wish to do nothing but enjoy myself."

Later, when they went to the spot where the gondolas were waiting, they found that Muriel's hotel was in a different direction from theirs.

"Please come to see me to-morrow," she cried, as she glided away. "You know I cannot always do what I wish to."

"That means that perhaps her mother may not let her come to call on you," commented Marion.

"Nonsense," cried Irma.

Katie was on the balcony of the hotel, as they made their landing. She seemed surprised to see them. "I thought you were going to walk back,"

she said.

As she spoke, she put her hand to her collar. This attracted the attention of both Irma and Marion, and Irma saw that Katie wore around her tie the circlet with the dragon's head, and she could not help noticing a strange expression on Marion's face as he too observed it.

That very evening, when she and Aunt Caroline were alone, Irma remembered the question she had so often meant to ask about Marion.

"When we first left home," responded her aunt, "I could not have answered you. What I said might have prejudiced you against Marion. But things have changed, and even he could not object to my telling you now.

"It is not a complicated story. Marion's father died when he was a little boy. He has no sisters, and his only brother is a few years older than he. Herbert, I am afraid, has always been his mother's favorite, because he is much livelier than Marion, and fonder of people. But though most persons would call Herbert the more amiable, he has a terrible temper, and all who have seen him under its influence know how unreasonable he can be. One day, last winter, both boys were out in Herbert's motor. While going very fast it seriously injured a child.

There were no witnesses to the accident, and the motor did not stop. But a mile farther on, when they had begun to slow down, Marion signalled a mounted policeman, told him there had been an accident, and obliged Herbert to turn back. By this time the child's parents had come out, and a crowd had collected. The boys were arrested, but soon had bail. At the trial Marion refused to utter a word against his brother, for I will say this for Herbert, he did admit that he was acting chauffeur. At last Marion had to admit that Herbert was going much faster than the law permits. Herbert's lawyer tried to show that the child's carelessness caused the accident. But further testimony of Marion's changed this. As Herbert was of age, the judge decided to make an example of him, and he was sentenced to jail for a short period, and in addition had a fine to pay. The child by this time was almost well, and many persons thought the punishment excessive."

"I should think it was his brother who should be pitied, and not Marion."

"Ah, many persons thought that Marion by a word might have put Herbert in a better light. His mother took the view that it was Marion, and not Herbert, who had disgraced the family. Some newspapers wrote articles criticising him, and one published his photograph, labelled "An unbrotherly brother." Now Marion himself had had a nervous breakdown during the winter after an attack of measles. When he had given his testimony at the trial he fainted and had to be carried from the room.

The strain had been too much. Your Uncle Jim and I at once invited him to go abroad with us (for his father was an intimate friend and cla.s.smate of your uncle's) when we heard that his mother would not even speak to him. The strange thing was that while other relatives were so bitter toward Marion, Herbert did not blame him. Yet in all these weeks Marion had no letter from Herbert until we reached Siena. Even now I think his mother has not written him."

"He has been very badly treated," said Irma. "I cannot see that Marion did anything wrong."

"I will say this. Marion himself is partly to blame for being so cut off from his relatives. He, too, has a temper. When he found that several blamed him, he wrote a disrespectful letter to an uncle of his father's, who is really very fond of him, saying that he hoped never to speak to one of the family again, or something to that effect. Mr. Skerritt is joint guardian of Marion with your uncle--and----"

Here Aunt Caroline paused. Then she added, "When Marion is twenty-five he will have a large income. Even now he has more money to spend than would be wise for most boys. But fortunately he is not a spendthrift."

"Thank you," said Irma, when her aunt had finished. "I understand Marion better than I did. If he should speak to me about this, I suppose I can say that I sympathize with him."

"Certainly, and I hope that he will be more inclined to talk now, since Herbert has forgiven him."

"I don't see what he had to forgive."

"I am only speaking from the family's point of view."

The next morning, as Irma sat in her favorite corner of the little balcony overhanging the Grand Ca.n.a.l, Marion approached her. On a small round table that a waiter had moved out for her, she had set a pasteboard box containing most of her souvenirs for the family at home.

There was nothing very valuable, though these pretty trifles had taken all the money Irma had brought from home; cameo pins from Naples, one or two mosaics from Rome, some strings of Roman pearls, an amber necklace from Florence, a leather cover stamped in gilt for books, and a couple of strings of Venetian beads, so dainty and fine that in her inmost heart she rather begrudged giving them away.

"What is this?" asked Marion, holding up an envelope.

"That? Oh, that has the asphodel you gathered at Paestum, and in that small box is the fossil sh.e.l.l you gave me the day you rescued my camera from that foolish little girl."

"How long ago that seems," responded Marion. "We have seen so many places since then that Paestum is ancient history, and yet it is little more than a month away."

"I haven't forgotten," said Irma. "I thought you were very brave."

"Brave!" Marion colored. "I should think you'd call me a regular duffer when you remember what a fool I made of myself getting on board the _Ariadne_ at St. Michael's. I can tell you I felt awfully ashamed to think that a girl had saved me from a tumble into the water. I haven't forgotten what I owe you, though I haven't been able to get even yet."

"Oh, yes, you have. You saw that I wasn't any too brave the night I thought we were going to sink."

"Ah, that was natural. For you know we had barely escaped collision with a man of war. But what's this?"

While talking, Irma had opened a small package, and Marion, fumbling with things on the table, had come across the piece of green marble from Hadrian's villa.

For a moment Irma hesitated, then she plunged into the story of the way she had missed the train that memorable afternoon.

"Aha!" exclaimed Marion, "and you were the girl who disapproved of my buying that tile from the Sistine Chapel." Then he started as if to go into the house. "Excuse me," he said. "I'll be back in a minute."

When Marion returned he had the octagonal tile in his hand. "Fair exchange is always a good thing," he said, "and if you will take this, I would like to have the Hadrian marble. It will be a good reminder to me of something I can't explain just now."

"Yes, you may exchange," said Irma, hesitatingly. For in her inmost heart she preferred her own marble. Yet, this was almost the first favor Marion had ever asked of her.