`They were so pleased at having all these nice things to take to poor widow Simpson, and in thinking how glad she would be to see them,' proceeded the naughty Katy, `that they never noticed how black the sky was getting to be, or how the wind howled through the bare boughs of the trees. They had to go slowly, for the road was uphill all the way, and it was hard work for the poor pony. But he was a stout little fellow, and tugged away up the slippery track, and Violet and Emma talked and laughed, and never thought what was going to happen. Just half way up the mountain there was a rocky cliff which overhung the road, and on this cliff grew an enormous hemlock tree. The branches were loaded with snow, which made them much heavier than usual. Just as the sleigh passed slowly underneath the cliff, a violent blast of wind blew up from the ravine, struck the hemlock, and tore it out of the ground, roots and all. It fell directly across the sleigh and Violet and Emma and the pony and the basket with the turkey and the other things in it were all crushed as flat as pancakes!'

`Well,' said Amy, as Katy stopped, `go on! What happened then?'

`Nothing happened then,' replied Katy, in a tone of awful solemnity, `nothing could happen! Violet and Emma were dead, the pony was dead, the things in the basket were broken all to little bits, and a great snowstorm began and covered them up, and no one knew where they were or what had become of them till the snow melted in the spring.

With a loud shriek Amy jumped up from the bench.

`No! No! No!' she cried, `they aren't dead! I won't let them be dead!' Then she burst into tears, ran down the stairs, locked herself into her mother's state room, and did not appear again for several hours.

Katy laughed heartily at first over this outburst, but presently she began to repent and to think that she had treated her pet unkindly. She went down and knocked at the state room door, but Amy would not answer. She called her softly through the key hole, and coaxed and pleaded, but it was all in vain. Amy remained invisible till late in the afternoon, and when she finally crept up again to the deck, her eyes were red with crying, and her little face as pale and miserable as if she had been attending the funeral of her dearest friend.

Katy's heart smote her.

`Come here, my darling,' she said, holding out her hand, `come and sit in my lap and forgive me. Violet and Emma shall not be dead. They shall go on living, since you care so much for them, and I will tell stories about them to the end of the chapter.'

`No,' said Amy, shaking her head mournfully, `you can't. They're dead, and they won't come to life again ever. It's all over, and I'm so so-o-rry.

All Katy's apologies and efforts to resuscitate the story were useless. Violet and Emma were dead to Amy's imagination, and she could not make herself believe in them any more.

She was too woebegone to care for the fables of Circe and her swine which Katy told as they rounded the magnificent Cape Circello, and the isles where the sirens used to sing appealed to her in vain. The sun set, the stars came out, and under the beams of their countless lamps, and the beckonings of a slender new moon, the Marco Polo sailed into the Bay of Naples, past Vesuvius, whose dusky curl of smoke could be seen outlined against the luminous sky, and brought her passengers to their landing place.

They woke next morning to a summery atmosphere full of yellow sunshine and July warmth. Flower vendors stood on every corner, and pursued each newcomer with their fragrant wares. Katy could not stop exclaiming over the cheapness of the flowers, which were thrust in at the carriage windows as they drove slowly up and down the streets. They were tied into flat nosegays, whose centre was a white camellia, encircled with concentric rows of pink tea-rosebuds, ring after ring, till the whole was the size