grows more exquisite, and the children become. more restless and weary at every turn. Round and round the points of precipitous mountains, now with the sun scorching us, then with a cold blast in our faces. Up, up, up-the thermometer which hangs in the carriage falling as we ascend, till it has marked 20°. At length we reach the summit of the pass, the trapeli are detached from us and take their easy road, descending by the way we have come; our drivers mount, brace up their steeds to action, screw the drags to full pressure, and we bowl merrily down into a new series of hills and valleys.

Then we begin to look out for a white house, such as the Nook has been described to us; but it never seems to come in sight, and we stop at length apparently in the high road,

Yes! there, high up above us on a rough lawn, is a large white house with rounded windows and arched green doors, and a cluster of cottages around it. A tribe of contadini (peasants) descends to meet us, mingling their welcome with regret that we have arrived before they expected us, and all is not prepared.

The carriages can approach no nearer, we must alight and climb the rough little stony road to the old three-cornered lawn, which is rendered verdant

by chestnut trees, some gnarled fruit trees, and a

rough hedge of roses.

The great green door is

opened; we enter, curious to see what is to be

our abode for three months.

first, rush into the house.

The children, always

"Oh, where are the

chairs and tables?" they cry in dismay.

The first room is empty of all except a gaunt,

spectral clock, which looks as though it has marked the time for centuries; the second is furnished only with a wheeled chair of antique construction, of which the children make a prize directly. We had understood that there were no luxuries, but had not come prepared for absolute

destitution of civilized commodities.

We look

each other in the face, and pass on silently.

Domestic civilization begins on the first floor, but it is a civilization of the past. A vaulted flight of stone steps leads into a great dining-room, with a stone chimney corner of medieval dimensions, heavy beams across the ceiling, and old corniced wooden cupboards in the depth of the thick walls. A wondrous round oak table on a circle of carved pillars stands in the centre, several high-backed black oak chairs are ranged around, and on the walls a collection of family portraits, in the Kneller style, hang in carved octagon frames. The sun shining through three windows fills this charmingly quaint room, and we fall in love with it on the spot.

Opening from the right is a bedroom with a mysterious old canopied bedstead, hung with yellow drapery and fringes of a manufactory unknown to our modern minds. More old paintings, and a chest of drawers of such solid and great proportions that one would imagine the ancient possessors were of the race of giants. The same antiquity and solidity runs through the house. Another room is furnished with certain carved armchairs, which the united efforts of two persons could scarcely move. They are covered with

ancient Cordova leather, and bear the family arms in a shield on the back. The tables are slabs of oak some inches thick, resting on solid pillars or lyre-shaped tressels. The doors are all of rich dark old oak, and the keys veritable antiquarian treasures of medieval ornamental ironwork.

Upstairs we find several bedrooms, and another large salone, furnished with the Cordova leather chairs and oak tables, on one of which is a draught and backgammon board of primitive construction, the games being marked out with red and white paint. There is also an hour glass which Saturn himself might have used. On the walls are a collection of paintings of a fearful and appalling description. They are certain conglomerations of fruit and flowers arranged so as to represent human figures, and they have a peculiarly awful aspect.

In one room are two old carved oak bedsteads, so very solid as to be immovable. The same room has also two old oak chests, fully ten feet long, and supported on carved lions' claws. They are large and dark and mysterious enough to entomb a dozen Griseldas,-for Boccaccio has shown that the mistletoe bough legend is of Italian origin, a certain Countess Griselda being the real heroine.

These casse we suppose to have been the repositories of the ancient possessors' treasures of

homespun and brocades. Every household of mediæval times in Italy possessed such chests, and every bride had one to hold her corredo, or outfit of house and personal linen.

"What a delightful old house!" exclaims Aunt Louisa. "It ought to be full of legends; I must find them all out while we are here."

But what is this door we have not opened! We peep and are half frightened. It is a kind of lumber closet leading up some ruined or unfinished stairs. Black walls, black logs and sticks and shapeless lumber, all dim, dark, and mysterious, with here and there a face looming out of an old canvas like a ghost. We shut it up again, and go down to an impromptu meal, for which the hungry children are craving.

Of course the cook is in despair. She declares the kitchen is destitute of everything needful, and what there is is rusty with age. But cooks are always hard to please out of their own kitchenand very often in it. She only smiles grimly when the housewife says, "We have not come here for luxuries, but for health and coolness, and are only too willing to give up conventionality for this lovely scenery."

After dinner we have leisure to make further explorations, and discover a most delightful ter