“Well,” he said, as he twirled his cane, “this was the way of it. Very early in the history of Rome, the debutante crop must have been low, for there weren’t enough wives for the young men, who were up and coming and probably wanted some one to darn their socks and to smile when they told their jokes. And then perhaps there was an extra income tax on the unmarried; they knew a lot about torture those days and so it is not impossible! Anyway, the Romans made a great festival in honor of Neptune, and they invited all the neighboring people to come and bring their families, and in the midst of the games the young Roman dandies rushed in among the spectators, and each selected a maiden that he thought he would like for his wife--it had to be a case of love at first sight, Jane--and carried her off. “Soon after, the Sabine men, who were probably considerably put out, came bearing down upon Rome with loud shouts and the brandishing of glittering steel, and I myself can see the glare of it in the sun this day! . . . But the Romans drove them back that time. However--and now we have the real nub of the story, Jane, and the real confession of the heart of woman--although the records have it that the Sabine brides put up a most unholy row when they started out upon their wedding journeys, they evidently liked the job of being Roman wives, and really respected the men who didn’t even give them time to pack or to cry just once again on mother’s shoulder, for before the second battle opened between the enraged and outraged Sabines and the conquering males of Rome, the Roman wives, once Sabine girls, rushed between the warring factions and plead so prettily for peace that it was granted, and the story goes on that the two people were so united that their Kings reigned together, and that all thereafter was both peaceful and prosperous.” “Oh!” I said. I did _like_ that story. “Did you ever feel like doing that!” I asked, for I thought it might be a confession of men as well as of women. “I have,” he answered, “and if I had--perhaps--perhaps it would have been better!” and then he smiled down at me, but the smile didn’t bring out his laugh wrinkles, but instead it made him look strangely old and tired, which made me wonder. We walked on, for a little time, silently. “By the way,” I said as we reached the covered corridor that is opposite the big Uffizi Gallery, “my Fairy Godmother writes letters!” “And floats them to you upon dew?” asked Mr. Wake, “or does a spider throw them to you with a silver, silken thread?” “No,” I responded, “she puts a blue charm on the upper right hand corner, and the letter comes to me!” “And something of a marvel at that,” commented Mr. Wake. Then he dismissed fancies, and added, “You have heard from her?” “Twice,” I answered, “I had a letter yesterday, and one that was posted only an hour after it came to-day.” “I’ve a certain feeling--a want for seeing how fairy godmothers write,” said Mr. Wake.