Cynthia grinned and settled philosophically against the frame of the open window. Ten hours was a pretty long time, and it would be more than that now in this poky old train, but anyway it was an adventure and all part of traveling. She was certainly going in the right direction, there was no one to meet her at the other end, no one to worry when she didn’t arrive, and she would have all day to observe and to make sketches. Third class had been almost a necessity, this Italian trip hadn’t been allowed for in her original budget, but Cynthia had found third class in France so much more fun than second ... and of course even the Italians say that no one but rich, rich Americans and officials who travel on passes ever go by first. This was the coolest carriage too, since the always open windows let in floods of air and sunlight along with the floods of dust, and the hard wooden benches were pleasantly free of the small insect life almost universally inhabiting the upholstery of first and second coaches. But third class in Italy! The young man at Cooks who had sold her her ticket had almost expired to hear of an Anglo-Saxon traveling in so unorthodox a fashion. No one ... _no one_ ever traveled third class in Italy! Cynthia surveyed the coach and chuckled again. Further down the aisle, two lovely little Sisters of Santa Chiara, in the soft, dove-gray habit of their order, with spotless wide-spreading winged headdresses and speckless collars munched contentedly and daintily on bread and cheese augmented by a bottle of water they had brought with them. Cynthia’s eye took in the angle of that tilted, sail-like headdress, stealthily her fingers groped for sketch-book and pencil. A moment later she was so absorbed in her drawing that she absent-mindedly grinned back in friendly fashion at the littlest Sister, who had caught her drawing. Nobody seemed to mind being sketched in this country. Then there was the old great grandmother and her boisterous brood. Beside them she tended a hen in her apron, a hen that seemed very content to sleep and to cluck drowsily in the warm depths of that blue lap. The littlest bambino was not more than a year old, sleeping with bobbing head on the shoulder of the oldest sister. He had the most beautiful hands, tapering, with tiny dimples and wee pink nails, which fell into enchanting poses. Cynthia sketched happily. People came and went from every tiny station and crowds gathered and dispersed beneath the trailing potted flowers that decorated the pillars of every station platform. Cheerily they screamed “_Buon giorno!_” “_Addio!_” “_Arrivederci! Arrivederci!_” Italian, someone had told Cynthia, was a language intended to be shouted.