[Illustration: Roman Huntsmen on the Campagna. Ancient Roman aqueduct in the background.] We had a delightful day yesterday, but rather a fatiguing one--I am still tired. We made an excursion (a family party--Bessie, Josephine, her two children, Mr. Virgo and two of his friends--a Catholic priest and a student preparing for orders--all Englishmen). We went by train to Frascati, and from there to Tusculum, carrying our breakfast with us. We passed the little Campagna station (Ciampino) where we have stopped so often. Do you remember the old crazy-looking station, and the station-master, yellow and shivering, and burned up with fever. Now it is quite a busy little place, people getting on and off the trains and one or two brisk porters. The arrival at Frascati was a sight. We were instantly surrounded by a crowd of donkey-boys and carriages--nice little victorias with red flowers in the horses' heads and feathers in the coachmen's hats--all talking at the top of their voices; but between Mr. Virgo and Pietro, Josephine's Italian footman, who had charge of the valise with the luncheon, we soon came to terms, and declined all carriages, taking three or four donkeys. It isn't a long walk to Tusculum, and Josephine and I both preferred walking--besides I don't think I should have had the courage to mount in the piazza with all the crowd looking on and making comments; however, Bessie did, and she sat her donkey very lightly and gracefully, making a great effect with her red hat and red parasol. Perhaps the most interesting show was Pietro. He was so well dressed in a light grey country suit that I hardly recognised him. He stoutly refused to be separated from his valise, put it in front of him on the donkey, sat well back himself and beamed at the whole party. He is a typical Italian servant--perfectly intelligent, perfectly devoted (can neither read nor write), madly interested in everybody, but never familiar nor wanting in respect. I ask him for everything I want. He does it, or has it done at once, better and cheaper than I could, and I am quite satisfied when I hear his delightful phrase "Ci penso io"--I am sure it will be done. We went up through the Aldobrandini garden. It looked rather deserted; no one ever lives there now, but it is let occasionally to strangers. Men were working in the garden; there were plenty of violets and a few roses--it is still early in the season for them. In a basin of one of the fountains a pink water-lily--only one--quite beautiful. The fountains were lovely--sparkling, splashing, living--everything else seemed so dead.