And the pictures in the Pitti and the Uffizi palaces,--you should have warned me that I would wear my eyes out with much looking at them! And it is one thing to hear of Michael Angelo, and quite another to see his great works! The American lady, Mrs. Sprague, with her guide-book, follows the English-speaking guide about, and continually interrupts him to ask, "At what page have we arrived now?" But her daughter is different. She carries no guide-book. She has a boy's mind and asks questions about everything. She asked me about the tunnels through which my train came from Venice. Ah, those tunnels! There were twenty-two of them in sixteen miles, and the train whizzed in and out in the most exciting manner. More I cannot say, but that I am perfectly happy! And I shall sign my name Benvenuto, because the American girl says I am welcome. A thousand greetings to you, from your absent crab of a boy in Florence, RAFAEL VALLA. * * * * * During that wonderful automobile ride from Florence to Rome, Rafael was glad that his mother had told him so many stories of her native city. There was pointed out to him on one of the Tuscan hills not far from Florence, the same yoke of oxen that had drawn the car through the city streets on the previous Easter, and he was able to tell Edith the whole story of the "Burning of the Car." The chauffeur, under Mrs. Sprague's directions, took them off the highway and close to the oxen and their driver. The horns of the oxen were decorated with garlands of flowers and gay paper streamers, because they were again to take part in a festival,--the festival of the vintage; and on the drag behind them rested a great tun for the wine. Rafael spoke to the smiling contadino and asked if they might follow him to the harvest. "Not follow," he answered; "the oxen move but slowly, and must first drag the tun to the wine-cellar at the farm-house. But you may lead," he added. "It is a straight road along the base of the hill and across the brook, to the gate of the vineyard." So they sped along in the automobile, and soon reached the busiest, merriest place that Edith had ever seen. Men and women, boys and girls, all dressed in the brightest, gayest colors, were cutting grapes from the vines which hung in long festoons from tall trees. They were constantly coming and going, with full baskets or empty ones, and some of the boys had climbed ladders to pick the grapes from the tree-tops. There was much shouting and laughter, with happy calls to one another about the number of baskets of grapes each had picked, and the number of lire the work would bring. "See how carefully that boy is cutting the grapes from the vines," observed Edith, pointing to a lad about Rafael's age, who sang as he worked, and who lifted the luscious, purple clusters of fruit into his basket as lovingly as if they could feel the touch of his hand.