I am writing these pages in an English village. I see a low line of pale, misty hills to my left. A venerable church tower peeps from amid large elms and red brick cottage chimneys. In front of my trim garden is a green meadow. The white butterflies are coursing each other in the noontide warmth, and the village children have crowned themselves with tall paper caps, and are holding some jubilee of their own, the mysteries of which are undiscernable to older minds. The clematis which climbs my porch breathes soft, perfumed sighs at my open window. It is pretty, simple, homely. But between this and the dreamlike beauty of Amalfi there lies far more than the distance of many hundreds of miles. There lie the yearning of the soul for the best of God’s beautiful creation—for the warmth of the sun, that natural god of life and gladness—the thirst of the artist’s eye for color, and the poet’s love of the language of song; there lie the Catholic’s hunger for the land of faith and the longing for the regions of old memories and heroic sanctities. Yes, I love my own pale land, with her brief, scarce summer smiles, her windy autumns, and her long, fireside, wintry evenings. But while I write it and feel it, there comes up before my mind the rose‐tints and blue and silver sparkle, the golden rocks and emerald verdure, of the land with the “fatal gift of beauty,” and I feel my heart sink as I recall Amalfi. A few more days, and we had looked our last on Southern Italy. There were other reasons besides the thirst for sunshine and beauty why our leaving Naples should prove so sad. There was the close friendship with the Vernons and Padre Cataldo; and as regarded four hearts, there was something more, I suppose, than friendship. On leaving Amalfi we only slept one night at Naples (for Posilippo we saw no more), and that was a dream‐tost, tearful night. We would not suffer any of our friends to accompany us to the station. Public farewells would be unbearable. The last thing I remember, as I drove through the hot, bright streets teeming with life, was two young girls with naked feet gayly dancing the tarantella on the burning pavement. Lightly, trippingly, daintily they danced—these two supple‐limbed daughters of the sunny south. How joyous, how free from care, from afterthought or forethought, did they seem! A few figs (they were just ripe) in summer, a few chestnuts and some yellow bread of Indian corn, are all they need for food; and one scant frock, that hides neither arms nor ankles, is all that decency demands. The sun does the rest, pouring rich color into their veins, bright sparkles into their eyes. And so at mid‐day shall they dance, on flags which would scorch my northern skin, singing the while to their own steps, unchallenged by police, unreproached by man, and know no harm, while we go back to our mists and showers amidst our “advanced civilization.”