“It's the strangest place in the world,” said Staniford; and then he mused again. “But I suppose--” He did not go on, and the word fell again to Lydia. “I'm going to visit my aunt, who is staying there. She was where I live, last summer, and she told us about it. But I couldn't seem to understand it.” “No one can understand it, without seeing it.” “I've read some descriptions of it,” Lydia ventured. “They're of no use,--the books.” “Is Trieste a strange place, too?” “It's strange, as a hundred other places are,--and it's picturesque; but there's only one Venice.” “I'm afraid sometimes,” she faltered, as if his manner in regard to this peculiar place had been hopelessly exclusive, “that it will be almost too strange.” “Oh, that's another matter,” said Staniford. “I confess I should be rather curious to know whether you liked Venice. I like it, but I can imagine myself sympathizing with people who detested it,--if they said so. Let me see what will give you some idea of it. Do you know Boston well?” “No; I've only been there twice,” Lydia acknowledged. “Then you've never seen the Back Bay by night, from the Long Bridge. Well, let me see--” “I'm afraid,” interposed Lydia, “that I've not been about enough for you to give me an idea from other places. We always go to Greenfield to do our trading; and I've been to Keene and Springfield a good many times.” “I'm sorry to say I haven't,” said Staniford. “But I'll tell you: Venice looks like an inundated town. If you could imagine those sunset clouds yonder turned marble, you would have Venice as she is at sunset. You must first think of the sea when you try to realize the place. If you don't find the sea too strange, you won't find Venice so.” “I wish it would ever seem half as home-like!” cried the girl. “Then you find the ship--I'm glad you find the ship--home-like,” said Staniford, tentatively. “Oh, yes; everything is so convenient and pleasant. It seems sometimes as if I had always lived here.” “Well, that's very nice,” assented Staniford, rather blankly. “Some people feel a little queer at sea--in the beginning. And you haven't--at all?” He could not help this leading question, yet he knew its meanness, and felt remorse for it. “Oh, _I_ did, at first,” responded the girl, but went no farther; and Staniford was glad of it. After all, why should he care to know what was in her mind? “Captain Jenness,” he merely said, “understands making people at home.” “Oh, yes, indeed,” assented Lydia. “And Mr. Watterson is very agreeable, and Mr. Mason. I didn't suppose sailors were so. What soft, mild voices they have!” “That's the speech of most of the Down East coast people.” “Is it? I like it better than our voices. Our voices are so sharp and high, at home.” “It's hard to believe that,” said Staniford, with a smile. Lydia looked at him. “Oh, I wasn't born in South Bradfield. I was ten years old when I went there to live.” “Where _were_ you born, Miss Blood?” he asked.