On The Way I Passed A Little Ruined Church, Shattered, I Was Told, By An Earthquake Three Years Before; Its Lonely Position Made It Interesting, And The Cupola Of Coloured Tiles (Like That Of The Cathedral At Amalfi) Remained Intact, A Bright Spot Against The Grey Hills Behind.

A high enclosing wall signalled the cemetery; I rang a bell at the gate and was admitted by a

Man of behaviour and language much more refined than is common among the people of this region; I felt sorry, indeed, that I had not found him seated in the Sindaco's chair that morning. But as guide to the burial-ground he was delightful. Nine years, he told me, he had held the post of custodian, in which time, working with his own hands, and unaided, he had turned the enclosure from a wretched wilderness into a beautiful garden. Unaffectedly I admired the results of his labour, and my praise rejoiced him greatly. He specially requested me to observe the geraniums; there were ten species, many of them of extraordinary size and with magnificent blossoms. Roses I saw, too, in great abundance; and tall snapdragons, and bushes of rosemary, and many flowers unknown to me. As our talk proceeded the gardener gave me a little light on his own history; formerly he was valet to a gentleman of Cotrone, with whom he had travelled far and wide over Europe; yes, even to London, of which he spoke with expressively wide eyes, and equally expressive shaking of the head.

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