It was fearfully cold, blowing off bleak snow mountains. We were delighted with Vesuvius, throwing up flames, and streams of red lava pouring down her sides. We went at once to a hotel, and went over to Pompeii, which we enjoyed immensely. We found Lady Otway there, made acquaintance with all the Society, and saw everything in and about Naples. My fall had hurt me so much that Richard would not let me go on in the ship from Naples to Trieste.

He writes: "It was rather fun in Genoa. Because I wore my fez, everybody took me for part of the Carnival, and followed me."

Before we left, it being the King's birthday, there was a march past our hotel of all the soldiers and sailors. The sailors were good, but the rest sadly defective and slipshod. We went to Puzzuoli, from where the steamer sailed. The ship went to Palermo, Messina, Catania, came along the Dalmatian coast, and, after a very peaceful journey of a week, reached Trieste. I went by rail to Rome, and I do not wish for a worse train than that between Naples and Rome, nor more disagreeable railway officials than those I found at Naples.

As I arrived late, and did not count my change, I lost eighteen francs, and three of my boxes were kept back from Jack-in-office reasons. At Rome I waited in the station for three hours to get another train, and was delighted to get into an Austrian train with a good bed and a civil conductor. I arrived in Florence next morning, where I did some more mediæval Italy that day and part of the next, and in the evening got on to Bologna for the same object. I then arrived at Trieste, on the 20th of March, with a very unpleasant journey, and, as there was a cholera scare, met with a great deal of visiting of baggage and fumigation. I arrived at ten in the evening, and was accustomed to be met by a crowd of friends, and was surprised at finding that there was no one to meet me; but when I got into our house, three telegrams were handed to me that had not reached me. The first was, "Father very ill—can you come?" the second was, "Father died to-day;" the third, "Father buried to-day at Mortlake" (yesterday). I then understood that everybody knew it, and had kindly desisted on account of what would have been my grief had I known. It was a severe blow, and I felt it very much, for I had not expected it. I was thus in Trieste three days before Richard, and was able to go on board and receive him.

On the 25th, the English, headed by Mr. P. P. Cautley and Mr. Salvari, our first and second Vice-Consuls, presented us with a beautiful cup for our silver wedding.

Richard notes in his journal (as we at once paid a visit to Duino Opçina), "Andrino" (my little god-child, whom I saved in former years as a babe) "is dead, the setter Fazan is given away, Brownie the donkey is sold. I shall not now care so much to go to Opçina; all my amusements are taken away."

On the 10th of April he began his "Terminal Essay," and vol. viii. was sent home. We went to a very nice Assault of Arms; that was a thing we never neglected.

He writes—

"In May, my wife and I had a pleasant change, being invited by our colleague, Mr. Faber, H.B.M.'s Consul for Fiume, to visit his castle Schloss Sternstein, near Cilli, in Steiermark. We found a modern building, which had superseded the ancient feudal château, whence the old legend of a Styrian Romeo and Juliet has not wholly faded. We enjoyed the society of Mr. and Mrs. Faber, who are hospitality itself, and amused ourselves with their numerous and beautiful children; and last, but not least, the simple German life and perfect rest and liberty were exceedingly refreshing. My wife and I went to look at an old mill, with cottage attached, to see if we could make that our future cottage."

We stopped at Cilli on the way back, and thence to Trieste. We had constantly at home many people who came in to lunch and dinner, as it was our one time off work, and people knew it was our great pleasure and chose that hour for coming to see us. The family from Duino, the Princesses Hohenlöhe, and the Princess Taxis, whenever they came into town to do commissions, used to take their breakfast with us en route. A great part of the summer we used to sit under one particular shady lime tree, whose branches almost form a tent, and there were benches and tables arranged under it. We used to call it "our tree." Frequently, when we were in all the bustle of London, perhaps driving in the City to publishers, he would say, "Our tree is out beautifully now. Are you regretting it?" I would answer him, "No; my tree is wherever you are." And he would add, "That is awfully sweet of you." We were not always paying each other compliments. He used to pay them to some women, but I hardly ever got any, so that I treasured up the few; but what he did say, meant a great deal. When he used to go out to convivial parties of men, where the generality of ladies were not asked, and he would come back late in the small hours, he would tell me all about it, and then he would say, "But what a horrible desert it would be, if I had not got you to come back to!"