The world was just stirring from its afternoon siesta, when the Farfalla dropped her yellow sails and floated into the shady little harbor. Giuseppe prodded and pushed along the fern-grown banks until the keel jolted against the water steps. He sprang ashore and steadied the boat while Constance alighted. She slipped on the mossy step—almost went under—and righted herself with a laugh that rang gaily through the grove.

She came up the steps still smiling, shook out her fluffy pink skirts, straightened her rose-trimmed hat, and glanced reconnoiteringly about the grove. One might reasonably expect, attacking the hotel as it were from the flank, to capture unawares any stray guest. But aside from a chaffinch or so and a brown-and-white spotted calf tied to a tree, the grove was empty—blatantly empty. There was a shade of disappointment in Constance's glance. One naturally does not like to waste one's best embroidered gown on a spotted calf.

Then her eye suddenly brightened as it lighted on a vivid splash of yellow under a tree. She crossed over and picked it up—a paper covered French novel; the title was Bijou, the author was Gyp. She turned to the first page. Any reasonably careful person might be expected to write his name in the front of a book—particularly a French book—before abandoning it to the mercies of a foreign hotel. But the several fly leaves were immaculately innocent of all sign of ownership.

So intent was she upon this examination, that she did not hear footsteps approaching down the long arbor that led from the house; so intent was the young man upon a frowning scrutiny of the path before him, that he did not see Constance until he had passed from the arbor into the grove. Then simultaneously they raised their heads and looked at each other. For a startled second they stared—rather guiltily—both with the air of having been caught. Constance recovered her poise first; she nodded—a nod which contained not the slightest hint of recognition—and laughed.

"Oh!" she said. "I suppose this is your book? And I am afraid you have caught me red-handed. You must excuse me for looking at it, but usually at this season only German Alpine-climbers stop at the Hotel du Lac, and I was surprised you know to find that German Alpine-climbers did anything so frivolous as reading Gyp."

The man bowed with a gesture which made her free of the book, but he continued his silence. Constance glanced at him again, and this time she allowed a flash of recognition to appear in her face.

"Oh!" she re-exclaimed with a note of interested politeness, "you are the young man who stumbled into Villa Rosa last Monday looking for the garden of the prince?"

He bowed a second time, an answering flash appearing in his face.



"And you are the young woman who was sitting on the wall beside a row of—of—"

"Stockings?" She nodded. "I trust you found the prince's garden without difficulty?"

"Yes, thank you. Your directions were very explicit."

A slight pause followed, the young man waiting deferentially for her to take the lead.

"You find Valedolmo interesting?" she inquired.

"Interesting!" His tone was enthusiastic. "Aside from the prince's garden which contains a cedar of Lebanon and an India rubber plant from South America, there is the Luini in the chapel of San Bartolomeo, and the statue of Garibaldi in the piazza. And then—" he waved his hand toward the lake, "there is always the view."

"Yes," she agreed, "one can always look at the view."

Her eyes wandered to the lake, and across the lake to Monte Maggiore with clouds drifting about its peak. And while she obligingly studied the mountain, he studied the effect of the pink gown and the rose-bud hat. She turned back suddenly and caught him; it was a disconcerting habit of Constance's. He politely looked away and she—with frank interest—studied him. He was bareheaded and dressed in white flannels; they were very becoming, she noted critically, and yet—they needed just a touch of color; a red sash, for example, and earrings.

"The guests of the Hotel du Lac," she remarked, "have a beautiful garden of their own. Just the mere pleasure of strolling about in it ought to keep them contented with Valedolmo."

"Not necessarily," he objected. "Think of the garden of Eden—the most beautiful garden there has ever been if report speaks true—and yet the mere pleasure of strolling about didn't keep Adam contented. One gets lonely you know."

"Are you the only guest?"

"Oh, no, there are four of us, but we're not very companionable; there's such a discrepancy in languages."

"And you don't speak Italian?"

He shook his head.

"Only English and—" he glanced at the book in her hand—"French indifferently well."

"I saw someone the other day who spoke Magyar—that is a beautiful language."

"Yes?" he returned with polite indifference. "I don't remember ever to have heard it."

She laughed and glanced about. Her eyes lighted on the arbor hung with grape-vines and wistaria, where, far at the other end, Gustavo's figure was visible lounging in the yellow stucco doorway. The sight appeared to recall an errand to her mind. She glanced down at a pink wicker-basket which hung on her arm, and gathered up her skirts with a movement of departure.

The young man hastily picked up the conversation.

"It is a jolly old garden," he affirmed. "And there's something pathetic about its appearing on souvenir post-cards as a mere adjunct to a blue and yellow hotel."

She nodded sympathetically.

"Built for romance and abandoned to tourists—German tourists at that!"

"Oh, not entirely—we've a Russian countess just now."

"A Russian countess?" Constance turned toward him with an air of reawakened interest. "Is she as young and beautiful and fascinating and wicked as they always are in novels?"

"Oh, dear no! Seventy, if she's a day. A nice grandmotherly old soul who smokes cigarettes."

"Ah!" Constance smiled; there was even a trace of relief in her manner as she nodded to the young man and turned away. His face reflected his disappointment; he plainly wished to detain her, but could think of no expedient. The spotted calf came to his rescue. The calf had been watching them from the first, very much interested in the visitor; and now as she approached his tree, he stretched out his neck as far as the tether permitted and sniffed insistently. She paused and patted him on the head. The calf acknowledged the caress with a grateful moo; there was a plaintive light in his liquid eyes.

"Poor thing—he's lonely!" She turned to the young man and spoke with an accent of reproach. "The four guests of the Hotel du Lac don't show him enough attention."

The young man shrugged.

"We're tired of calves. It's only a matter of a day or so before he'll be breaded and fried and served Milanese fashion with a sauce of tomato and garlic."

Constance shook her head sympathetically; though whether her sympathy was for the calf or the partakers of table d'hote, was not quite clear.

"I know," she agreed. "I've been a guest at the Hotel du Lac myself—it's a tragedy to be born a calf in Italy!"

She nodded and turned; it was evident this time that she was really going. He took a hasty step forward.

"Oh, I say, please don't go! Stay and talk to me—just a little while. That calf isn't half so lonely as I am."

"I should like to, but really I mustn't. Elizabetta is waiting for me to bring her some eggs. We are planning a trip up the Maggiore tomorrow, and we have to have a cake to take with us. Elizabetta made one this morning but she forgot to put in the baking powder. Italian cooks are not used to making cakes; they are much better at—" her eyes fell on the calf—"veal and such things."

He folded his arms with an air of desperation.

"I'm an American—one of your own countrymen; if you had a grain of charity in your nature you would let the cake go."

She shook her head relentlessly.

"Five days at Valedolmo! You would not believe the straits I've been driven to in search of amusement."

"Yes?" There was a touch of curiosity in her tone. "What for example?"

"I am teaching Gustavo how to play tennis."

"Oh!" she said. "How does he do?"

"Broken three windows and a flower pot and lost four balls."

She laughed and turned away; and then as an idea occurred to her, she turned back and fixed her eyes sympathetically on his face.

"I suppose Valedolmo is stupid for a man; but why don't you try mountain climbing? Everybody finds that diverting. There's a guide here who speaks English—really comprehensible English. He's engaged for tomorrow, but after that I dare say he'll be free. Gustavo can tell you about him."

She nodded and smiled and turned down the arbor.

The young man stood where she left him, with folded arms, watching her pink gown as it receded down the long sun-flecked alley hung with purple and green. He waited until it had been swallowed up in the yellow doorway; then he fetched a deep breath and strolled to the water-wall. After a few moments' prophetic contemplation of the mountain across the lake, he threw back his head with a quick amused laugh, and got out a cigarette and lighted it.



CHAPTER IX

As Constance emerged at the other end of the arbor, Gustavo, who had been nodding on the bench beside the door, sprang to his feet, consternation in his attitude.

"Signorina!" he stammered. "You come from ze garden?"

She nodded in her usual off-hand manner and handed him the basket.

"Eggs, Gustavo—two dozen if you can spare them. I am sorry always to be wanting so many, but—" she sighed, "eggs are so breakable!"

Gustavo rolled his eyes to heaven in silent thanksgiving. She had not, it was evident, run across the American, and the cat was still safely in the bag; but how much longer it could be kept there, the saints alone knew. He was feeling—very properly—guilty in regard to this latest escapade; but what can a defenceless waiter do in the hands of an impetuous young American whose pockets are stuffed with silver lire and five-franc notes?

"Two dozen? Certainly, signorina. Subitissimo!" He took the basket and hurried to the kitchen.

Constance occupied the interval with the polyglot parrot of the courtyard. The parrot, since she had last conversed with him, had acquired several new expressions in the English tongue. As Gustavo reappeared with the eggs, she confronted him sternly.

"Have you been teaching this bird English? I am surprised!"

"No, signorina. It was—it was—" Gustavo mopped his brow. "He jus' pick it up."

"I'm sorry that the Hotel du Lac has guests that use such language; it's very shocking."

"Si, signorina."

"By the way, Gustavo, how does it happen that that young American man who left last week is still here?"

Gustavo nearly dropped the eggs.

"I just saw him in the garden with a book—I am sure it was the same young man. What is he doing all this time in Valedolmo?"

Gustavo's eyes roved wildly until they lighted on the tennis court.

"He—he stay, signorina, to play lawn tennis wif me, but he go tomorrow."

"Oh, he is going tomorrow?—What's his name, Gustavo?"

She put the question indifferently while she stooped to pet a tortoise-shell cat that was curled asleep on the bench.

"His name?" Gustavo's face cleared. "I get ze raygeester; you read heem yourself."

He darted into the bureau and returned with a black book.

"Ecco, signorina!" spreading it on the table before her.

His alacrity should have aroused her suspicions; but she was too intent on the matter in hand. She turned the pages and paused at the week's entries; Rudolph Ziegelmann und Frau, Berlin; and just beneath, in bold black letters that stretched from margin to margin, Abraham Lincoln, U. S. A.

Gustavo hovered above anxiously watching her face; he had been told that this would make everything right, that Abraham Lincoln was an exceedingly respectable name. Constance's expression did not change. She looked at the writing for fully three minutes, then she opened her purse and looked inside. She laid the money for the eggs in a pile on the table, and took out an extra lira which she held in her hand.

"Gustavo," she asked, "do you think that you could tell me the truth?"

"Signorina!" he said reproachfully.

"How did that name get there?"

"He write it heemself!"



"Yes, I dare say he did—but it doesn't happen to be his name. Oh, I'm not blind; I can see plainly enough that he has scratched out his own name underneath."

Gustavo leaned forward and affected to examine the page. "It was a li'l' blot, signorina; he scratch heem out."

"Gustavo!" Her tone was despairing. "Are you incapable of telling the truth? That young man's name is no more Abraham Lincoln than Victor Emmanuel II. When did he write that and why?"

Gustavo's eyes were on the lira; he broke down and told the truth.

"Yesterday night, signorina. He say, 'ze next time zat Signorina Americana who is beautiful as ze angels come to zis hotel she look in ze raygeester, an' I haf it feex ready'."

"Oh, he said that, did he?"

"Si, signorina."

"And his real name that comes on his letters?"

"Jayreem Ailyar, signorina.

"Say it again, Gustavo." She cocked her head.

He gathered himself together for a supreme effort. He rolled his r's; he shouted until the courtyard reverberated.

"Meestair-r Jay-r-reem Ailyar-r!"

Constance shook her head.

"Sounds like Hungarian—at least the way you pronounce it. But anyway it's of no consequence; I merely asked out of idle curiosity. And Gustavo—" She still held the lira—"if he asks you if I looked in this register, what are you going to say?"

"I say, 'no, Meestair Ailyar, she stay all ze time in ze courtyard talking wif ze parrot, and she was ver' moch shocked at his Angleesh'."

"Ah!" Constance smiled and laid the lira on the table. "Gustavo," she said, "I hope, for the sake of your immortal soul, that you go often to confession."

The eggs were not heavy, but Gustavo insisted upon carrying them; he was determined to see her safely aboard the Farfalla, with no further accidents possible. That she had not identified the young man of the garden with the donkey-driver of yesterday was clear—though how such blindness was possible, was not clear. Probably she had only caught a glimpse of his back at a distance; in any case he thanked a merciful Providence and decided to risk no further chance. As they neared the end of the arbor, Gustavo was talking—shouting fairly; their approach was heralded.

They turned into the grove. To Gustavo's horror the most conspicuous object in it was this same reckless young man, seated on the water-wall nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. The young man rose and bowed; Constance nodded carelessly, while Gustavo behind her back made frantic signs for him to flee, to escape while still there was time. The young man telegraphed back by the same sign language that there was no danger; she didn't suspect the truth. And to Gustavo's amazement, he fell in beside them and strolled over to the water steps. His recklessness was catching; Gustavo suddenly determined upon a bold stroke himself.

"Signorina," he asked, "zat man I send, zat donk' driver—you like heem?"

"Tony?" Her manner was indifferent. "Oh, he does well enough; he seems honest and truthful, though a little stupid."

Gustavo and the young man exchanged glances.

"And Gustavo," she turned to him with a sweetly serious air that admitted no manner of doubt but that she was in earnest. "I told this young man that in case he cared to do any mountain climbing, you would find him the same guide. It would be very useful for him to have one who speaks English."

Gustavo bowed in mute acquiescence. He could find no adequate words for the situation.

The boat drew alongside and Constance stepped in, but she did not sit down. Her attention was attracted by two washer-women who had come clattering on to the little rustic bridge that spanned the stream above the water steps. The women, their baskets of linen on their heads, had paused to watch the embarkation.

"Ah, Gustavo," Constance asked over her shoulder, "is there a washer-woman here at the Hotel du Lac named Costantina?"

"Si, signorina, zat is Costantina standing on ze bridge wif ze yellow handkerchief on her head."

Constance looked at Costantina, and nodded and smiled. Then she laughed out loud, a beautiful rippling, joyous laugh that rang through the grove and silenced the chaffinches.

Perhaps once upon a time Costantina was beautiful—beautiful as the angels—but if so, it was long, long ago. Now she was old and fat with a hawk nose and a double chin and one tooth left in the middle of the front. But if she were not beautiful, she was at least a cheerful old soul, and, though she could not possibly know the reason, she echoed the signorina's laugh until she nearly shook the clean clothes into the water.

Constance settled herself among the cushions and glanced back toward the terrace.

"Good afternoon," she nodded politely to the young man.

He bowed with his hand on his heart.

"Addio, Gustavo."

He bowed until his napkin swept the ground.

"Addio, Costantina," she waved her hand toward her namesake.

The washer-woman laughed again and her earrings flashed in the sunlight.

Giuseppe raised the yellow sail; they caught the breeze, and the Farfalla floated away.



CHAPTER X

Half past six on Friday morning and Constance appeared on the terrace; Constance in fluffy, billowy, lacy white with a spray of oleander in her belt—the last costume in the world in which one would start on a mountain climb. She cast a glance in passing toward the gateway and the stretch of road visible beyond, but both were empty, and seating herself on the parapet, she turned her attention to the lake. The breeze that blew from the farther shore brought fresh Alpine odors of flowers and pine trees. Constance sniffed it eagerly as she gazed across toward the purple outline of Monte Maggiore. The serenity of her smile gradually gave place to doubt; she turned and glanced back toward the house, visibly changing her mind.

But before the change was finished, the quiet of the morning was broken by a clatter of tiny scrambling obstinate hoofs and a series of ejaculations, both Latin and English. She glanced toward the gate where Fidilini was visible, plainly determined not to come in. Constance laughed expectantly and turned back to the water, her eyes intent on the fishing-smacks that were putting out from the little marino. The sounds of coercion increased; a command floated down the driveway in the English tongue. It sounded like:

"You twist his tail, Beppo, while I pull."

Apparently it was understood in spite of Beppo's slight knowledge of the language. An eloquent silence followed; then an outraged grunt on the part of Fidilini, and the cavalcade advanced with a rush to the kitchen door. Tony left Beppo and the donkeys, and crossed the terrace alone. His bow swept the ground in the deferential manner of Gustavo, but his glance was far bolder than a donkey-driver's should have been. She noted the fact and tossed him a nod of marked condescension. A silence followed during which Constance studied the lake; when she turned back, she found Tony arranging a spray of oleander that had dropped from her belt in the band of his hat. She viewed this performance in silent disfavor. Having finished to his satisfaction, he tossed the hat aside and seated himself on the balustrade. Her frown became visible. Tony sprang to his feet with an air of anxiety.

"Scusi, signorina. I have not meant to be presumptious. Perhaps it is not fitting that anyone below the rank of lieutenant should sit in your presence?"

"It will not be very long, Tony, before you are discharged for impertinence."

"Ah, signorina, do not say that! If it is your wish I will kneel when I address you. My family, signorina, are poor; they need the four francs which you so munificently pay."

"You told me that you were an orphan; that you had no family."

"I mean the family which I hope to have. Costantina has extravagant tastes and coral earrings cost two-fifty a pair."

Constance laughed and assumed a more lenient air. She made a slight gesture which might be interpreted as an invitation to sit down; and Tony accepted it.

"By the way, Tony, how do you talk to Costantina, since she speaks no English and you no Italian?"

"We have no need of either Italian or English; the language of love, signorina, is universal."

"Oh!" she laughed again. "I was at the Hotel du Lac yesterday; I saw Costantina."

"You saw Costantina!—Ah, signorina, is she not beautiful? Ze mos' beautiful in all ze world? But ver' unkind signorina. Yes, she laugh at me; she smile at ozzer men, at soldiers wif uniforms." He sighed profoundly. "But I love her just ze same, always from ze first moment I see her. It was washday, signorina, by ze lac. I climb over ze wall and talk wif her, but she make fun of me—ver' unkind. I go away ver' sad. No use, I say, she like dose soldiers best. But I see her again; I hear her laugh—it sound like angels singing—I say, no, I can not go away; I stay here and make her love me. Yes, I do everysing she ask—but everysing! I wear earrings; I make myself into a fool just to please zat Costantina."

He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. A slow red flush crept over Constance's face and she turned her head away and looked across the water.

Mr. Wilder, in full Alpine regalia, stepped out upon the terrace and viewed the beauty of the morning with a prophetic eye. Miss Hazel followed in his wake; she wore a lavender dimity. And suddenly it occurred to Tony's slow moving masculine perception that neither lavender dimity nor white muslin were fabrics fit for mountain climbing.

Constance slipped down from her parapet and hurried to meet them.

"Good-morning, Aunt Hazel. Morning, Dad! You look beautiful! There's nothing so becoming to a man as knickerbockers—especially if he's a little stout.—You're late," she added with a touch of severity. "Breakfast has been waiting half an hour and Tony fifteen minutes."

She turned back toward the donkey-man who was standing, hat in hand, respectfully waiting orders. "Oh, Tony, I forgot to tell you; we shall not need Beppo and the donkeys to-day. You and my father are going alone."

"You no want to climb Monte Maggiore—ver' beautiful mountain." There was disappointment, reproach, rebellion in his tone.

"We have made inquiries and my aunt thinks it too long a trip. Without the donkeys you can cross by boat, and that cuts off three miles."

"As you please, signorina." He turned away.

Constance looked after him with a shade of remorse. When this plan of sending her father and Tony alone had occurred to her as she sailed homeward yesterday from the Hotel du Lac, it had seemed a humorous and fitting retribution. The young man had been just a trifle too sure of her interest; the episode of the hotel register must not go unpunished. But—it was a beautiful morning, a long empty day stretched before her, and Monte Maggiore looked alluring; there was no pursuit, for the moment, which she enjoyed as much as donkey-riding. Oh yes, she was spiting herself as well as Tony; but considering the circumstances the sacrifice seemed necessary.

When the Farfalla drifted up ready to take the mountain-climbers, Miss Hazel suggested (Constance possessed to a large degree the diplomatic faculty of making other people propose what she herself had decided on) that she and her niece cross with them. Tony was sulky and Constance could not forego the pleasure of baiting him further.

They put in at the village, on their way, for the morning mail; Mr. Wilder wished his paper, even at the risk of not beginning the ascent before the sun was high. Giuseppe brought back from the post, among other matters, a letter for Constance. The address was in a dashing, angular hand that pretty thoroughly covered the envelope. Had she not been so intent on the writing herself, she would have noted Tony's astonished stare as he passed it to her.

"Why!" she exclaimed, "here's a letter from Nannie Hilliard, postmarked Lucerne."

"Lucerne!" Miss Hazel echoed her surprise. "I thought they were to be in England for the summer?"

"They were—the last I heard." Constance ripped the letter open and read it aloud.



"DEAR CONSTANCE: You'll doubtless be surprised to hear from us in Switzerland instead of in England, and to learn further, that in the course of a week, we shall arrive at Valedolmo en route for the Dolomites. Jerry Junior at the last moment decided to come with us, and you know what a man is when it comes to European travel. Instead of taking two months comfortably to England, as Aunt Kate and I had planned, we did the whole of the British Isles in ten days, and Holland and France at the same breathless rate.

"Jerry says he holds the record for the Louvre; he struck a six-mile pace at the entrance, and by looking neither to the right nor the left he did the whole building in forty-three minutes.

"You can imagine the exhausted state Aunt Kate and I are in after travelling five weeks with him. We simply struck in Switzerland and sent him on to Italy alone. I had hoped he would meet us in Valedolmo, but we have been detained here longer than we expected, and now he's rushed off again—where to, goodness only knows; we don't.

"Anyway, Aunt Kate and I shall land in Valedolmo about the end of the week. I am dying to see you; I have some beautiful news that's too complicated to write. We've engaged rooms at the Hotel du Lac—I hope it's decent; it's the only place starred in Baedeker.

"Aunt Kate wishes to be remembered to your father and Miss Hazel.

"Yours ever, NAN HILLIARD.

"P. S. I'm awfully sorry not to bring Jerry; I know you'd adore him."

She returned the letter to its envelope and looked up.

"Now isn't that abominable?" she demanded.

"Abominable!" Miss Hazel was scandalized. "My dear, I think it's delightful."

"Oh, yes—I mean about Jerry Junior; I've been trying for six years to get hold of that man."

Tony behind them made a sudden movement that let out nearly a yard of rope, and the Farfalla listed heavily to starboard.

"Tony!" Constance threw over her shoulder. "Don't you know enough to sit still when you are holding the sheet?"

"Scusi," he murmured. The sulky look had vanished from his face; he wore an expression of alert attention.

"Of course we shall have them at the villa," said Miss Hazel. "And we shall have to get some new dishes. Elizabetta has already broken so many plates that she has to stop and wash them between courses."

Constance looked dreamily across the lake; she appeared to be thinking. "I wonder," she inquired finally, "if Jerry Junior knew we were here in Valedolmo?"

Her father emerged from the columns of his paper.

"Of course he knew it, and having heard what a dangerous young person you were, he said to himself, 'I'd better keep out.'"

"I wish I knew. It would make the score against him considerably heavier."

"So there is already a score? I hadn't supposed that the game had begun."

She nodded.

"Six years ago—but he doesn't know it. Yes, Dad," her tone was melodramatic, "for six years I've been waiting for Jerry Junior and planning my revenge. And now, when I have him almost in my grasp, he eludes me again!"

"Dear me!" Mr. Wilder ejaculated. "What did the young man do?"

Had Constance turned she would have found Tony's face an interesting study. But she knew well enough without looking at him that he was listening to the conversation, and she determined to give him something to listen to. It was a salutary thing for Tony to be kept in mind of the fact that there were other men in the world.

She sighed.

"He was the first man I ever loved, Father, and he spurned me. Do you remember that Christmas when I was in boarding-school and you were called South on business? I wanted to visit Nancy Long, but you wouldn't let me because you didn't like her father; and you got Mrs. Jerymn Hilliard whom I had never set eyes on to invite me there? I didn't want to go, and you said I must, and were perfectly horrid about it—you remember that?"

Mr. Wilder grunted.

"Yes, I see you do. And you remember how, with my usual sweetness, I finally gave way? Well, Dad, you never knew the reason. The Yale Glee Club came to Westfield that year just before the holidays began, and Miss Jane let everybody go to the concert whose deportment had been above eighty—that of course included me.

"Well, we all went, and we all fell in love—in a body—with a sophomore who played the banjo and sang negro songs. He had lovely dark gazelle-like eyes and he sang funny songs without smiling. The whole school raved about him all the way home; we cut his picture out of the program and pasted in the front of our watches. His name, Father—" she paused dramatically, "was Jerymn Hilliard Junior!"

"I sat up half the night writing diplomatic letters to you and Mrs. Hilliard; and the next day when it got around that I was actually going to visit in his house—well, I was the most popular girl in school. I was sixteen years old then; I wore sailor suits and my hair was braided down my back. Probably I did look young; and then Nannie, whom I was supposedly visiting, was only fifteen. There were a lot of cousins in the house besides all the little Hilliards, and what do you think? They made the children eat in the schoolroom! I never saw him until Christmas night; then when we were introduced, he shook my hand in a listless sort of way, said 'How d' y' do?' and forgot all about me. He went off with the Glee Club the next day, and I only saw him once more.

"We were playing blind man's buff in the school-room; I had just been caught by the hair. It hurt and I was squealing. Everybody else was clapping and laughing, when suddenly the door burst open and there stood Jerry Junior! He looked straight at me and growled:

"'What are you kids making such an infernal racket about?'"

She shut her eyes.

"Aunt Hazel, Dad, just think. He was my first love. His picture was at that moment in a locket around my neck. And he called me a kid!"

"And you've never seen him since?" Miss Hazel's smile expressed amused indulgence.

Constance shook her head.

"He's always been away when I've visited Nan—and for six years I've been waiting." She straightened up with an air of determination. "But now, if he's on the continent of Europe, I'll get him!"

"And what shall you do with him?" her father mildly inquired.

"Do with him? I'll make him take it back; I'll make him eat that word kid!"

"H'm!" said her father. "I hope you'll get him; he might act as an antidote to some of these officers."

They had run in under the shadow of the mountain and the keel grated on the shore. Constance raised her eyes and studied the towering crag above their heads; when she lowered them again, her gaze for an instant met Tony's. There was a new light in his eyes—amusement, triumph, something entirely baffling. He gave her the intangible feeling of having at last got the mastery of the situation.



CHAPTER XI

The sun was setting behind Monte Maggiore, the fishing smacks were coming home, Luigi had long since carried the tea things into the house; but still the two callers lingered on the terrace of Villa Rosa. It was Lieutenant di Ferara's place to go first since he had come first, and Captain Coroloni doggedly held his post until such time as his junior officer should see fit to take himself off. The captain knew, as well as everyone else at the officer's mess, that in the end the lieutenant would be the favored man; for he was a son of Count Guido di Ferara of Turin, and titles are at a premium in the American market. But still the marriage contract was not signed yet, and the fact remained that the captain had come last: accordingly he waited.

They had been there fully two hours, and poor Miss Hazel was worn with the strain. She sat nervously on the edge of her chair, and leaned forward with clasped hands listening intently. It required very keen attention to keep the run of either the captain's or the lieutenant's English. A few days before she had laughed at what seemed to be a funny story, and had later learned that it was an announcement of the death of the lieutenant's grandmother. Today she confined her answers to inarticulate murmurs which might be interpreted as either assents or negations as the case required.

Constance however was buoyantly at her ease; she loved nothing better than the excitement of a difficult situation. As she bridged over pauses, and unobtrusively translated from the officer's English into real English, she at the same time kept a watchful eye on the water. She had her own reasons for wishing to detain the callers until her father's return.

Presently she saw, across the lake, a yellow sailboat float out from the shadow of Monte Maggiore and head in a long tack toward Villa Rosa. With this she gave up the task of keeping the conversation general; and abandoning Captain Coroloni to her aunt, she strolled over to the terrace parapet with Lieutenant di Ferara at her side. The picture they made was a charming color scheme. Constance wore white, the lieutenant pale blue; an oleander tree beside them showed a cloud of pink blossoms, while behind them for a background, appeared the rose of the villa wall and the deep green of cypresses against a sunset sky. The picture was particularly effective as seen from the point of view of an approaching boat.

Constance broke off a spray of oleander, and while she listened to the lieutenant's recountal of a practice march, she picked up his hat from the balustrade and idly arranged the flowers in the vizor. He bent toward her and said something; she responded with a laugh. They were both too occupied to notice that the boat had floated close in shore, until the flap of the falling sail announced its presence. Constance glanced up with a start. She caught her father's eye fixed anxiously upon her; whatever Gustavo and the officer's mess of the tenth cavalry might think, he had not the slightest wish in the world to see his daughter the Contessa di Ferara. Tony's face also wore an expression; he was sober, disgusted, disdainful; there was a glint of anger and determination in his eye. Constance hurried to the water steps to greet her father. Of Tony she took no manner of notice; if a man elects to be a donkey-driver, he must swallow the insults that go with the part.

The officers, observing that Luigi was hovering about the doorway waiting to announce dinner, waived the question of precedence and made their adieus. While Mr. Wilder and Miss Hazel were intent on the captain's labored farewell speech, the lieutenant crossed to Constance who still stood at the head of the water steps. He murmured something in Italian as he bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips. Constance blushed very becomingly as she drew her hand away; she was aware, if the officer was not, that Tony was standing beside them looking on. But as he raised his eyes, he too became aware of it; the man's expression was more than impertinent. The lieutenant stepped to his side and said something low and rapid, something which should have made a right-minded donkey-driver touch his hat and slink off. But Tony held his ground with a laugh which was more impertinent than the stare had been. The lieutenant's face flushed angrily and his hand half instinctively went to his sword. Constance stepped forward.

"Tony! I shall have no further need of your services. You may go."

Tony suddenly came to his senses.

"I—beg your pardon, Miss Wilder," he stammered.

"I shall not want you again; please go." She turned her back and joined the others.

The two officers with final salutes took themselves off. Miss Hazel hurried indoors to make ready for dinner; Mr. Wilder followed in her wake, muttering something about finding the change to pay Tony. Constance stood where they left her, staring at the pavement with hotly burning cheeks.

"Miss Wilder!" Tony crossed to her side; his manner was humble—actually humble—the usual mocking undertone in his voice was missing. "Really I'm awfully sorry to have caused you annoyance; it was unpardonable."

Constance turned toward him.

"Yes, Tony, I think it was. Your position does not give you the right to insult my guests."

Tony stiffened slightly.

"I acknowledge that I insulted him, and I'm sorry. But he insulted me, for the matter of that. I didn't like the way he looked at me, any more than he liked the way I looked at him."

"There is a certain deference, Tony, which an officer in the Royal Italian Army has a right to expect from a donkey-driver."

Tony shrugged.

"It is a difficult position to hold, Miss Wilder. A donkey-driver, I find, plays the same accommodating role as the family watch-dog. You pat him when you choose; you kick him when you choose; and he is supposed to swallow both attentions with equal grace."

"You should have chosen another profession."

"Naturally, I was not flattered to find that your real reason for staying at home today, was that you were expecting more entertaining callers."

"Is there any use in discussing it further? I am not going to climb any more mountains, and I shall not, as I told you, need a donkey-man again."

"Then I'm discharged?"

"If you wish to put it so. You must see for yourself that the play has gone far enough. However, it has been amusing, and we will at least part friends."

She held out her hand; it was a mark of definite dismissal rather than a token of friendly forgiveness.

Tony bowed over her hand in perfect mimicry of the lieutenant's manner. "Signorina, addio!" He gravely raised it to his lips.

She snatched her hand away quickly and without glancing at him turned toward the house. He let her cross half the terrace then he called softly:

"Signorina!"

She kept on without pausing. He took a quick step after.

"Signorina, a moment!"

She half turned.

"Well?"

"I beg of you—one little favor. There are two American ladies expected at the Hotel du Lac and I thought—perhaps—would you mind writing me a letter of recommendation?"

Constance turned back without a word and walked into the house.

Mr. Wilder's conversation at dinner that night was of the day's excursion and Tony. He was elated, enthusiastic, glowing. Mountain-climbing was the most interesting pursuit in the world; he would begin tomorrow and exhaust the Alps. And as for Tony—his intelligence, his discretion, his cleverness—there never had been such a guide. Constance listened silently, her eyes on her plate. At another time it might have occurred to her that her father's enthusiasm was excessive, but tonight she was occupied with her thoughts, and she had no reason in the world to suspect him of guile. She decided, however, to postpone the announcement of Tony's dismissal; tomorrow mountain-climbing might look less alluring.

Dinner over, Mr. Wilder with a tired if satisfied sigh, dropped into a chair to finish his reading of the London Times. He no longer skimmed his paper lightly as in the days when papers were to be had hot at any hour. He read it carefully, painstakingly, from the first advertisement to the last obituary; and he laid it down in the end with a disappointed sigh that there were not more residential properties for hire, that the day's death list was so meager.

Miss Hazel settled herself to her knitting. She was making a rain-bow shawl of seven colors and an intricate pattern, and she had to count her stitches; conversation was impossible. Constance, vaguely restless, picked up a book and laid it down, and finally sauntered out to the terrace with no thought in the world but to see the moon rise over the mountains.

As she approached the parapet she became aware that someone was lounging on the water-steps smoking a cigarette. The smoker rose politely but ventured no remark.

"Is that you, Giuseppe?" she asked in Italian.

"No, signorina. It is I—Tony. I am waiting for orders."

"For orders!" There was astonishment as well as indignation in her tone. "I thought I made it clear—"

"That I was discharged? Yes, signorina. But I have been so fortunate as to find another place. The Signor Papa has engage me. I go wif him; we climb all ze mountain around." He waved his hand largely to comprise the whole landscape. "I sink perhaps it is better so—for the Signor Papa and me to go alone. Mountain climbing is too hard; zere is too much fatigue, signorina, for you."

He bowed humbly and deferentially, and retired to the steps and his cigarette.



CHAPTER XII

Half past six on the following morning found Constance and her father rising from the breakfast table and Tony turning in at the gate. Constance's nod of greeting was barely perceptible, and her father's eye contained a twinkle as he watched her. Tony studied her mountain-climbing costume with an air of concern.

"You go wif us, signorina?" His expression was blended of surprise and disapproval, but in spite of himself his tone was triumphant. "You say to me yesterday you no want to climb any more mountain."

"I have changed my mind."

"But zis mountain today too long, too high. You get tired, signorina. Perhaps anozzer day we take li'l' baby mountain, zen you can go."

"I am going today."

"It is not possible, signorina. I have not brought ze donk'."

"Oh, I'm going to walk."

"As you please, signorina."

He sighed patiently. Then he looked up and caught her eye. They both laughed.

"Signorina," he whispered, "I ver' happy today. Zat Costantina she more kind. Yesterday ver' unkind; I go home ver' sad. But today I sink—"

"Yes?"

"I sink after all maybe she like me li'l' bit."

* * * * *

Giuseppe rowed the three climbers a mile or so down the lake and set them ashore at the base of their mountain. They started up gaily and had accomplished half their journey before they thought of being tired. Tony surpassed himself; if he had been entertaining the day before he was doubly so now. His spirits were bubbling over and contagious. He and Constance acted like two children out of school. They ran races and talked to the peasants in the wayside cottages. They drove a herd of goats for half a mile while the goatherd strolled behind and smoked Tony's cigarettes. Constance took a water jar from a little girl they met coming from the fountain and endeavored to balance it on her own head, with the result that she nearly drowned both herself and the child.

They finally stopped for luncheon in a grove of chestnut trees with sheep nibbling on the hillside below them and a shepherd boy somewhere out of sight playing on a mouth organ. It should have been a flute, but they were in a forgiving mood. Constance this time did her share of the work. She and Tony together spread the cloth and made the coffee while her father fanned himself and looked on. If Mr. Wilder had any unusual thoughts in regard to the donkey-man, they were at least not reflected in his face.

When they had finished their meal Tony spread his coat under a tree.

"Signorina," he said, "perhaps you li'l' tired? Look, I make nice place to sleep. You lie down and rest while ze Signor Papa and me, we have li'l' smoke. Zen after one, two hours I come call you."

Constance very willingly accepted the suggestion. They had walked five uphill miles since morning. It was two hours later that she opened her eyes to find Tony bending over her. She sat up and regarded him sternly. He had the grace to blush.

"Tony, did you kiss my hand?"

"Scusi, signorina. I ver' sorry to wake you, but it is tree o'clock and ze Signor Papa he say we must start just now or we nevair get to ze top."

"Answer my question."

"Signorina, I cannot tell to you a lie. It is true, I forget I am just poor donkey-man. I play li'l' game. You sleeping beauty; I am ze prince. I come to wake you. Just one kiss I drop on your hand—one ver' little kiss, signorina."

Constance assumed an air of indignant reproof but in the midst of it she laughed.

"I wish you wouldn't be so funny, Tony; I can't scold you as much as you deserve. But I am angry just the same, and if anything like that ever happens again I shall be very very angry.

"Signorina, I would not make you very very angry for anysing. As long as I live nosing like zat shall happen again. No, nevair, I promise."

They plunged into a pine wood and climbed for another two hours, the summit always vanishing before them like a mirage. At the end of that time they were apparently no nearer their goal than when they had started. They had followed first one path, then another, until they had lost all sense of direction, and finally when they came to a place where three paths diverged, they had to acknowledge themselves definitely lost. Mr. Wilder elected one path, Tony another, and Constance sat down on a rock.

"I'm not going any farther," she observed.

"You can't stay here all night," said her father.

"Well, I can't walk over this mountain all night. We don't get anywhere; we merely move in circles. I don't think much of the guide you engaged. He doesn't know his way."

"He wasn't engaged to know his way," Tony retorted. "He was engaged to wear earrings and sing Santa Lucia."

Constance continued to sit on her rock while Tony went forward on a reconnoitering expedition. He returned in ten minutes with the information that there was a shepherd's hut not very far off with a shepherd inside who would like to be friendly. If the signorina would deign to ask some questions in the Italian language which she spoke so fluently, they could doubtless obtain directions as to the way home.

They found the shepherd, the shepherdess and four little shepherds eating their evening polenta in an earth-floored room, with half a dozen chickens and the family pig gathered about them in an expectant group. They rose politely and invited the travellers to enter. It was an event in their simple lives when foreigners presented themselves at the door.

Constance commenced amenities by announcing that she had been walking on the mountain since sunrise and was starving. Did they by chance have any fresh milk?

"Starving! Madonna mia, how dreadful!" Madame held up her hands. But yes, to be sure they had fresh milk. They kept four cows. That was their business—turning milk into cheese and selling it on market day in the village. Also they had some fresh mountain strawberries which Beppo had gathered that morning—perhaps they too might be pleasing to the signorina?

Constance nodded affirmatively, and added, with her eyes on the pig, that it might be pleasanter to eat outside where they could look at the view. She became quite gay again over what she termed their afternoon tea-party, and her father had to remind her most insistently that if they wished to get down before darkness overtook them they must start at once. An Italian twilight is short. They paid for the food and presented a lira apiece to the children, leaving them silhouetted against the sky in a bobbing row shouting musical farewells.

Their host led them through the woods and out on to the brow of the mountain in order to start them down by the right path. He regretted that he could not go all the way but the sheep had still to be brought in for the night. At the parting he was garrulous with directions.

The easiest way to get home now would be straight down the mountain to Grotta del Monte—he pointed out the brown-tiled roofs of a village far below them—there they could find donkeys or an ox-cart to take them back. It was nine kilometres to Valedolmo. They had come quite out of their way; if they had taken the right path in the morning they would have reached the top where the view was magnificant—truly magnificant. It was a pity to miss it. Perhaps some other day they would like to come again and he himself would be pleased to guide them. He shook hands and wished them a pleasant journey. They would best hurry a trifle, he added, for darkness came fast and when one got caught on the mountain at night—he shrugged his shoulders and looked at Tony—one needed a guide who knew his business.

They had walked for ten minutes when they heard someone shouting behind and found a young man calling to them to wait. He caught up with them and breathlessly explained.

Pasquale had told him that they were foreigners from America who were climbing the mountain for diversion and who had lost their way. He was going down to the village himself and would be pleased to guide them.

He fell into step beside Constance and commenced asking questions, while Tony, as the path was narrow, perforce fell behind. Occasionally Constance translated, but usually she laughed without translating, and Tony, for the twentieth time, found himself hating the Italian language.

The young man's questions were refreshingly ingenuous. He was curious about America, since he was thinking, he said, of becoming an American himself some day. He knew a man once who had gone to America to live and had made a fortune there—but yes a large fortune—ten thousand lire in four years. Perhaps the signorina knew him—Giuseppe Motta; he lived in Buenos Aires. And what did it look like—America? How was it different from Italy?

Constance described the skyscrapers in New York.

His wonder was intense. A building twenty stories high! Dio mio! He should hate to mount himself up all those stairs. Were the buildings like that in the country too? Did the shepherds live in houses twenty stories high?

"Oh no," she laughed. "In the country the houses are just like these only they are made of wood instead of stone."

"Of wood?" He opened his eyes. "But signorina, do they never burn?"

He had another question to ask. He had been told—though of course he did not believe it—that the Indians in America had red skins.

Constance nodded yes. His eyes opened wider.

"Truly red like your coat?" with a glance at her scarlet golf jacket.

"Not quite," she admitted.

"But how it must be diverting," he sighed, "to travel the world over and see different things." He fell silent and trudged on beside her, the wanderlust in his eyes.

It was almost dark when they reached the big arched gateway that led into the village. Here their ways parted and they paused for farewell.

"Signorina," the young man said suddenly, "take me with you back to America. I will prune your olive trees, I will tend your vines. You can leave me in charge when you go on your travels."

She shook her head with a laugh.

"But I have no vines; I have no olive trees. You would be homesick for Italy."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Then good bye. You, signorina, will go around the world and see many sights while I, for travel, shall ride on a donkey to Valedolmo."

He shook hands all around and with the grace of a prince accepted two of Tony's cigarettes. His parting speech showed him a fatalist.

"What will be, will be. There is a girl—" he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the village. "If I go to America then I cannot stay behind and marry Maria. So perhaps it is planned for the best. You will find me, signorina, when next you come to Italy, still digging the ground in Grotta del Monte."

As he swung away Tony glanced after him with a suggestion of malice, then he transferred his gaze to the empty gateway.

"I see no one else with whom you can talk Italian. Perhaps for ten minutes you will deign to speak English with me?"

"I am too tired to talk," she threw over her shoulder as she followed her father through the gate.

They plunged into a tangle of tortuous paved streets, the houses pressing each other as closely as if there were not all the outside world to spread in. Grotta del Monte is built on a slope and its streets are in reality long narrow flights of stairs all converging in the little piazza. The moon was not yet up, and aside from an occasional flickering light before a madonna's shrine, the way was black.

"Signorina, take my arm. I'm afraid maybe you fall."

Tony's voice was humbly persuasive. Constance laughed and laid her hand lightly on his arm. Tony dropped his own hand over hers and held her firmly. Neither spoke until they came to the piazza.

"Signorina," he whispered, "you make me ver' happy tonight."

She drew her hand away.

"I'm tired, Tony. I'm not quite myself."

"No, signorina, yesterday I sink maybe you not yourself, but to-day you ver' good ver' kind—jus' your own self ze way you ought to be."

The piazza, after the dark, narrow streets that led to it, seemed bubbling with life. The day's work was finished and the evening's play had begun. In the center, where a fountain splashed into a broad bowl, groups of women and girls with copper water-jars were laughing and gossiping as they waited their turns. One side of the square was flanked by the imposing facade of a church with the village saint on a pedestal in front; the other side, by a cheerfully inviting osteria with tables and chairs set into the street and a glimpse inside of a blazing hearth and copper kettles.

Mr. Wilder headed in a straight line for the nearest chair and dropped into it with an expression of permanence. Constance followed and they held a colloquy with a bowing host. He was vague as to the finding of carriage or donkeys, but if they would accommodate themselves until after supper there would be a diligence along which would take them back to Valedolmo.

"How soon will the diligence arrive?" asked Constance.

The man spread out his hands.

"It is due in three quarters of an hour, but it may be early and it may be late. It arrives when God and the driver wills."

"In that case," she laughed, "we will accommodate ourselves until after supper—and we have appetites! Please bring everything you have."

They supped on minestra and fritto misto washed down with the red wine of Grotta del Monte, which, their host assured them, was famous through all the country. He could not believe that they had never heard of it in Valedolmo. People sent for it from far off; even from Verona.

They finished their supper and the famous wine, but there was still no diligence. The village also had finished its supper and was drifting in family groups into the piazza. The moon was just showing above the house-tops, and its light, combined with the blazing braziers before the cook-shops made the square a patch work of brilliant high-lights and black shadows from deep cut doorways. Constance sat up alertly and watched the people crowding past. Across from the inn an itinerant show had established itself on a rudely improvised stage, with two flaring torches which threw their light half across the piazza, and turned the spray of the fountain into an iridescent shower. The gaiety of the scene was contagious. Constance rose insistently.

"Come, Dad; let's go over and see what they're doing."

"No, thank you, my dear. I prefer my chair."

"Oh, Dad, you're so phlegmatic!"

"But I thought you were tired."

"I'm not any more; I want to see the play.—You come then, Tony."

Tony rose with an elaborate sigh.

"As you please, signorina," he murmured obediently. An onlooker would have thought Constance cruel in dragging him away from his well-earned rest.

They made their way across the piazza and mounted the church steps behind the crowd where they could look across obliquely to the little stage. A clown was dancing to the music of a hurdy-gurdy while a woman in a tawdry pink satin evening gown beat an accompaniment on a drum. It was a very poor play with very poor players, and yet it represented to these people of Grotta del Monte something of life, of the big outside world which they in their little village would never see. Their upturned faces touched by the moonlight and the flare of the torches contained a look of wondering eagerness—the same look that had been in the eyes of the young peasant when he had begged to be taken to America.

The two stood back in the shadow of the doorway watching the people with the same interest that the people were expending on the stage. A child had been lifted to the base of the saint's pedestal in order to see, and in the excitement of a duel between two clowns he suddenly lost his balance and toppled off. His mother snatched him up quickly and commenced covering the hurt arm with kisses to make it well.

Constance laughed.

"Isn't it queer," she asked, "to think how different these people are from us and yet how exactly the same. Their way of living is absolutely foreign but their feelings are just like yours and mine."

He touched her arm and called her attention to a man and a girl on the step below them. It was the young peasant again who had guided them down the mountain, but who now had eyes for no one but Maria. She leaned toward him to see the stage and his arm was around her. Their interest in the play was purely a pretense and both of them knew it.

Tony laughed softly and echoed her words.

"Yes, their feelings are just like yours and mine."

He slipped his arm around her.

Constance drew back quickly.

"I think," she remarked, "that the diligence has come."

"Oh, hang the diligence!" Tony growled. "Why couldn't it have been five minutes late?"

They returned to the inn to find Mr. Wilder already on the front seat, and obligingly holding the reins, while the driver occupied himself with a glass of the famous wine. The diligence was a roomy affair of four seats and three horses. Behind the driver were three Italians gesticulating violently over local politics; a new sindaco was imminent. Behind these were three black-hooded nuns covertly interested in the woman in the pink evening gown. And behind the three, occupying the exact center of the rear seat, was a fourth nun with the portly bearing of a Mother Superior. She was very comfortable as she was, and did not propose to move. Constance climbed up on one side of her and Tony on the other.

"We are well chaperoned," he grumbled, as they jolted out of the piazza. "I always did think that the Church interfered too much with the rights of individuals."

Constance, in a spirit of friendly expansiveness, proceeded to pick up an acquaintance with the nuns, and the four black heads were presently bobbing in unison, while Tony, in gloomy isolation at his end of the seat, folded his arms and stared at the road. The driver had passed through many villages that day and had drunk many glasses of famous wine; he cracked his whip and sang as he drove. They rattled in and out of stone-paved villages, along open stretches of moonlit road, past villas and olive groves. Children screamed after them, dogs barked, Constance and her four nuns were very vivacious, and Tony's gloom deepened with every mile.

They had covered three quarters of the distance when the diligence was brought to a halt before a high stone wall and a solid barred gate. The nuns came back to the present with an excited cackling. Who would believe they had reached the convent so soon! They made their adieus and ponderously descended, their departure accelerated by Tony who had become of a sudden alertly helpful. As they started again he slid along into the Mother Superior's empty seat.

"What were we saying when the diligence interrupted?" he inquired.

"I don't remember, Tony, but I don't want to talk any more; I'm tired."

"You tired, signorina? Lay your head on my shoulder and go to sleep."

"Tony, please behave yourself. I'm simply too tired to make you do it."

He reached over and took her hand. She did not try to withdraw it for two—three minutes; then she shot him a sidewise glance.

"Tony," she said, "don't you think you are forgetting your place?"

"No, signorina, I am just learning it."

"Let go my hand."

He gazed pensively at the moon and hummed Santa Lucia under his breath.

"Tony! I shall be angry with you."

"I shall be ver' sorry for zat, signorina. I do not wish to make you angry, but I sink—perhaps you get over it."

"You are behaving abominably today, Tony. I shall never stay alone with you again."

"Signorina, look at zat moon up dere. Is it not ver' bright? When I look at zat moon I have always beautiful toughts about how much I love Costantina."

An interval followed during which neither spoke. The driver's song was growing louder and the horses were galloping. The diligence suddenly rounded a curved cliff on two wheels. Constance lurched against him; he caught her and held her. Her lips were very near his; he kissed her softly.

She moved to the far end of the seat and faced him with flushed cheeks.

"I thought you were a gentleman!"

"I used to be, signorina; now I am only poor donkey-man."

"I shall never speak to you again. You can climb as many mountains as you wish with my father, but you can't have anything more to do with me."

"Scusi, signorina. I—I did not mean to. It was just an accident, signorina."

Constance turned her back and stared at the road.

"It was not my fault. Truly it was not my fault. I did not wish to kiss you—no nevair. But I could not help it. You put your head too close."

She raised her eyes and studied the mountain-top.

"Signorina, why you treat me so cruel?"

Her back was inflexible.

"I am desolate. If you forgive me zis once I will nevair again do a sing so wicked. Nevair, nevair, nevair."

Constance continued her inspection of the mountain-top. Tony leaned forward until he could see her face.

"Signorina," he whispered, "jus' give me one li'l' smile to show me you are not angry forever."

The stage had stopped and Mr. Wilder was climbing down but Constance's gaze was still fixed on the sky, and Tony's eyes were on her.

"What's the matter, Constance, have you gone to sleep? Aren't you going to get out?"

She came back with a start.

"Are we here already?"

There was a suspicion of regret in her tone which did not escape Tony.

At the Villa Rosa gates he wished them a humbly deferential good-night but with a smile hovering about the corners of his mouth. Constance made no response. As he strode off, however, she turned her head and looked after him. He turned too and caught her. He waved his hand with a laugh, and took up his way, whistling Santa Lucia in double time.



CHAPTER XIII

Three days passed in which Mr. Wilder and Tony industriously climbed, and in which nothing of consequence passed between Constance and Tony. If she happened to be about when the expeditions either started or came to an end (and for one reason or another she usually was) she ignored him entirely; and he ignored her, except for an occasional mockingly deferential bow. He appeared to extract as much pleasure from the excursions as Mr. Wilder, and he asked for no extra compensation by the way.

It was Tuesday again, just a week and a day since the young American had dropped over the wall of Villa Rosa asking for the garden of the prince. Tony and Mr. Wilder were off on a trip; Miss Hazel and Constance on the point of sitting down to afternoon tea—there were no guests today—when the gardener from the Hotel du Lac appeared with a message from Nannie Hilliard. She and her aunt had arrived half an hour before, which was a good two days earlier than they were due. Constance read the note with a clouded brow and silently passed it to Miss Hazel. The news was not so entirely welcome as under other circumstances it would have been. Nannie Hilliard was both perspicacious and fascinating, and Constance foresaw that her presence would tangle further the already tangled plot of the little comedy which was unfolding itself at Villa Rosa. But Miss Hazel, divining nothing of comedies or plots, was thrown into a pleasant flutter by the news. Guests were a luxury which occurred but seldom in the quiet monotony of Valedolmo.

"We must call on them at once and bring them back to the house."

"I suppose we must." Constance agreed with an uncordial sigh.

Fifteen minutes later they were on their way to the Hotel du Lac, while Elizabetta, on her knees in the villa guest-room, was vigorously scrubbing the mosaic floor.

Gustavo hurried out to meet them. He was plainly in a flutter; something had occurred to upset the usual suavity of his manners.

"Si, signorina, in ze garden—ze two American ladies—having tea. And you are acquaint wif ze family; all ze time you are acquaint wif zem, and you never tell me!" There was mystification and reproach in his tone.

Constance eyed him with a degree of mystification on her side.

"I am acquainted with a number of families that I have never told you about," she observed.

"Scusi, signorina," he stammered; and immediately, "Tony, zat donk'-man, what you do wif him?"

"Oh, he and my father are climbing Monte Brione today."

"What time zay come home?"

"About seven o'clock, I fancy."

"Ze signora and ze signorina—zay come two days before zay are expect." He was clearly aggrieved by the fact.

Constance's mystification increased; she saw not the slightest connection.

"I suppose, Gustavo, you can find them something to eat even if they did come two days before they were expected?"

The two turned toward the arbor, but Constance paused for a moment and glanced back with a shade of mischief in her eye.

"By the way, Gustavo, that young man who taught the parrot English has gone?"

Gustavo rolled his eyes to the sky and back to her face. She understood nothing; was there ever a muddle like this?

"Si, signorina," he murmured confusedly, "ze yong man is gone."

Nannie caught sight of the visitors first, and with a start which nearly upset the tea table, came running forward to meet them; while her aunt, Mrs. Eustace, followed more placidly. Nannie was a big wholesome outdoor girl of a purely American type. She waited for no greetings; she had news to impart.

"Constance, Miss Hazel! I'm so glad to see you—what do you think? I'm engaged!"

Miss Hazel murmured incoherent congratulations, and tried not to look as shocked as she felt. In her day, no lady would have made so delicate an announcement in any such off-hand manner as this. Constance received it in the spirit in which it was given.

"Who's the man?" she inquired, as she shook hands with Mrs. Eustace.



"You don't know him—Harry Eastman, a friend of Jerry's. Jerry doesn't know it yet, and I had to confide in someone. Oh, it's no secret; Harry cabled home—he wanted to get it announced so I couldn't change my mind. You see he only had a three weeks' vacation; he took a fast boat, landed at Cherbourg, followed us the whole length of France, and caught us in Lucerne just after Jerry had gone. I couldn't refuse him after he'd taken such a lot of trouble. That's what detained us: we had expected to come a week ago. And now—" by a rapid change of expression she became tragic—"We've lost Jerry Junior!"

"Lost Jerry Junior!" Constance's tone was interested. "What has become of him?"

"We haven't an idea. He's been spirited off—vanished from the earth and left no trace. Really, we're beginning to be afraid he's been captured by brigands. That head waiter, that Gustavo, knows where he is, but we can't get a word out of him. He tells a different story every ten minutes. I looked in the register to see if by chance he'd left an address there, and what do you think I found?"

"Oh!" said Constance; there was a world of illumination in her tone. "What did you find?" she asked, hastily suppressing every emotion but polite curiosity.

"'Abraham Lincoln' in Jerry's hand-writing!"

"Really!" Constance dimpled irrepressibly. "You are sure Jerry wrote it?"

"It was his writing; and I showed it to Gustavo, and what do you think he said?"

Constance shook her head.

"He said that Jerry had forgotten to register, that that was written by a Hungarian nobleman who was here last week—imagine a Hungarian nobleman named Abraham Lincoln!"

Constance dropped into one of the little iron chairs and bowed her head on the back and laughed.

"Perhaps you can explain?" There was a touch of sharpness in Nannie's tone.

"Don't ever ask me to explain anything Gustavo says; the man is not to be believed under oath."

"But what's become of Jerry?"

"Oh, he'll turn up." Constance's tone was comforting. "Aunt Hazel," she called. Miss Hazel and Mrs. Eustace, their heads together over the tea table, were busily making up three months' dropped news. "Do you remember the young man I told you about who popped into our garden last week? That was Jerry Junior!"

"Then you've seen him?" said Nannie.

Constance related the episode of the broken wall—the sequel she omitted. "I hadn't seen him for six years," she added apologetically, "and I didn't recognize him. Of course if I'd dreamed—"

Nannie groaned.

"And I thought I'd planned it so beautifully!"

"Planned what?"

"I suppose I might as well tell you since it's come to nothing. We hoped—that is, you see—I've been so worried for fear Jerry—" She took a breath and began again. "You know, Constance, when it comes to getting married, a man has no more sense than a two-year child. So I determined to pick out a wife for Jerry, myself, one I would like to have for a sister. I've done it three times and he simply wouldn't look at them; you can't imagine how stubborn he is. But when I found we were coming to Valedolmo, I said to myself, now this is my opportunity; I will have him marry Connie Wilder."

"You might have asked my permission."

"Oh, well, Jerry's a dear; next to Harry you couldn't find anyone nicer. But I knew the only way was not to let him suspect. I thought you see that you were still staying at the hotel; I didn't know you'd taken a villa, so I planned for him to come to meet us three days before we really expected to get here. I thought in the meantime, being stranded together in a little hotel you'd surely get acquainted—Jerry's very resourceful that way—and with all this beautiful Italian scenery about, and nothing to do—"

"I see!" Constance's tone was somewhat dry.

"But nothing happened as I had planned. You weren't here, he was bored to death, and I was detained longer than I meant. We got the most pathetic letter from him the second day, saying there was no one but the head waiter to talk to, nothing but an india-rubber tree to look at, and if we didn't come immediately, he'd do the Dolomites without us. Then finally, just as we were on the point of leaving, he sent a telegram saying: 'Don't come. Am climbing mountains. Stay there till you hear from me.' But being already packed, we came, and this is what we find—" She waved her hand over the empty grove.

"It serves you right; you shouldn't deceive people."

"It was for Jerry's good—and yours too. But what shall we do? He doesn't know we're here and he has left no address."

"Come out to the villa and visit us till he comes to search for you."

Constance could hear her aunt delivering the same invitation to Mrs. Eustace, and she perforce repeated it, though with the inward hope that it would be declined. She had no wish that Tony and her father should return from their trip to find a family party assembled on the terrace. The adventure was not to end with any such tame climax as that. To her relief they did decline, at least for the night; they could make no definite plans until they had heard from Jerry. Constance rose upon this assurance and precipitated their leave-takings; she did not wish her aunt to press them to change their minds.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Eustace, good-bye, Nannie; we'll be around tonight to take you sailing—provided there's any breeze."

She nodded and dragged her aunt off; but as they were entering the arbor a plan for further complicating matters popped into her head, and she turned back to call:

"You are coming to the villa tomorrow, remember, whether Jerry Junior turns up or not. I'll write a note and invite him too—Gustavo can give it to him when he comes, and you needn't bother any more about him."

They found Gustavo hovering omnivorously in the courtyard, hungering for news; Constance summoned him to her side.

"Gustavo, I am going to send you a note tonight for Mr. Jerymn Hilliard. You will see that it gets to him as soon as he arrives?"

"Meestair Jayreem Ailyar?" Gustavo stared.

"Yes, the brother of the signorina who came today. He is expected tomorrow or perhaps the day after."

"Scusi, signorina. You—you acquaint wif him?"

"Yes, certainly. I have known him for six years. Don't forget to deliver the note; it's important."

They raised their parasols and departed, while Gustavo stood in the gateway bowing. The motion was purely mechanical; his thoughts were laboring elsewhere.



CHAPTER XIV

Constance occupied herself upon their return to Villa Rosa in writing the letter to Jerry Junior. It had occurred to her that this was an excellent chance to punish him, and it was the working philosophy of her life that a man should always be punished when opportunity presented. Tony had been entirely too unconcerned during the past few days; he needed a lesson. She spent three quarters of an hour in composing her letter and tore up two false starts before she was satisfied. It did not contain the slightest hint that she knew the truth, and—considered in this light—it was likely to have a chastening effect. The letter ran:

"VILLA ROSA, VALEDOLMO, "LAGO DI GARDA.

"DEAR JERRY JUNIOR: I hope you don't mind being called "Jerry Junior," but "Mr. Hilliard" sounds so absurdly formal, when I have known your sister so long and so well. We are spending the summer here in Valedolmo, and Mrs. Eustace and Nannie have promised to stop with us for a few days, provided you can be persuaded to pause in your mad rush through Europe. Now please take pity on us—guests are such unusual luxuries, and as for men! Besides a passing tourist or so, we have had nothing but Italian officers. You can climb mountains with my father—Nan says you are a climber—and we can supply mountains enough to keep you occupied for a month.

"My father would write himself, only that he is climbing this moment.

"Yours most cordially, "CONSTANCE WILDER."

"P. S. I forgot to mention that we are acquainted already, you and I. We met six years ago, and you insulted me—under your own roof. You called me a kid. I shall accept nothing but a personal apology."

Having read it critically, she sealed and addressed it with malicious delight; it was calculated to arouse just about the emotions she would like to have Tony entertain. She gave the note to Giuseppe with instructions to place it in Gustavo's hands, and then settled herself gaily to await results.

Giuseppe was barely out of sight when the two Alpine-climbers appeared at the gate. Constance had been wondering how she could inform Tony that his aunt and sister had arrived, without unbending from the dignified silence of the past three days. The obvious method was to announce it to her father in Tony's presence, but her father slipped into the house by the back way without affording her an opportunity. It was Tony himself who solved the difficulty. Of his own accord he crossed the terrace and approached her side. He laid a bunch of edelweiss on the balustrade.

"It's a peace offering," he observed.

She looked at him a moment without speaking. There was a new expression in her eyes that puzzled Tony, just as the expression in his eyes that morning on the water had puzzled her. She was studying him in the light of Jerry Junior. The likeness to the sophomore, who six years before sang the funny songs without a smile, was so very striking, she wondered she could ever have overlooked it.

"Thank you, Tony; it is very nice of you." She picked up the flowers and smiled—with the knowledge of the letter that was waiting for him she could afford to be forgiving.

"You discharged me, signorina; will you take me back into your service?"

"I am not going to climb any more mountains; it is too fatiguing. I think it is better for you and my father to go alone."

"I will serve you in other ways."

Constance studied the mountains a moment. Should she tell him she knew, or should she keep up the pretense a little longer? Her insatiable love of intrigue won.

"Are you sure you wish to be taken back?"

"Si, signorina, I am very sure."

"Then perhaps you will do me a favor on your way home tonight?"

"You have but to ask."

"I wish to send a message to a young American man who is staying at the Hotel du Lac—you may have seen him?"

Tony nodded.

"I have climb Monte Maggiore wif him. You recommend me; I sank you ver' moch. Nice man, zat yong American; ver' good, ver' simpatico." He leaned forward with a sudden air of anxiety. "Signorina, you—you like zat yong man?"

"I have only met him twice, but—yes, I like him."

"You like him better zan me?" His anxiety deepened; he hung upon her words.

She shook her head reassuringly.

"I like you both exactly the same."

"Signorina, which you like better, zat yong American or ze Signor Lieutenant?"

"Your questions are getting too personal, Tony."

He folded his arms and sighed.

"Will you deliver my message?"

"Si, signorina, wif pleasure." There was not a trace of curiosity in his expression, nothing beyond a deferential desire to serve.

"Tell him, Tony, that Miss Wilder will be at home tomorrow afternoon at tea time; if he will come by the gate and present a card she will be most pleased to see him. She wishes him to meet an American friend, a Miss Hilliard, who has just arrived at the hotel this afternoon."

She watched him sharply; his expression did not alter by a shade. He repeated the message and then added as if by the merest chance:

"Ze yong American man, signorina—you know his name?"

"Yes, I know his name." This time for the fraction of a second she surprised a look. "His name—" she hesitated tantalizingly—"is Signor Abraham Lincoln."

"Signor Ab-ra-ham Lin-coln." He repeated it after her as if committing it to memory. They gazed at each other soberly a moment; then both laughed and looked away.

Luigi had appeared in the doorway. Seeing no one more important than Tony about, he found no reason for delaying the announcement of dinner.

"Il pranzo e sulla tavola, signorina."

"Bene!" said Constance over her shoulder. She turned back to Tony; her manner was kind. "If you go to the kitchen, Tony, Elizabetta will give you some dinner."

"Sank you, signorina." His manner was humble. "Elizabetta's dinners consist of a plate of garlic and macaroni on the kitchen steps. I don't like garlic and I'm tired of macaroni; if it's just the same to you, I think I'll dine at home." He held out his hand.

She read his purpose in his eye and put her own hands behind her.

"You won't shake hands, signorina? We are not friends?"

"I learned a lesson the last time."

"You shake hands wif Lieutenant Count Carlo di Ferara."

"It is the custom in Italy."

"We are in Italy."

"Behave yourself, Tony, and run along home!"

She laughed and nodded and turned away. On the steps she paused to add:

"Be sure not to forget the message for Signor Abraham Lincoln. I shall be disappointed if he doesn't come."



CHAPTER XV

Tony returned to the Hotel du Lac, modestly, by the back way. He assured himself that his aunt and sister were well by means of an open window in the rear of the dining-room. The window was shaded by a clump of camellias, and he studied at his ease the back of Mrs. Eustace's head and Nannie's vivacious profile as she talked in fluent and execrable German to the two Alpinists who were, at the moment, the only other guests. Brotherly affection—and a humorous desire to create a sensation—prompted him to walk in and surprise them. But saner second thoughts prevailed; he decided to postpone the reunion until he should have changed from the picturesque costume of Tony, to the soberer garb of Jerry Junior.

He skirted the dining-room by a wide detour, and entered the court-yard at the side. Gustavo, who for the last hour and a half had been alertly watchful of four entrances at once, pounced upon him and drew him to a corner.

"Signore," in a conspiratorial whisper, "zay are come, ze aunt and ze sister."

"I know—the Signorina Costantina told me so."

Gustavo blinked.

"But, signore, she does not know it."

"Yes, she does—she saw 'em herself."

"I mean, signore, she does not know zat you are ze brover?"

"Oh, no, she doesn't know that."

"But she tell me zat she is acquaint wif ze brover for six years." He shook his head hopelessly.

"That's all right." Tony patted his shoulder reassuringly. "When she knew me I used to have yellow hair, but I thought it made me look too girlish, so I had it dyed black. She didn't recognize me."

Gustavo accepted the explanation with a side glance at the hair.

"Now, pay attention." Tony's tone was slow and distinct.

"I am going upstairs to change my clothes. Then I will slip out the back way with a suit case, and go down the road and meet the omnibus as it comes back from the boat landing. You keep my aunt and sister in the court-yard talking to the parrot or something until the omnibus arrives. Then when I get out, you come forward with your politest bow and ask me if I want a room. I'll attend to the rest—do you understand?"

Gustavo nodded with glistening eyes. He had always felt stirring within him powers for diplomacy, for finesse, and he rose to the occasion magnificently.

Tony turned away and went bounding upstairs two steps at a time, chuckling as he went. He, too, was developing an undreamed of appetite for intrigue, and his capacity in that direction was expanding to meet it. He had covered the first flight, when Gustavo suddenly remembered the letter and bounded after.

"Signore! I beg of you to wait one moment. Here is a letter from ze signorina; it is come while you are away."

Tony read the address with a start of surprise.

"Then she knows!" There was regret, disillusionment, in his tone.

It was Gustavo's turn to furnish enlightenment.

"But no, signore, she do not comprehend. She sink Meestair Jayreem Ailyar is ze brover who is not arrive. She leave it for him when he come."

"Ah!" Tony ripped it open and read it through with a chuckle. He read it a second time and his face grew grave. He thrust it into his pocket and strode away without a word for Gustavo. Gustavo looked after him reproachfully. As a head waiter, he naturally did not expect to read the letters of guests; but as a fellow conspirator, he felt that he was entitled to at least a general knowledge of all matters bearing on the conspiracy. He turned back down stairs with a disappointed droop to his shoulders.

Tony closed his door and walked to the window where he stood staring at the roof of Villa Rosa. He drew the letter from his pocket and read it for the third time slowly, thoughtfully, very, very soberly. The reason was clear; she was tired of Tony and was looking ahead for fresh worlds to conquer. Jerry Junior was to come next.

He understood why she had been so complaisant today. She wished the curtain to go down on the comedy note. Tomorrow, the nameless young American, the "Abraham Lincoln" of the register, would call—by the gate—would be received graciously, introduced in his proper person to the guests; the story of the donkey-man would be recounted and laughed over, and he would be politely asked when he was planning to resume his travels. This would be the end of the episode. To Constance, it had been merely an amusing farce about which she could boast when she returned to America. In her vivacious style it would make a story, just as her first meeting with Jerry Junior had made a story. But as for the play itself, for him, she cared nothing. Tony the man had made no impression. He must pass on and give place to Jerry Junior.

A flush crept over Tony's face and his mouth took a straighter line as he continued to gaze down on the roof of Villa Rosa. His reflections were presently interrupted by a knock. He turned and threw the door open with a fling.

"Well?" he inquired.

Gustavo took a step backward.

"Scusi, signore, but zay are eating ze dessart and in five—ten minutes ze omnibus will arrive."

"The omnibus?" Tony stared. "Oh!" he laughed shortly. "I was just joking, Gustavo."

Gustavo bowed and turned down the corridor; there was a look on Tony's face that did not encourage confidences. He had not gone half a dozen steps, however, when the door opened again and Tony called him back.

"I am going away tomorrow morning—by the first boat this time—and you mustn't let my aunt and sister know. I will write two letters and you are to take them down to the steward of the boat that leaves tonight. Ask him to put on Austrian stamps and mail them at Riva, so they'll get back here tomorrow. Do you understand?"

Gustavo nodded and backed away. His disappointment this time was too keen for words. He saw stretching before him a future like the past, monotonously bereft of plots and masquerades.

Tony, having hit on a plan, sat down and put it into instant execution. Opening his Baedeker, he turned to Riva and picked out the first hotel that was mentioned. Then he wrote two letters, both short and to the point; he indulged in none of Constance's vacillations, and yet in their way his letters also were masterpieces of illusion. The first was addressed to Miss Constance Wilder at Villa Rosa. It ran:

"HOTEL SOLE D'ORO, "RIVA, AUSTRIA.

"DEAR MISS WILDER: Nothing would give me greater pleasure than spending a few days in Valedolmo, but unfortunately I am pressed for time, and am engaged to start Thursday morning with some friends on a trip through the Dolomites.

"Trusting that I may have the pleasure of making your acquaintance at some future date,

"Yours truly, "JERYMN HILLIARD, JR."

The second letter was addressed to his sister, but he trusted to luck that Constance would see it. It ran:

"HOTEL SOLE D'ORO, "RIVA, AUSTRIA.

"DEAR NAN: Who in thunder is Constance Wilder? She wants us to stop and make a visit in Valedolmo. I wouldn't step into that infernal town, not if the king himself invited me—it's the deadest hole on the face of the earth. You can stay if you like and I'll go on through the Dolomites alone. There's an American family stopping here who are also planning the trip—a stunning girl; I know you'd like her.

"Of course the travelling will be pretty rough. Perhaps you and Aunt Kate would rather visit your friends and meet me later in Munich. If you decide to take the trip, you will have to come on down to Riva as soon as you get this letter, as we're planning to pull out Thursday morning.