On another occasion we were invited to dinner at the house of a country notable many miles away, but still connected with the Cavaletti domains. It was early autumn, and we had an enchanting ride in the bright, cool morning through the deep woods where the chestnut burrs came padding down on the moss with soft thuds as we passed, and here and there some delicate ash or birch was already flaming into orange with the first touch of the frost. They looked like torches alight in the forest. They are so deep and green, those woods of Sabina, rich with oak and chestnut, elm and beech, a fairyland of moss and fern below, a world of sun and shadow above. The flowers are very delicate too, harebells like thin amethyst, and the dainty wild pansy that lifts her little startled head like a Louis XV beauty who has lost her way; and there are stars of Bethlehem, growing always apart and lonely, five white petals with a touch of greenish-gold for a heart, swinging in the breeze on a long, translucent stem; and wild strawberries—snowy flower and crimson berry springing side by side among the broad trefoil leaves; and wild garlic, a mass of spotless bloom; and magic elder with great posies of perfumed level rime; and fern so tall that one could lose oneself in it, seeking for the threaded turquoise of forget-me-nots that grow beneath; and thousands more, fragile, exquisite things blooming in the deep peace of the undergrowth, while far overhead the strong tree-tops laugh in the wind and take all the sun. I remember how sorry I was when we left the woods behind that day and reached a tiny walled town with, of course, a church, a piazza, a fountain, and one big house standing aggressively square to the street, a typical Italian house with as many windows as could possibly be put into it, all green-shuttered, and most of them balconied. That was all I saw, for as we drew rein at the entrance we were surrounded by the whole family, all grown-up men and women, who lifted us girls down from our saddles, took possession of all our belongings, and all but carried us up to a big, cool room on the first floor, with many expressions of sympathy for our supposed fatigue after the long ride. I believe they thought us rather daring for venturing ourselves on the shaggy mountain ponies at all, for few Italian women in the country ever mount anything more frisky than a tried and sober donkey.