Half-way down the long straight avenue of ilex-trees that led from the castle to the principal entrance of the garden, Annunziata, in her pale-grey pinafore (that was so like a peplum), with her hair waving about her shoulders, was curled up in the corner of a marble bench, gazing with great intentness at a white flower that lay in her lap. It was the warmest and the peacefullest moment of the afternoon. The sun shone steadily; not a leaf stirred, not a shadow wavered; and the intermittent piping of a blackbird, somewhere in the green world overhead, seemed merely to give a kind of joyous rhythm to the silence. "Mercy upon me! Who ever saw so young a maiden so deeply lost in thought!" exclaimed a voice. Annunziata, her reverie thus disturbed, raised a pair of questioning eyes. A lady was standing before her, smiling down upon her, a lady in a frock of lilac-coloured muslin, with a white sunshade. Annunziata, who, when she liked, could be the very pink of formal politeness, rose, dropped a courtesy, and said: "Buon giorno, Signorina." "Buon giorno," responded the smiling lady. "Buon giorno--and a penny for your thoughts. But I'm sure you could never, never tell what it was you were thinking so hard about." "Scusi," said Annunziata. "I was trying to think of the name of this flower." She stooped and picked up the flower, which had slipped from her lap to the ground when she rose. Then she held it at arm's length, for inspection. "Oh?" asked the lady, smiling at the flower, as she had smiled at its possessor. "Isn't it a narcissus?" "Yes," said Annunziata. "It is a narcissus. But I was trying to think of its particular name." The lady looked as if she did not quite understand. "Its particular name?" "It is a narcissus," explained Annunziata, "just as I am a girl. But it must also have its particular name, just as I have mine. It is a soul doing its Purgatory--a very good soul. If you are very good, then, when you die, you do your Purgatory as a flower. But it is not such an easy Purgatory--oh, no. For look: the flower is beautiful, but it is blind, and cannot see; and it is fragrant, but it cannot smell; and people admire it and praise it, but it is deaf, and cannot hear. It can only wait, wait, wait, and think of God. But it is a short Purgatory. A few days, and the flower will fade, and the soul will be released. I think this flower's name is Cecilia, it is so white." The smile in the lady's eyes had brightened, as she listened; and now she gave a little laugh, a little, light, musical, pleased and friendly laugh. "Yes," she said. "I have sometimes wondered myself whether flowers might not be the Purgatory of very good souls. I am glad to learn from you that it is true. And yes, I should think that this flower's name was sure to be Cecilia. Cecilia suits it perfectly. What, if one may ask, is _your_ particular name?" "Mariannunziata," said its bearer, not to make two bites of a cherry.