“You must give it to him in the smallest change you can possibly scrape together,” she advised Peter. And with one-lira, two-lira, ten-lira notes, and with a little silver and copper, he made up the amount. “A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the boy, with a bow that was magnificent; and he proceeded to distribute the money between various obscure pockets. “A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the girl, with a courtesy. “Addio, a buon' viaggio,” said Peter. “Addio, Eccellenze,” said the boy. “Addio, Eccellenze,” said the girl. But the Duchessa impulsively stooped down, and kissed the girl on her poor little wrinkled brow. And when she stood up, Peter saw that her eyes were wet. The children moved off. They moved off, whispering together, and gesticulating, after the manner of their race: discussing something. Presently they stopped; and the boy came running back, while his sister waited. He doffed his hat, and said, “A thousand pardons, Excellency-” “Yes? What is it?” Peter asked. “With your Excellency's favour--is it obligatory that we should take the train?” “Obligatory?” puzzled Peter. “How do you mean?” “If it is not obligatory, we would prefer, with the permission of your Excellency, to save the money.” “But--but then you will have to walk!” cried Peter. “But if it is not obligatory to take the train, we would pray your Excellency's permission to save the money. We should like to save the money, to give it to the father. The father is very poor. Fifty lire is so much.” This time it was Peter who looked for counsel to the Duchessa. Her eyes, still bright with tears, responded, “Let them do as they will.” “No, it is not obligatory--it is only recommended,” he said to the boy, with a smile that he could n't help. “Do as you will. But if I were you, I should spare my poor little feet.” “Mille grazie, Eccellenze,” the boy said, with a final sweep of his tattered hat. He ran back to his sister; and next moment they were walking resolutely on, westward, “into the great red light.” The Duchessa and Peter were silent for a while, looking after them. They dwindled to dots in the distance, and then, where the road turned, disappeared. At last the Duchessa spoke--but almost as if speaking to herself. “There, Felix Wildmay, you writer of tales, is a subject made to your hand,” she said. We may guess whether Peter was startled. Was it possible that she had found him out? A sound, confused, embarrassed, something composite, between an oh and ayes, seemed to expire in his throat. But the Duchessa did n't appear to heed it. “Don't you think it would be a touching episode for your friend to write a story round?” she asked. We may guess whether he was relieved. “Oh--oh, yes,” he agreed, with the precipitancy of a man who, in his relief, would agree to anything.