Arthur coloured like a schoolgirl, and the woman, seeing that he had understood, went away laughing at his confusion. At supper he talked of nothing but plans for excursions, mountain ascents, and botanizing expeditions. Evidently his dreamy fancies had not interfered with either his spirits or his appetite. When Montanelli awoke the next morning Arthur had disappeared. He had started before daybreak for the higher pastures “to help Gaspard drive up the goats.” Breakfast had not long been on the table, however, when he came tearing into the room, hatless, with a tiny peasant girl of three years old perched on his shoulder, and a great bunch of wild flowers in his hand. Montanelli looked up, smiling. This was a curious contrast to the grave and silent Arthur of Pisa or Leghorn. “Where have you been, you madcap? Scampering all over the mountains without any breakfast?” “Oh, Padre, it was so jolly! The mountains look perfectly glorious at sunrise; and the dew is so thick! Just look!” He lifted for inspection a wet and muddy boot. “We took some bread and cheese with us, and got some goat's milk up there on the pasture; oh, it was nasty! But I'm hungry again, now; and I want something for this little person, too. Annette, won't you have some honey?” He had sat down with the child on his knee, and was helping her to put the flowers in order. “No, no!” Montanelli interposed. “I can't have you catching cold. Run and change your wet things. Come to me, Annette. Where did you pick her up?” “At the top of the village. She belongs to the man we saw yesterday--the man that cobbles the commune's boots. Hasn't she lovely eyes? She's got a tortoise in her pocket, and she calls it 'Caroline.'” When Arthur had changed his wet socks and came down to breakfast he found the child seated on the Padre's knee, chattering volubly to him about her tortoise, which she was holding upside down in a chubby hand, that “monsieur” might admire the wriggling legs. “Look, monsieur!” she was saying gravely in her half-intelligible patois: “Look at Caroline's boots!” Montanelli sat playing with the child, stroking her hair, admiring her darling tortoise, and telling her wonderful stories. The woman of the chalet, coming in to clear the table, stared in amazement at the sight of Annette turning out the pockets of the grave gentleman in clerical dress. “God teaches the little ones to know a good man,” she said. “Annette is always afraid of strangers; and see, she is not shy with his reverence at all. The wonderful thing! Kneel down, Annette, and ask the good monsieur's blessing before he goes; it will bring thee luck.” “I didn't know you could play with children that way, Padre,” Arthur said an hour later, as they walked through the sunlit pasture-land. “That child never took her eyes off you all the time. Do you know, I think----” “Yes?”