just at that moment, looking off along the highroad, he saw
something that brought his heart into his throat.

Three figures were hurrying down it, half-drowned in the rain
--the Duchessa di Santangiolo, Emilia Manfredi, and a priest.

In a twinkling, Peter, bareheaded, was at his gate.

"Come in--come in," he called.

"We are simply drenched--we shall inundate your house," the
Duchessa said, as he showed them into his sitting-room.

They were indeed dripping with water, soiled to their knees
with mud.

"Good heavens!" gasped Peter, stupid. "How were you ever out
in such a downpour?"

She smiled, rather forlornly.

"No one told us that it was going to rain, and we were off for
a good long walk--for pleasure."

"You must be wet to the bone--you must be perishing with cold,"
he cried, looking from one to another.

"Yes, I daresay we are perishing with cold," she admitted.

"And I have no means of offering you a fire--there are no