who seemed happier than my uncle, for example?"

"I have certainly never met any one who seemed sweeter,
kinder," Peter confessed. "He has a wonderful old face."

"He's a wonderful old man," said she. "I 'm going to try to
keep him a prisoner here for the rest of the summer--though he
will have it that he's just run down for a week. He works a
great deal too hard when he's in Rome. He's the only Cardinal
I've ever heard of, who takes practical charge of his titular
church. But here in the country he's out-of-doors all the
blessed day, hand in hand with Emilia. He's as young as she
is, I believe. They play together like children--and make--me
feel as staid and solemn and grown-up as one of Mr. Kenneth
Grahame's Olympians."

Peter laughed. Then, in the moment of silence that followed,
he happened to let his eyes stray up the valley.

"Hello!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Someone has been painting our
mountain green."

The Duchessa turned, to look; and she too uttered an
exclamation.

By some accident of reflection or refraction, the snows of
Monte Sfiorito had become bright green, as if the light that
fell on them had passed through emeralds. They both paused, to
gaze and marvel for a little. Indeed, the prospect was a
pleasing one, as well as a surprising--the sunny lawns, the