which still lingered some of the flush of dawn.

It was a surprisingly jolly garden, true enough. But though
Peter remained in it all day long--though he haunted the
riverside, and cast a million desirous glances, between the
trees, and up the lawns, towards Castel Ventirose--he enjoyed
no briefest vision of the Duchessa di Santangiolo.

Nor the next day; nor the next.

"Why does n't that old dowager ever come down and look after
her river?" he asked Marietta. "For all the attention she
gives it, the water might be undermining her property on both
sides."

"That old dowager--?" repeated Marietta, blank.

"That old widow woman--my landlady--the Duchessa Vedova di
Santangiolo."

"She is not very old--only twenty-six, twenty-seven," said
Marietta.

"Don't try to persuade me that she is n't old enough to know
better," retorted Peter, sternly.

"But she has her guards, her keepers, to look after her
property," said Marietta.

"Guards and keepers are mere mercenaries. If you want a thing