"Peaches do not grow on fig-trees?" he enquired.

"No, Signorino," said Marietta.

"Nor figs on thistles. I wonder why not," said he.

"It is n't Nature," was Marietta's confident generalisation.

"Marietta Cignolesi," Peter pronounced severely, looking her
hard in the eyes, "I am told you are a witch."

"No," said Marietta, simply, without surprise, without emotion.

"I quite understand," he genially persisted. "It's a part of
the game to deny it. But I have no intention of sprinkling you
with holy water-so don't be frightened. Besides, if you should
do anything outrageous--if you should turn into a black cat,
and fly away on a broomstick, for example--I could never
forgive myself. But I'll thank you to employ a little of your
witchcraft on my behalf, all the same. I have lost something
--something very precious--more precious than rubies--more
precious than fine gold."

Marietta's brown old wrinkles fell into an expression of alarm.

"In the villa? In the garden?" she exclaimed, anxiously.

"No, you conscientious old thing you," Peter hastened to
relieve her. "Nowhere in your jurisdiction--so don't distress