washday, signorina, by ze lac. I climb over ze wall and
talk wif her, but she make fun of me--ver' unkind. I go away ver' sad. No
use, I say, she like dose soldiers best. But I see her again; I hear her
laugh--it sound like angels singing--I say, no, I can not go away; I stay
here and make her love me. Yes, I do everysing she ask--but everysing! I
wear earrings; I make myself into a fool just to please zat Costantina."

He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. A slow red flush crept over
Constance's face and she turned her head away and looked across the
water.

Mr. Wilder, in full Alpine regalia, stepped out upon the terrace and
viewed the beauty of the morning with a prophetic eye. Miss Hazel
followed in his wake; she wore a lavender dimity. And suddenly it
occurred to Tony's slow moving masculine perception that neither lavender
dimity nor white muslin were fabrics fit for mountain climbing.

Constance slipped down from her parapet and hurried to meet them.

"Good-morning, Aunt Hazel. Morning, Dad! You look beautiful! There's
nothing so becoming to a man as knickerbockers--especially if he's a
little stout.--You're late," she added with a touch of severity.
"Breakfast has been waiting half an hour and Tony fifteen minutes."

She turned back toward the donkey-man who was standing, hat in hand,
respectfully waiting orders. "Oh, Tony, I forgot to tell you; we shall
not need Beppo and the donkeys to-day. You and my father are going
alone."

"You no want to climb Monte Maggiore--ver' beautiful mountain." There was
disappointment, reproach, rebellion in his tone.

"We have made inquiries and my aunt thinks it too long a trip. Without
the donkeys you can cross by boat, and that cuts off three miles."

"As you please, signorina." He turned away.

Constance looked after him with a shade of remorse. When this plan of
sending her father and Tony alone had occurred to her as she sailed
homeward yesterday from the Hotel du Lac, it had seemed a humorous and
fitting retribution. The young man had been just a trifle too sure of her
interest; the episode of the hotel register must not go unpunished.
But--it was a beautiful morning, a long empty day stretched before her,
and Monte Maggiore looked alluring; there was no pursuit, for the moment,
which she enjoyed as much as donkey-riding. Oh yes, she was spiting
herself as well as Tony; but considering the circumstances the sacrifice
seemed necessary.

When the _Farfalla_