rberated, like the toppling of great
edifices. The lightning tore through the black cloud-canopy in long
blinding zig-zags. The wind moaned, howled, hooted--and the square
chamber where Peter stood shook and rattled under its buffetings, and
was full of the chill and the smell of it. Really the whole thing was
splendid.

His garden-paths ran with muddy brooklets; the high-road beyond his
hedge was transformed to a shallow torrent.... And, 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 fireplaces,"
he groaned, with a gesture round the bleak Italian room, to certify
their absence.

"Is n't there a kitchen?" asked the Duchessa, a faint spark of raillery
kindling amid the forlornness of her smile.

Peter threw up his hands.

"I had lost my head. The kitchen, of course. I 'll tell Marietta to
light a fire."

He excused himself, and sought out Marietta. He found her in her
housekeeper's room, on her knees, saying her rosary, in obvious terror.
I 'm afraid he interrupted her orisons somewhat brusquely.

"Will you be so good as to start a rousing fire in the kitchen--as
quickly as ever it can be done?"

And he rejoined his guests.

"If you will come this way--" he said.

Marietta had a fire of logs and pine-cones blazing in no time. She
courtesied low to the Duchessa, lower still to the priest--in fact,
Peter was n't sure that she did n't genuflect before him, while he made
a rapid movement with his hand over her head: the Sign of the Cross,
perhaps.

He was a little, unassuming-looking, white haired priest, with a
remark