ned the black forests of the Gnisi to shining
forests of bronze, and the foaming cascade that leapt down its side to
a cascade of liquid gold. The lake, for the greater part, lay in shadow,
violet-grey through a pearl-grey veil of mist; but along the opposite
shore it caught the light, and gleamed a crescent of quicksilver, with
roseate reflections. The three snow-summits of Monte Sfiorito, at the
valley's end, seemed almost insubstantial--floating forms of luminous
pink vapour, above the hazy horizon, in a pure sky intensely blue.

A familiar verse came into Peter's mind.

"Really,"' he said to himself, "down to the very 'cataract leaping in
glory,' I believe they must have pre-arranged the scene, feature for
feature, to illustrate it." And he began to repeat the vivid, musical
lines, under his breath...

But about midway of them he was interrupted.

"It's not altogether a bad sort of view--is it?" a voice asked, behind
him.

Peter faced about.

On a marble bench, under a feathery acacia; a few yards away, a lady was
seated, looking at him, smiling.

Peter's eyes met hers--and suddenly his heart gave a jump. Then it stood
dead still for a second. Then it flew off, racing perilously. Oh, for
the best reasons in the world. There was something in her eyes, there
was a glow, a softness, that seemed--that seemed... But thereby hangs my
tale.

She was dressed in white. She had some big bright-yellow chrysanthemums
stuck in her belt. She wore no hat. Her hair, brown and warm in shadow,
sparkled, where the sun touched it, transparent and iridescent, like
crinkly threads of glass.

"You do not think it altogether bad--I hope?" she questioned, arching
her eyebrows slightly, with a droll little assumption of concern.

Peter's heart was racing--but he must answer her.

"I was just wondering," he answered, with a tolerably successful feint
of composure, "whether one might not safely call it altogether good."

"Oh--?" she exclaimed.

She threw back her head, and examined the prospect critically.
Afterwards, she returned her gaze to Peter, with an air of polite
readiness to defer to his opinion.

"It is not too sensational? Not too much like a landscape on the stage?"

"We must judge it leniently," said he; "we must remember that it is only
unaided Nature. Besides," he added, "to be meticulously truthful, there
is a spaciousness, there is a vivacity in the light and colour, there
is a sense of depth and atmosphere,