e little table, the big
curate sorted his cards with a blissful smile, while she clasped hers to
her bosom, now laughing, now groaning, and rolling her eyes from one to
the other of her companions.

"She holds the _matto_," the curate whispered.

"She always goes on like that when she has the _matto_," said Pasotti,
and called to her, thumping the table one more--

"Out with the _matto_!"

"I will throw him into the lake!" said she. She cast a glance towards
the prow, and, as an excuse, remarked that they were nearing Cressogno,
and that it was time to stop playing.

Her husband fumed awhile, but finally resigned himself to putting on his
gloves.

"Trout to-day, curate!" he observed, while his meek wife buttoned them
for him. "White truffles, grouse, and wine from Ghemme."

"Then you know!" the curate exclaimed. "I know it also. The cook told me
yesterday at Lugano."

"And besides, some ladies have been invited; the Carabellis, mother and
daughter. Those Carabellis from Loveno, you know."

"Indeed!" the curate exclaimed. "Is there any scheme----? There is Don
Franco, now, in his boat. But what a strange flag the young man is
flying! I never saw him with it before."

Pasotti raised the awning and looked out. At a little distance a boat
flying a white and blue flag rose and fell in unison with the weary
motion of the waves. In the stern, under the flag, sat Don Franco
Maironi, the grandson of the old Marchesa Orsola, who was giving the
dinner.

Pasotti saw him rise, grasp the oars, and pull away, rowing slowly
towards the upper lake, towards the wild gulf of the Doi, the white and
blue flag spread wide, and floating above the boat's trail.

"Where is that eccentric young man going?" said he. And he muttered
between his teeth; in the strained and husky voice of a Milanese
rough--"A surly fellow!"

"They say he has great talents," the priest observed.

"An empty head," the other declared. "Much arrogance, little learning,
no manners!"

"And half rotten," he added. "If I were that young woman----"

"Which?" the curate questioned.

"Why, Signorina Carabelli."

"Mark my words, Signor Controllore! If the grouse and white truffles are
meant for that Carabelli girl, they are thrown away!"

"Do you know something?" Pasotti inquired, his eyes flaming with
curiosity.

The priest did not answer because, at that point, the bow grated on the
gravel, and touched the landing-stage. He got out first; Pasotti, wi