t you see them?" he asked as in surprise,--"Aphrodite just yonder
in violet robe, and Juno, and Hermes with winged feet"--

"I am afraid I am a wee bit blind, being but mortal," answered Daphne.
"I can see nothing but you."

Beside them on the rock, spread out on oak leaves, lay clusters of
purple grapes, six black ripe olives, and a little pile of biscotti
Inglesi. The girl bent and poured from the curving flask red wine that
bubbled in the glass, then gave it to her companion, saying: "Quick,
before Hebe gets here," and the sound of their merriment rung down the
hillside.

"Hark!" whispered Daphne. "I hear an echo of the unquenchable laughter
of the gods! They cannot be far away."

From another stone near at hand Bertuccio watched them with eyes that
feigned not to see. Bertuccio did not understand English, but he
understood everything else. Goodly shares of the nectar and ambrosia
of this feast had fallen to his lot, and Bertuccio in his own way was
almost as happy as the lovers. In the soft grass near San Pietro
Martire nibbled peacefully, now and then lifting his eyes to see what
was going on. Once he brayed. He alone, of all nature, seemed
impervious to the joy that had descended upon earth.

It was only an hour since Daphne had been overtaken. Few words had
sufficed for understanding, and Bertuccio had looked away.

"My only fear was that I should find you turned into a laurel tree,"
said Apollo. "I shall always be afraid of that."

"Apollo," said Daphne irrelevantly, holding out to him a bunch of
purple grapes in the palm of her hand, "there is a practical side to
all this. People will have to know, I am afraid. I must write to my
sister."

"I have reason to think that the Countess Accolanti will not be
displeased," he answered. There was a queer little look about his
mouth, but Daphne asked for no explanation.

"There is your father," he suggested.

"Oh!" said Daphne. "He will love you at once. His tastes and mine are
very much alike."

The lover-god smiled, quite satisfied.

"You chose the steepest road of all to-day, little girl," he said. "But
it is not half so long nor so hard as the one I expected to climb to
find you."

"You are tired!" said Daphne anxiously. "Rest."

Bertuccio was sleeping on his flat rock; San Pietro lay down for a
brief, ascetic slumber. The lovers sat side by side, with the mystery
of beauty about them: the purple and gold of nearness and distance;