t if he could have
guessed the part he had passively played in obtaining it for its
possessor--or the part that it was still to play in his own epopee? Mark
again the predestination!

"The storm is passing," said the priest.

"Worse luck!" thought Peter.

For indeed the rain and the wind were moderating, the thunder had rolled
farther away, the sky was becoming lighter.

"But there's a mighty problem before us still," said the Duchessa. "How
are we to get to Ventirose? The roads will, be ankle-deep with mud."

"If you wish to do me a very great kindness--" Peter began.

"Yes--?" she encouraged him.

"You will allow me to go before you, and tell them to come for you with
a carriage."

"I shall certainly allow you to do nothing of the sort," she replied
severely. "I suppose there is no one whom you could send?"

"I should hardly like to send Marietta. I 'm afraid there is no one
else. But upon my word, I should enjoy going myself."

She shook her head, smiling at him with mock compassion.

"Would you? Poor man, poor man! That is an enjoyment which you will have
to renounce. One must n't expect too much in this sad life."

"Well, then," said Peter, "I have an expedient. If you can walk a
somewhat narrow plank--?"

"Yes--?" questioned she.

"I think I can improvise a bridge across the river."

"I believe the rain has stopped," said the priest, looking towards the
window.

Peter, manning his soul for the inevitable, got up, went to the door,
opened it, stuck out his head.

"Yes," he acknowledged, while his heart sank within him, "the rain has
stopped."

And now the storm departed almost as rapidly as it had arrived. In
the north the sky was already clear, blue and hard-looking--a wall of
lapis-lazuli. The dark cloud-canopy was drifting to the south. Suddenly
the sun came out, flashing first from the snows of Monte Sfiorito, then,
in an instant, flooding the entire prospect with a marvellous yellow
light, ethereal amber; whilst long streamers of tinted vapour--columns
of pearl-dust, one might have fancied--rose to meet it; and all wet
surfaces, leaves, lawns, tree-trunks, housetops, the bare crags of the
Gnisi, gleamed in a wash of gold.

Puffs of fresh air blew into the kitchen, filling it with the keen sweet
odour of wet earth. The priest and the Duchessa and Emilia joined Peter
at the open door.

"Oh, your poor, poor garden!" the Duchessa cried.

His garden had suffered a good deal, to be sure.