Noticing which, and wondering, he, from his pillow, called out, "Buon'
giorno, Marietta."

"Buon' giorno, Signorino," she returned but in a whisper.

"What's the matter? Is there cause for secrecy?" Peter asked.

"I have a cold, Signorino," she whispered, pointing to her chest. "I
cannot speak."

The Venetian blinds were up by this time; the room was full of sun. He
looked at her. Something in her face alarmed him. It seemed drawn and
set, it seemed flushed.

"Come here," he said, with a certain peremptoriness. "Give me your
hand."

She wiped her brown old hand backwards and forwards across her apron;
then gave it to him.

It was hot and dry.

"Your cold is feverish," he said. "You must go to bed, and stay there
till the fever has passed."

"I cannot go to bed, Signorino," she replied.

"Can't you? Have you tried?" asked he.

"No, Signorino," she admitted.

"Well, you never can tell whether you can do a thing or not, until you
try," said he. "Try to go to bed; and if at first you don't succeed,
try, try again."

"I cannot go to bed. Who would do the Signorino's work?" was her
whispered objection.

"Hang the Signorino's work. The Signorino's work will do itself. Have
you never observed that if you conscientiously neglect to do your work,
it somehow manages to get done without you? You have a feverish cold;
you must keep out of draughts; and the only place where you can be sure
of keeping out of draughts, is bed. Go to bed at once."

She left the room.

But when Peter came downstairs, half an hour later, he heard her moving
in her kitchen.

"Marietta!" he cried, entering that apartment with the mien of Nemesis.
"I thought I told you to go to bed."

Marietta cowered a little, and looked sheepish, as one surprised in the
flagrant fact of misdemeanour.

"Yes, Signorino," she whispered.

"Well--? Do you call this bed?" he demanded.

"No, Signorino," she acknowledged.

"Do you wish to oblige me to put you to bed?" he asked.

"Oh, no, Signorino," she protested, horror in her whisper.

"Then go to bed directly. If you delay any longer, I shall accuse you of
wilful insubordination."

"Bene, Signorino," reluctantly consented Marietta.

Peter strolled into his garden. Gigi, the gardener, was working there.

"The very man I most desired to meet," said Peter, and beckoned to
him. "Is there a doctor in the village?" he enquired, when Gigi had
approached.

"Yes, Signorino. The Syndic is a doctor