The Cardinal's Snuff Box

On Monday evening, at the end of dinner, as she set the fruit

before him, "The Signorino will take coffee?" old Marietta

asked.

Peter frowned at the fruit, figs and peaches-"Figs imperial purple, and blushing peaches"-ranged alternately, with fine precision, in a circle, round a

central heap of translucent yellow grapes.

"Is this the produce of my own vine and fig-tree?" he demanded.

"Yes, Signorino; and also peach-tree," replied Marietta.

"Peaches do not grow on fig-trees?" he enquired.

"No, Signorino," said Marietta.

"Nor figs on thistles. I wonder why not," said he.

"It is n't Nature," was Marietta's confident generalisation.

"Marietta Cignolesi," Peter pronounced severely, looking her

hard in the eyes, "I am told you are a witch."

"No," said Marietta, simply, without surprise, without emotion.

"I quite understand," he genially persisted. "It's a part of

the game to deny it. But I have no intention of sprinkling you

with holy water-so don't be frightened. Besides, if you should

do anything outrageous--if you should turn into a black cat,

and fly away on a broomstick, for example--I could never

forgive myself. But I'll thank you to employ a little of your

witchcraft on my behalf, all the same. I have lost something

--something very precious--more precious than rubies--more

precious than fine gold."

Marietta's brown old wrinkles fell into an expression of alarm.

"In the villa? In the garden?" she exclaimed, anxiously.

"No, you conscientious old thing you," Peter hastened to

relieve her. "Nowhere in your jurisdiction--so don't distress

yourself: Laggiu, laggiu."

And he waved a vague hand, to indicate outer space.

The Signorino should put up a candle to St. Anthony of Padua,"

counselled this Catholic witch.

"St. Anthony of Padua? Why of Padua?" asked Peter.

"St. Anthony of Padua," said Marietta.

"You mean of Lisbon," corrected Peter.

"No," insisted the old woman, with energy. "St. Anthony of

Padua."

It But he was born in Lisbon;" insisted Peter.

"No," said Marietta.

"Yes," said he, "parola d' onore. And, what's more to the

purpose, he died in Lisbon. You clearly mean St. Anthony of

Lisbon."

"No!" Marietta raised her voice, for his speedier conviction.

"There is no St. Anthony of Lisbon. St. Anthony of Padua."

"What's the use of sticking to your guns in that obstinate

fashion?" Peter complained. "It's mere pride of opinion.

Don't you know that the ready concession of minor points is a

part of the grace of life?"