The Cardinal's Snuff Box

"Oh? Would n't that be rather a pity?" Peter said. "She's so

extremely pretty. I don't know when I have seen prettier brown

eyes than hers."

"Well, in a few years, I expect we shall see those pretty brown

eyes looking out from under a sister's coif. No, I don't think

it will be a pity. Nuns and sisters, I think, are the happiest

people in the world--and priests. Have you ever met any one

who seemed happier than my uncle, for example?"

"I have certainly never met any one who seemed sweeter,

kinder," Peter confessed. "He has a wonderful old face."

"He's a wonderful old man," said she. "I 'm going to try to

keep him a prisoner here for the rest of the summer--though he

will have it that he's just run down for a week. He works a

great deal too hard when he's in Rome. He's the only Cardinal

I've ever heard of, who takes practical charge of his titular

church. But here in the country he's out-of-doors all the

blessed day, hand in hand with Emilia. He's as young as she

is, I believe. They play together like children--and make--me

feel as staid and solemn and grown-up as one of Mr. Kenneth

Grahame's Olympians."

Peter laughed. Then, in the moment of silence that followed,

he happened to let his eyes stray up the valley.

"Hello!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Someone has been painting our

mountain green."

The Duchessa turned, to look; and she too uttered an

exclamation.

By some accident of reflection or refraction, the snows of

Monte Sfiorito had become bright green, as if the light that

fell on them had passed through emeralds. They both paused, to

gaze and marvel for a little. Indeed, the prospect was a

pleasing one, as well as a surprising--the sunny lawns, the

high trees, the blue lake, and then that bright green mountain.

"I have never known anything like those snow-peaks for sailing

under false colours," Peter said. "I have seen them every

colour of the calendar, except their native white."

"You must n't blame the poor things," pleaded the Duchessa.

"They can't help it. It's all along o' the distance and the

atmosphere and the sun."

She closed her fan, with which she had been more or less idly

playing throughout their dialogue, and replaced it on the

table. Among the books there--French books, for the most part,

in yellow paper--Peter saw, with something of a flutter (he

could never see it without something of a flutter), the

grey-and-gold binding of "A Man of Words."