Maria Dolores smiled, but under her smile there was a look of seriousness, a look of concern.

“My dear,” she said smiling, and looking concerned, “you should try to control your vivid little imagination.  If every time a cloud crosses the sun, you are going to assume the responsibility for it, and to fancy that you have offended God, I’m afraid you’ll have rather an agitated life.”

“Oh, no; not every time,” exclaimed Annunziata, and she was manifestly on the point of making a fine distinction, when abruptly the current of her ideas was diverted.  “Sh-h!  There comes Prospero,” she cried, starting up.  “I can see the top of his white hat above the rhododendron bushes.  He has driven his friend to Cortello, and come home.  I must run away, or he will see that I’ve been crying.  Don’t tell him,” she begged, putting her finger on her lips; and she set off running, towards the presbytery, just as John stepped forth from behind the long hedge of rhododendrons.

IV

John stepped forth from behind the rhododendrons, with a kind of devil-may-care, loose, aimless gait, the brim of his Panama pulled brigandishly down over one ear, his hands in the pockets of his coat, his head bent, his brow creased, his eyes sombre, every line and fibre of his person advertising him the prey of morose disgust.  But when he saw Maria Dolores, he hastily straightened up, unpocketed his hands, took off his hat (giving it a flap that set the brim at a less truculent angle), and smiled.  And when, the instant after, he caught sight of the flying form of Annunziata, his smile turned into a glance of wonder.

“What is the matter with Annunziata?  Why is she running with all her legs like that?” he asked.

Maria Dolores had the tiniest catch of laughter.  “She is running away from you,” she answered.

“From me?” marvelled John. “Je suis donc un foudre de guerre? What on earth is she running away from me for?”

Maria Dolores smiled mysteriously.

“Ah,” she said, “she asked me not to tell you.  I am in the delicate position of confidante.”

“And therefore I hope you’ll tell me with the less reluctance,” said John, urbanely unprincipled.  “A confidante always betrays her confidence to some one,—­that’s the part of the game that makes it worth while.”

Maria Dolores’ smile deepened.

“In that pale green frock, on that bank of dark-green moss, with her complexion and her hair,—­by Jove, how stunning she is!” thought John, in a commotion.

“Well,” she said, “Annunziata ran away because she didn’t want you to see that she’d been crying.”

John raised his eyebrows, the blue eyes under them becoming expressive of dismay.

“Crying?” he echoed.  “The poor little kiddie!  What had she been crying about!”

“That is a long story, and involves some of her peculiar theological tenets,” said Maria Dolores.  “But, in a single word, about your friend.”