“Children of her complexion can’t die,” said John, in Italian, (and Annunziata pricked up her ears).  “They can only turn into monkeys, and then they have to live in the forests of Africa, where it is always dark, and all the men and women are negro savages, and all the other animals (except the mosquitos and the snakes) are lions and tigers.  Besides, if Annunziata were to turn into a monkey, she couldn’t have the sugared chestnuts that somebody or other has brought her from Roccadoro.  On the chest of drawers in my room there has mysteriously appeared a box of sugared chestnuts.  I thought they were for her, but they’re not, unless she will promise never to turn into a monkey.”

Annunziata’s eyes had clouded.

“Of course I won’t turn into a monkey,” she said, in accents at once of disillusion and disdain.  “I did not know there was any such danger.  I should hate to be a monkey.”  Then her eyes brightened again.  “May I go and get them now?” she asked, wistful and impatient.

“Yes,” said John; “be off with you.”  And she went running lightly up the hill.

He turned to Maria Dolores.  Her face (clear-cut, with its dark hair, against the red background of her sunshade) was white and drawn with pain.  But she smiled, rather wanly, as her gaze met his, and said, in a weak voice, “Oh, I am so glad you came.  I can’t tell you how she was frightening me.”  And all at once her eyes filled with tears.

I needn’t say whether John was moved, whether it was his impulse to take her in his arms and dry her tears with kisses.  He did actually, on that impulse, give a perceptible start towards her, but then he restrained himself.  “The child ought to be whipped,” he broke out angrily.  “You must not take her prattle so seriously.”

“But she was so serious,” said Maria Dolores.  “Oh, when she threatened to lie down in the river, and let herself be drowned—!” Her voice failed her, as at the inexpressible.

“No fear of that,” said John.  “The first touch of the cold water (and icy-cold it is, a glacier-stream, you know) would bring her to her senses.  But come!  You must not think of it any more.  You have had a bad shock, but no bones are broken, and now you must try to banish it all from your mind.”

“What an unaccountable child she is!” said Maria Dolores.  “Surely it is unnatural and alarming for a child to have her head so teeming with strange freaks and fancies.  Oh, I pray God to grant that nothing may happen to her.”

“The most serious evil that’s likely to happen to her for the present,” said John, “will be an indigestion of marrons glaces.”

Maria Dolores’ tears had gone now.  She smiled.  But afterwards she looked grave again.  “Oh, I wish I could get the dread of something happening to her out of my heart.  I wish she wasn’t so pale and fragile-looking,” she said.  Then there came a gleam in her eyes.  “But you were going for a walk, and I am detaining you.”