“Yes,” answered Peter.

“The Signorino told me to take the little pig away, to find a home for him.  And I told the Signorino that I would take him to my nephew, who is a farmer, towards Fogliamo.  The Signorino remembers?”

“Yes,” answered Peter.  “Yes, you dear old thing.  I remember.”

Marietta drew a deep breath, summoned her utmost fortitude.

“Well, I did not take him to my nephew.  The—­the Signorino ate him.”

Peter could hardly keep from laughing.  He could only utter a kind of half-choked “Oh?”

“Yes,” whispered Marietta.  “He was bought with the Signorino’s money.  I did not like to see the Signorino’s money wasted.  So I deceived the Signorino.  You ate him as a chicken-pasty.”

This time Peter did laugh, I am afraid.  Even the Cardinal —­well, his smile was perilously near a titter.  He took a big pinch of snuff.

“I killed Francesco, and I deceived the Signorino.  I am very sorry,” Marietta said.

Peter knelt down at her bedside.

“Marietta!  Your conscience is too sensitive.  As for killing Francesco—­we are all mortal, he could not have lived forever.  And as for deceiving the Signorino, you did it for his own good.  I remember that chicken-pasty.  It was the best chicken-pasty I have ever tasted.  You must not worry any more about the little pig.”

Marietta turned her face towards him, and smiled.

“The Signorino forgives his servant?” she whispered.

Peter could not help it.  He bent forward, and kissed her brown old cheek.

“She will be easier now,” said the Cardinal.  “I will stay with her a little longer.”

Peter went out.  The scene had been childish—­do you say? —­ridiculous, almost farcical indeed?  And yet, somehow, it seemed to Peter that his heart was full of unshed tears.  At the same time, as he thought of the Cardinal, as he saw his face, his smile, as he heard the intonations of his voice, the words he had spoken, as he thought of the way he had held Marietta’s hand and patted it—­at the same time a kind of strange joy seemed to fill his heart, a strange feeling of exaltation, of enthusiasm.

“What a heavenly old man,” he said.

In the garden Sister Scholastica and Emilia were still walking together.

They halted, when Peter came out; and Emilia said, “With your consent, Signore, Sister Scholastica has accepted me as her lieutenant.  I will come every morning, and sit with Marietta during the day.  That will relieve the sister, who has to be up with her at night.”

And every morning after that, Emilia came, walking through the park, and crossing the river by the ladder-bridge, which Peter left now permanently in its position.  And once or twice a week, in the afternoon, the Cardinal would drive up in the brougham, and, having paid a little visit to Marietta, would drive Emilia home.