If one must go to jail at all one could scarcely choose a more entertaining jail than that of Valedolmo. It occupies a structure which was once a palace; and its cells, planned for other purposes, are spacious. But its most gratifying feature, to one forcibly removed from social intercourse, is its outlook. The windows command the Piazza Garibaldi, which is the social center of the town; it contains the village post, the fountain, the tobacco shop, the washing-trough, and the two rival cafÈs, the “Independenza” and the “LibertÀ.” The piazza is always dirty and noisy—that goes without saying—but on Wednesday morning at nine o’clock, it is peculiarly dirty and noisy. Wednesday is Valedolmo’s market day, and the square is so cluttered with booths and huxters and anxious buyers, that the peaceable pedestrian can scarcely wedge his way through. The noise moreover is deafening; above the cries of vendors and buyers, rises a shriller chorus of bleating kids and squealing pigs and braying donkeys.

Mr. Wilder, red in the face and short of temper, pushed through the crowd with little ceremony, prodding on the right with his umbrella, on the left with his fan, and using his elbows vigorously. Constance, serenely cool, followed in his wake, nodding here and there to a chance acquaintance, smiling on everyone; the spectacle to her held always fresh interest. An image vendor close at her elbow insisted that she should buy a Madonna and Bambina for fifty centesimi, or at least a San Giuseppe for twenty-five. To her father’s disgust she bought them both, and presented them to two wide-eyed children who in bashful fascination were dogging their footsteps.

The appearance of the foreigners in the piazza caused such a ripple of interest, that for a moment the bargaining was suspended. When the two mounted the steps of the jail and jerked the bell, as many of the bystanders as the steps would accommodate mounted with them. Nobody answered the first ring, and Constance pulled again with a force which sent a jangle of bells echoing through the interior. After a second’s wait—snortingly impatient on Mr. Wilder’s part; he was being pressed close by the none too clean citizens of Valedolmo—the door was opened a very small crack by a frowsy jailoress. Her eye fell first upon the crowd, and she was disposed to close it again; but in the act she caught sight of the Signorina Americana dressed in white, smiling above a bouquet of oleanders. Her eyes widened with astonishment. It was long since such an apparition had presented itself at that door. She dropped a courtesy and the crack widened.

“Your commands, signorina?”

“We wish to come in.”

“But it is against the orders. Friday is visiting-day at thirteen o’clock. If the signorina had a permesso from the sindaco, why then—”

The signorina shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She had no permesso and it was too much trouble to get one. Besides, the sindaco’s office didn’t open till ten o’clock. She glanced down; there was a shining two-franc piece in her hand. Perhaps the jailoress would allow them to step inside away from the crowd and she would explain?

This sounded reasonable; the door opened farther and they squeezed through. It banged in the faces of the disappointed spectators, who lingered hopefully a few moments longer, and then returned to their bargaining. Inside the big damp stone-walled corridor Constance drew a deep breath and smiled upon the jailoress; the jailoress smiled back. Then as a preliminary skirmish, Constance presented the two-franc piece; and the jailoress dropped a courtesy.

“We have heard that Antonio, our donkey-driver, has been arrested for deserting from the army and we have come to find out about it. My father, the signore here—” she waved her hand toward Mr. Wilder—“likes Antonio very much and is quite sure that it is a mistake.”

The woman’s mouth hardened; she nodded with emphasis.

“GiÀ. We have him, the man Antonio, if that is his name. He may not be the deserter they search—I do not know—but if he is not the deserter he is something else. You should have heard him last night, signorina, when they brought him in. The things he said! They were in a foreign tongue; I did not understand, but I felt. Also he kicked my husband—kicked him quite hard so that he limps today. And the way he orders us about! You would think he were a prince in his own palace and we were his servants. Nothing is good enough for him. He objected to the room we gave him first because it smelt of the cooking. He likes butter with his bread and hot milk with his coffee. He cannot smoke the cigars which my husband bought for him, and they cost three soldi apiece. And this morning—” her voice rose shrilly as she approached the climax—“he called for a bath. It is true, signorina, a bath. Dio mio, he wished me to carry the entire village fountain to his room!”

“Not really?” Constance opened her eyes in shocked surprise. “But surely, signora, you did not do it?”

The woman blinked.

“It would be impossible, signorina,” she contented herself with saying.

Constance, with grave concern, translated the sum of Tony’s enormities to her father; and turned back to the jailoress apologetically.

“My father is very much grieved that the man should have caused you so much trouble. But he says, that if we could see him, we could persuade him to be more reasonable. We talk his language, and can make him understand.”

The woman winked meaningly.

“Eh—he pretends he cannot talk Italian, but he understands enough to ask for what he wishes. I think—and the Signor-Lieutenant who ordered his arrest thinks—that he is shamming.”

“It was a lieutenant who ordered his arrest? Do you remember his name—was it Carlo di Ferara?”

“It might have been.” Her face was vague.

“Of the cavalry?”

“Si, signorina, of the cavalry—and very handsome.”

Constance laughed. “Well, the plot thickens! Dad, you must come to Tony’s hearing this afternoon, and put it tactfully to our friend the lieutenant that we don’t like to have our donkey-man snatched away without our permission.” She turned back to the jailoress. “And now, where is the man? We should like to speak with him.”

“It is against the orders, but perhaps—I have already permitted the head waiter from the Hotel du Lac to carry him newspapers and cigarettes. He says that the man Antonio is in reality an American nobleman from New York who merely plays at being a donkey-driver for diversion, and that unless he is set at liberty immediately a ship will come with cannon, but—we all know Gustavo, signorina.”

Constance nodded and laughed.

“You have reason! We all know Gustavo—may we go right up?”

The jailoress called the jailor. They talked aside; the two-franc piece was produced as evidence. The jailor with a great show of caution got out a bunch of keys and motioned them to follow. Up two flights and down a long corridor with peeling frescoes on the walls—nymphs and cupids and garlands of roses; most incongruous decorations for a jail—at last they paused before a heavy oak door. Their guide tried two wrong keys, swore softly as each failed to turn, and finally with an exclamation of triumph produced the right one. He swung the door wide and stepped back with a bow.

A large room was revealed, brick-floored and somewhat scanty as to furniture, but with a view—an admirable view, if one did not mind its being checked off into iron squares. The most conspicuous object in the room, however, was its occupant, as he sat, in an essentially American attitude, with his chair tipped back and his feet on the table. A cloud of tobacco smoke and a wide spread copy of a New York paper concealed him from too impertinent gaze. He did not raise his head at the sound of the opening door but contented himself with growling:

“Confound your impudence! You might at least knock before you come in.”

Constance laughed and advanced a hesitating step across the threshold. Tony dropped his paper and sprang to his feet, his face assuming a shade of pink only less vivid than the oleanders. She shook her head sorrowfully.

“I don’t need to tell you, Tony, how shocked we are to find you in such a place. Our trust has been rudely shaken; we had not supposed we were harboring a deserter.”

Mr. Wilder stepped forward and held out his hand; there was a twinkle in his eye which he struggled manfully to suppress.

“Nonsense, Tony, we don’t believe a word of it. You a deserter from the Italian army? It’s preposterous! Where are your naturalization papers?”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilder, but I don’t happen to have my papers with me—I trust it won’t be necessary to produce them. You see—” his glance rested entirely on Mr. Wilder; he studiously overlooked Constance’s presence—“this Angelo Fresi, the fellow they are after, got into a quarrel over a gambling debt and struck a superior officer. To avoid being court-martialed he lit out; it happened a month ago in Milan and they’ve been looking for him ever since. Now last night I had the misfortune to tip Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara over into a ditch. The matter was entirely accidental and I regretted it very much. I, of course, apologized. But what did the lieutenant do but take it into his head that I, being an assaulter of superior officers, was, by a priori reasoning, this Angelo Fresi in disguise. Accordingly—” he waved his hand around the room—“you see me here.”

“It’s an imposition! Depriving an American citizen of his liberty on any such trumped-up charge as that! I’ll telegraph the consul in Milan. I’ll—”

“Oh, don’t trouble. I’ll get off this afternoon; they’ve sent for someone to identify me, and if he doesn’t succeed, I don’t see how they can hold me. In the meantime, I’m comfortable enough.”

Mr. Wilder’s eye wandered about the room. “H’m, it isn’t bad for a jail! Got everything you need—tobacco, papers? What’s this, New York Sun only ten days old?” He picked it up and plunged into the headlines.

Constance turned from the window and glanced casually at Tony.

“You didn’t go to Austria after all?”

“I was detained; I hope to get off tomorrow.”

“Oh, before I forget it.” She removed the basket from her arm and set it on the table. “Here is some lemon jelly, Tony. I couldn’t remember whether one takes lemon jelly to prisoners or invalids—I’ve never known any prisoners before, you see. But anyway, I hope you’ll like it; Elizabetta made it.”

He bowed stiffly. “I beg of you to convey my thanks to Elizabetta.”

“Tony!” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and glanced apprehensively over her shoulder to see if the jailor were listening. “If by any chance they should identify you as that deserter, just get word to me and I will have Elizabetta bake you a veal pasty with a rope ladder and a file inside. I would have had her bake it this morning, only Wednesday is ironing-day at the villa, and she was so awfully busy—”

“This is your innings,” Tony rejoined somewhat sulkily. “I hope you’ll get all the entertainment you can out of the situation.”

“Thank you, Tony, that’s kind. Of course,” she added with a plaintive note in her voice, “this must be tiresome for you; but it is a pleasant surprise for me. I was feeling very sad last night, Tony, at the thought that you were going to Austria and that I should never, never see you any more.”

“I wish I knew whether there’s any truth in that statement or not!”

“Any truth! I realize well, that I might search the whole world over and never find another donkey-man who sings such beautiful tenor, who wears such lovely sashes and such becoming earrings. Why, Tony—” she took a step nearer and her face assumed a look of consternation. “You’ve lost your earrings!”

He turned his back and walked to the window where he stood moodily staring at the market. Constance watched his squared shoulders dubiously out of the corner of her eye; then she glanced momentarily into the hall where the jailor was visible, his face flattened against the bars of an open window; and from him to her father, still deep in the columns of his paper, oblivious to both time and place. She crossed to Tony and stood at his side peering down at the scene below.

“I don’t suppose it will interest you,” she said in an off-hand tone, her eyes still intent on the crowd, “but I got a letter this morning from a young man who is stopping at the Sole d’ Oro in Riva—a very rude letter I thought.”

He whirled about.

“You know!”

“It struck me that the person who wrote it was in a temper and might afterwards be sorry for having hurt my feelings, and so”—she raised her eyes momentarily to his—“the invitation is still open.”

“Tell me,” there was both entreaty and command in his tone, “did you know the truth before you wrote that letter?”

“You mean, did I know whom I was inviting? Assuredly! Do you think it would have been dignified to write such an informal invitation to a person I did not know?”

She turned away quickly and laid her hand on her father’s shoulder.

“Come, Dad, don’t you think we ought to be going? Poor Tony wants to read the paper himself.”

Mr. Wilder came back to the jail and his companions with a start.

“Oh, eh, yes, I think perhaps we ought. If they don’t let you out this afternoon, Tony, I’ll make matters lively for ’em, and if there’s anything you need send word by Gustavo—I’ll be back later.” He fished in his pockets and brought up a handful of cigars. “Here’s something better than lemon jelly, and they’re not from the tobacco shop in Valedolmo either.”

He dropped them on the table and turned toward the door; Constance followed with a backward glance.

“Good-bye, Tony; don’t despair. Remember that it’s always darkest before the dawn, and that whatever others think, Costantina and I believe in you. We know that you are incapable of telling anything but the truth!” She had almost reached the door when she became aware of the flowers in her hand; she hurried back. “Oh, I forgot! Costantina sent these with her—with—” She faltered; her audacity did not go quite that far.

Tony reached for them. “With what?” he insisted.

She laughed; and a second later the door closed behind her. He stood staring at the door till he heard the key turn in the lock, then he looked down at the flowers in his hand. A note was tied to the stems; his fingers trembled as he worked with the knot.

“Caro Antonio mio,” it commenced; he could read that. “La sua Costantina,” it ended; he could read that. But between the two was an elusive, tantalizing hiatus. He studied it and put it in his pocket and took it out and studied it again. He was still puzzling over it half an hour later when Gustavo came to inquire if the signore had need of anything.

Had he need of anything! He sent Gustavo flying to the stationer’s in search of an Italian-English dictionary.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon and all the world—except Constance—was taking a siesta. The Farfalla, anchored at the foot of the water steps in a blaze of sunshine, was dipping up and down in drowsy harmony with the lapping waves; she was for the moment abandoned, Giuseppe being engaged with a nap in the shade of the cypress trees at the end of the drive. He was so very engaged that he did not hear the sound of an approaching carriage, until the horse was pulled to a sudden halt to avoid stepping on him. Giuseppe staggered sleepily to his feet and rubbed his eyes. He saw a gentleman descend, a gentleman clothed as for a wedding, in a frock coat and a white waistcoat, in shining hat and pearl gray gloves and a boutonniÈre of oleander. Having paid the driver and dismissed the carriage, the gentleman fumbled in his pocket for his card-case. Giuseppe hurrying forward with a polite bow, stopped suddenly and blinked. He fancied that he must still be dreaming; he rubbed his eyes and stared again, but he found the second inspection more confounding than the first. The gentleman looked back imperturbably, no slightest shade of recognition in his glance, unless a gleam of amusement far, far down in the depths of his eye might be termed recognition. He extracted a card with grave deliberation and handed it to his companion.

“Voglio vedere la Signorina Costantina,” he remarked.

The tone, the foreign accent, were both reminiscent of many a friendly though halting conversation. Giuseppe stared again, appealingly, but the gentleman did not help him out; on the contrary he repeated his request in a slightly sharpened tone.

“Si, signore,” Giuseppe stammered. “Prego di verire. La signorina È nel giardino.”

He started ahead toward the garden, looking behind at every third step to make sure that the gentleman was still following, that he was not merely a figment of his own sleepy senses. Their direction was straight toward the parapet where, on a historic wash-day, the signorina had sat beside a row of dangling stockings. She was sitting there now, dressed in white, the oleander tree above her head enveloping her in a glowing and fragrant shade. So occupied was she with a dreamy contemplation of the mountains across the lake that she did not hear footsteps until Giuseppe paused before her and presented the card. She glanced from this to the visitor and extended a friendly hand.

“Mr. Hilliard! Good afternoon.”

There was nothing of surprise in her greeting; evidently she did not find the visit extraordinary. Giuseppe stared, his mouth and eyes at their widest, until the signorina dismissed him; then he turned and walked back—staggered back almost—never before, not even late at night on Corpus Domini day, had he had such overwhelming reason to doubt his senses.

Constance turned to the visitor and swept him with an appreciative glance, her eye lingering a second on the oleander in his buttonhole.

“Perhaps you can tell me, is Tony out of jail? I am so anxious to know.”

He shook his head.

“Found guilty and sentenced for life; you’ll never see him again.”

“Ah; poor Tony! I shall miss him.”

“I shall miss him too; we’ve had very good times together.”

Constance suddenly became aware that her guest was still standing; she moved along and made place on the wall. “Won’t you sit down? Oh, excuse me,” she added with an anxious glance at his clothes, “I’m afraid you’ll get dusty; it would be better to bring a chair.” She nodded toward the terrace.

He sat down beside her.

“I am only too honored; the last time I came you did not invite me to sit on the wall.”

“I am sorry if I appeared inhospitable, but you came so unexpectedly, Mr. Hilliard.”

“Why ‘Mr. Hilliard’? When you wrote you called me ‘dear Jerry’.”

“That was a slip of the pen; I hope you will excuse it.”

“When I wrote I called you ‘Miss Wilder’; that was a slip of the pen too. What I meant to say was ‘dear Constance’.”

She let this pass without comment.

“I have an apology to make.”

“Yes?”

“Once, a long time ago, I insulted you; I called you a kid. I take it back; I swallow the word. You were never a kid.”

“Oh,” she dimpled, and then, “I don’t believe you remember a thing about it!”

“Connie Wilder, a little girl in a blue sailor suit, and two nice fat braids of yellow hair dangling down her back with red bows on the ends—very convenient for pulling.”

“You are making that up. You don’t remember.”

“Ah, but I do! And as for the racket you were making that afternoon, it was, if you will permit the expression, infernal. I remember it distinctly; I was trying to cram for a math. exam.”

“It wasn’t I. It was your bad little sisters and brothers and cousins.”

“It was you, dear Constance. I saw you with my own eyes; I heard you with my own ears.”

“Bobbie Hilliard was pulling my hair.”

“I apologize on his behalf, and with that we will close the incident. There is something much more important which I wish to talk about.”

“Have you seen Nannie?” She offered this hastily not to allow a pause.

“Yes, dear Constance, I have seen Nannie.”

“Call me ‘Miss Wilder’ please.”

“I’ll be hanged if I will! You’ve been calling me Tony and Jerry and anything else you chose ever since you knew me—and long before for the matter of that.”

Constance waived the point.

“Was she glad to see you?”

“She’s always glad to see me.”

“Oh, don’t be so provoking! Give me the particulars. Was she surprised? How did you explain the telegrams and letters and Gustavo’s stories? I should think the Hotel Sole d’Oro at Riva and the walking trip with the Englishman must have been difficult.”

“Not in the least; I told the truth.”

“The truth! Not all of it?”

“Every word.”

“How could you?” There was reproach in her accent.

“It did come hard; I’m a little out of practice.”

“Did you tell her about—about me?”

“I had to, Constance. When it came to the necessity of squaring all of Gustavo’s yarns, my imagination gave out. Anyway, I had to tell her out of self-defence; she was so superior. She said it was just like a man to muddle everything up. Here I’d been ten days in the same town with the most charming girl in the world, and hadn’t so much as discovered her name; whereas if she had been managing it—You see how it was; I had to let her know that I was quite capable of taking care of myself without any interference from her. I even—anticipated a trifle.”

“How?”

“She said she was engaged. I told her I was too.”

“Indeed!” Constance’s tone was remote. “To whom?”

“The most charming girl in the world.”

“May I ask her name?”

He laid his hand on his heart in a gesture reminiscent of Tony. “Costantina.”

“Oh! I congratulate you.”

“Thank you—I hoped you would.”

She looked away, gravely, toward the Maggiore rising from the midst of its clouds. His gaze followed hers, and for three minutes there was silence. Then he leaned toward her.

“Constance, will you marry me?”

“No!”

A pause of four minutes during which Constance stared steadily at the mountain. At the end of that time her curiosity overcame her dignity; she glanced at him sidewise. He was watching her with a smile, partly of amusement, partly of something else.

“Dear Constance, haven’t you had enough of play, are you never going to grow up? You are such a kid!”

She turned back to the mountain.

“I haven’t known you long enough,” she threw over her shoulder.

“Six years!”

“One week and two days.”

“Through three incarnations.”

She laughed a delicious rippling laugh of surrender, and slipped her hand into his.

“You don’t deserve it, Jerry, after the fib you told your sister, but I think—on the whole—I will.”

Neither noticed that Mr. Wilder had stepped out from the house and was strolling down the cypress alley in their direction. He rounded the corner in front of the parapet, and as his eye fell upon them, came to a startled halt. The young man failed to let go of her hand, and Constance glanced at her father with an apprehensive blush.

“Here’s—Tony, Dad. He’s out of jail.”

“I see he is.”

She slipped down from the wall and brought Jerry with her.

“We’d like your parental blessing, please. I’m going to marry him, but don’t look so worried. He isn’t really a donkey-man nor a Magyar nor an orphan nor an organ-grinder nor—any of the things he has said he was. He is just a plain American man and an awful liar!”

The young man held out his hand and Mr. Wilder shook it.

“Jerry,” he said, “I don’t need to tell you how pleased—”

“‘Jerry!’” echoed Constance. “Father, you knew?”

“Long before you did, my dear.” There was a suggestion of triumph in Mr. Wilder’s tone.

“Jerry, you told.” There was reproach, scorn, indignation in hers.

Jerry spread out his hands in a gesture of repudiation.

“What could I do? He asked my name the day we climbed Monte Maggiore; naturally, I couldn’t tell him a lie.”

“Then we haven’t fooled anybody. How unromantic!”

“Oh, yes,” said Jerry, “we’ve fooled lots of people. Gustavo doesn’t understand, and Giuseppe, you noticed, looked rather dazed. Then there’s Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara—”

“Oh!” said Constance, her face suddenly blank.

“You can explain to him now,” said her father, peering through the trees.

A commotion had suddenly arisen on the terrace—the rumble of wheels, the confused mingling of voices. Constance and Jerry looked too. They found the yellow omnibus of the Hotel du Lac, its roof laden with luggage, drawn up at the end of the driveway, and Mrs. Eustace and Nannie on the point of descending. The center of the terrace was already occupied by Lieutenant di Ferara, who, with heels clicked together and white gloved hands at salute, was in the act of achieving a military bow. Miss Hazel fluttering from the door, in one breath welcomed the guests, presented the lieutenant, and ordered Giuseppe to convey the luggage upstairs. Then she glanced questioningly about the terrace.

“I thought Constance and her father were here—Giuseppe!”

Giuseppe dropped his end of a trunk and approached. Miss Hazel handed him the lieutenant’s card. “The signorina and the signore—in the garden, I think.”

Giuseppe advanced upon the garden. Jerry’s face, at the sight, became as blank as Constance’s. The two cast upon each other a glance of guilty terror, and from this looked wildly behind for a means of escape. Their eyes simultaneously lighted on the break in the garden wall. Jerry sprang up and pulled Constance after him. On the top, she gathered her skirts together preparatory to jumping, then turned back for a moment toward her father.

“Dad,” she called in a stage whisper, “you go and meet him like a gentleman. Tell him you are very sorry, but your daughter is not at home today.”

The two conspirators scrambled down on the other side; and Mr. Wilder with a sigh, dutifully stepped forward to greet the guests.