of a hidden sun the same palace burned with opaline fire. It might have been the night piece, when there was nothing to hear in the silence but the rush of the Devil’s Current and when, out of the vague shadow beyond, a faint carcanet of lights glimmered—like gold beads in the dusk. To him it was all wonderful.
There did come a day, however, when something was more wonderful than anything else. I have spoken of a lane that skirted the retaining wall of the garden. There street venders would pass on their way from one village to another, prodding their donkies through the sun and crying picturesque cries. Or sheep would tumble by, punting between a small boy and a large dog. Or sometimes people of more leisurely sort would stroll past and would raise their eves upon the hanging masonry to where the white old man sat in his arbor above the world. And he would smile at them, so that the blackest of them could not help smiling back. At best, though, it was no better than a deserted by-way. So that when one morning at the end of the summer a child capered up in her white dress and white bonnet, followed by a somewhat breathless nurse, it was something new to look at and smile at. And even before the old man’s train of association could rise to consciousness she piped:
“Why, Grandfather Cyril! Grandfather Cyril! When did you come?”
The old man gave a start.
“The little Pipina!” he cried. “Come!”
“You come!” she shrilled. “You come! The wall is too high! Jump!”
She stood on tiptoe below him, with her little arms in the air.
The old man rose as if he intended to do what the child said. Then, after standing at the edge of the parapet, looking down, he walked back and forth in his trouble.
“The little Pipina! The little Pipina!” he kept repeating.
Just then Anastass appeared on the walk leading from the house.
“Have you lost something, father?” he asked. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” said the old man. “The little Pipina!” And he pointed down to the lane.
“Come! Come!” screamed the child below the wall, in her eagerness.
Hearing her, Anastass remained where he stood.
“Who is that?” he inquired, with more of sharpness than he had ever shown before.
“The little Pipina,” answered the old man. “She calls.”
“Ah!” And Anastass remembered the island. Then he said firmly: “Come into the house, please, father.”
“But—the little Pipina!” faltered the old man.
“Yes, I know,” smiled Anastass. “Come!”
The old man turned and waved his hand.
“I am coming!” he said. “Wait, little Pipina!”
But the little Pipina waited in vain. At last the nurse had to carry her away, crying.
V
That night there came at the door a great ring which raised slow-dying echoes in the sleeping house. Anastass sent back to bed the cowering servant who fumbled at an upper casement, and went down himself. Apparently, however, he was not without expectation of some such visit. For to the man whom he let in he uttered merely:
“Well?”
“He is dead at last!” announced the other. “I saw him myself an hour ago, lying high among his vestments and candles, like a rag on a rose-bush.”
“It was time!” commented Anastass. “When will they bury him?”
“To-morrow,” replied Yorghi. “It is summer, you know.”
“Then the appointment will be soon,” said Anastass. “I began to think we had picked a plum for a peach. If this old”
A look from Yorghi made him turn around. There in a doorway stood the old man, white and strange in his disordered array. He stared confusedly, blinking a little at the candle held by Anastass.
“What are you doing here?” demanded that personage with considerable sternness.
“I heard the bell—I don’t sleep, you know—I am old—I have seen many things. They come and go before my eyes—so.” He waved his hand before his face. “I heard the bell—I thought the little Pipina”
Anastass met this silently. Then he went to the old man, took his hand, knelt, and said slowly, looking up into the faded eves:
“No. It is not the little Pipina. It is