into white, go to him; he can do it for you. Or an old hen that cackles and won't lay, go to him; she will cackle less, and lay you six eggs a day. He is, of all, the greatest."
"Ah," said a neighbour, "and what do you know of his lady wife?"
"What all of you should know, but cannot see, though it stares you in the face."
"Let us have it, Fritz."
"She is too fair. Christine," to a stout young woman close to him, "give thanks to the Virgin to-night that you were sent into the world with a cast in your eye, and that your legs grow thicker and crookeder every day. You will never drive a man out of his senses with your beauty."
Fritz was compelled to beat a swift retreat, for Christine's arms were as thick as her legs, and they were raised to smite. Up the lane flew the fool, and Christine after him, amid the laughter of the villagers.
CHAPTER VI
MISTRESS AND MAID
In the meantime the Advocate and his wife strolled through the grounds. Although it was evident that much labour had been bestowed upon them, there were signs of decay here and there which showed the need of a master mind; but as these traces were only to be met with at some distance from the villa itself, it was clear that they would not interfere with the comfort of the new arrivals. The house lay low, and the immediate grounds surrounding it were in good condition. There were orchards stocked with fruit-trees, and gardens bright with flowers. At a short distance from the house was an old châlet which had been built with great taste; it was newly painted, and much care had been bestowed upon a covered pathway which led to it from a side entrance to the House of White Shadows. The principal room in this châlet was a large studio, the walls of which were black. On the left wall--in letters which once were white, but which had grown yellow with age--was inscribed the legend, "The Grave of Honour."
"How singular!" exclaimed the Advocate's wife. "'The Grave of Honour!' What can be the meaning of it?"
But Mother Denise did not volunteer an explanation.
Near the end of the studio was an alcove, the space beyond being screened by a dead crimson curtain. Holding back the curtain, a large number of pictures were seen piled against the walls.
"Family pictures?" asked the Advocate's wife, of Mother Denise.
"No, my lady," was the reply; "they were painted by an artist, who resided and worked here for a year or so in the lifetime of the old master."
By the desire of the lady the housekeeper brought a few of the pictures into the light. One represented a pleasure party of ladies and gentlemen dallying in summer woods; another, a lady lying in a hammock and reaching out her arm to pluck some roses; two were companion pictures, the first subject being two persons who might have been lovers, standing among strewn flowers in the sunshine--the second subject showing the same figures in a different aspect; a cold grey sea divided them, on the near shore of which the man stood in an attitude of despair gazing across the waters to the opposite shore, on which stood the woman with a pale, grief-stricken face.
"The sentiment is strained," observed the Advocate, "but the artist had talent."
"A story could be woven out of them," said his wife; "I feel as if they were connected with the house."
Upon leaving the châlet they continued their tour through the grounds. Already the Advocate felt the beneficial effects of a healthy change. His eyes were clearer, his back straighter, he moved with a brisker step. Mother Denise walked in front, pointing out this and that, Martin hobbled behind, and Dionetta, encouraged thereto, walked by her new mistress's side.
"Dionetta," said the Advocate's wife, "do you know that you have the prettiest name in the world?"
"Have I, my lady? I have never thought of it, but it is, if you say so."
"But perhaps," said the Advocate's wife, with a glance at the girl's bright face, "a man would not think of your name when he looked at you."
"I am sure I cannot say, my lady; he would not think of me at all."
"You little simpleton! I wish I had such a name; they ought to wait till we grow up, so that we might choose our own names. I should not have chosen Adelaide for myself."
"Is that your name, my lady?"
"Yes--they could not have given me an uglier."
"Nay," said Dionetta, raising her eyes in mute appeal for forgiveness for the contradiction, "it is very sweet."
"Repeat it, then. Adelaide."
"May I, my lady?"
"Of course you may, if I wish you to. Let me hear you speak it."
"Adelaide! Adelaide!" murmured Dionetta softly. The permission was as precious as the gift of a silver chain would have been. "My lady, it is pretty."
"Shall we change?" asked the Advocate's wife gaily.
"Can we?" inquired Dionetta in a solemn tone. "I would not mind if you wish it, and if it is right. I will ask the priest."
"No, do not trouble. Would you really like to change?"
"It would be so strange--and it might be a sin! If we cannot, it is of no use thinking of it."
"There is no sin in thinking of things; if there were, the world would be full of sin, and I--dear me, how much I should have to answer for! I should not like everyone to know my thoughts. What a quiet life you must live here, Dionetta!"
"Yes, my lady, it is quiet."
"Would you not prefer to live in a city?"
"I should be frightened, my lady. I have been only twice to Geneva, and there was no room in the streets to move about. I was glad to get back."
"No room to move about, simplicity! That is the delight of it. There are theatres, and music, and light, and life. You would not be frightened if you were with me?"
"Oh, no, my lady; that would be happiness."
"Are you not happy here?"
"Oh, yes, very happy."
"But you wish for something?"
"No, my lady; I have everything I want."
"Everything--positively everything?"
"Yes, my lady."
"There is one thing you must want, Dionetta, if you have it not already."
"May I know what it is?"
"Yes,
