picking tiny, pink-tipped daisies and blue succory blossoms
growing in the moist green grass. From high on a distant
hillside, among his nibbling sheep, the shepherd
watched.

Giacomo presently stopped talking and fed the invalid the soup
and part of the wine he had brought. He knew too much, as a wise
Italian, to give a sick man bread and beef. Then he made
promises of blankets, and of more soup to-morrow, tucked the
invalid up again, and prepared to go home. On the way down the
hill he was explosive in his excitement; surely the Signorina
must understand such vehement words.

"The sheep are Count Gianelli's sheep," he shouted. "I knew the
sheep before, and there isn't a finer flock on the hills. This
man is from Ortalo, a day's journey. The Signorina understands?"

She smiled, the reassuring smile that covers ignorance. Then she
came nearer, and bent her tall head to listen.

"His name is Antoli," said Giacomo, speaking more distinctly.
"Four days ago he fell ill with fever and with chills. He lay on
the ground among the sheep, for he had only his blanket that the
shepherds use at night. The sheep nibbled close to him, and
touched his face with their tongues, and bit off hairs from his
head as they cropped the grass, but they did not care. Sheep
never do! Ah, how a dog cares! The Signorina wishes to hear the
rest?"

Daphne nodded eagerly, for she had actually understood several