the _Conte's_ old servant appeared with the rose-cutting neatly
wrapped up, and the compliments and wishes for a _buon viaggio_
from her master. The town collected to see them depart, and the
children ran after their carriage through the gate of the little
city. They heard a rush of feet behind them for a few moments,
but soon they were far down toward the valley; the little town
with all its noise and life was high above them on its mountain
peak.

She had planted the rose at home, where it had grown and
flourished in a wonderful manner, and every June the great mass
of leaves and shoots still broke out into a passionate splendour
of scent and scarlet colour, as if in its root and fibres there
still burnt the anger and thwarted desire of that Italian lover.
Of course the old _Conte_ must have died many years ago; she had
forgotten his name, and had even forgotten the name of the
mountain city that she had stayed in, after first seeing it
twinkling at dawn in the sky, like a nest of stars.




_The Vicar of Lynch_


When I heard through country gossip of the strange happening at
Lynch which had caused so great a scandal, and led to the
disappearance of the deaf old Vicar of that remote village, I
collected all the reports I could about it, for I felt that at
the centre of this uncomprehending talk and wild anecdote there