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"No, no!" Montanelli interposed. "I can't
have you catching cold. Run and change your wet
things. Come to me, Annette. Where did you
pick her up?"
"At the top of the village. She belongs to the
man we saw yesterday--the man that cobbles the
commune's boots. Hasn't she lovely eyes? She's
got a tortoise in her pocket, and she calls it
'Caroline.'"
When Arthur had changed his wet socks and
came down to breakfast he found the child seated
on the Padre's knee, chattering volubly to him
about her tortoise, which she was holding upside
down in a chubby hand, that "monsieur" might
admire the wriggling legs.
"Look, monsieur!" she was saying gravely in
her half-intelligible patois: "Look at Caroline's
boots!"
Montanelli sat playing with the child, stroking
her hair, admiring her darling tortoise, and telling
her wonderful stories. The woman of the
chalet, coming in to clear the table, stared in
amazement at the sight of Annette turning out
the pockets of the grave gentleman in clerical
dress.


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