After a dozen yards the carriage
stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind.
"Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty."
A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was
part of the idiot's malady only to receive what was just for
his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece.
"Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the
road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life
had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena
gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there
was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana
men. But they had seen no English lady pass.
"What am I to do?" he cried; "it is not like the lady to
be late. We shall miss the train."
"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall
call her by name as we go."
So they started down into the night, Philip calling
"Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting
for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag.
"Harriet, why don't you answer?"
"I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not
till then did he see that she carried a bundle.
"What's that?"
"Hush--"
"Whatever is that?"
"Hush--sleeping."
Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had
failed. It was the baby.
She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was
asleep, and she put up an umbrella to shield it and her from
the rain. He should hear all later, so he had to conjecture
the course of the wonderful interview--an interview between
the South pole and the North.
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