Pontresina

the gardens the palaces the fishermen's huts the calves the people old and young crones children boatmen priests the xylem gardens in their glory of main time made a region of enchantment that even grace's dreams over roger's italy had never equalled the facilities of travel repetition the crowding of tourists may have cheapened these exquisite scenes but to each of us on that first italian journey they offer the same magic filter the same revelation of a loveliness beyond our power of dreaming Then came Bellagio, Cadenabbia, Varena, a leisurely tour of that still lovelier lake, and then, when June began and the days waxed hot, a quiet week at Pramantonio, roaming in chestnut woods, driving up the hill to Soglio, then to the cool breezes of the Engadine.

It was at Pontresina that a telegram came.

One of those fatal messages that are opened so lightly, expectant of some trivial intelligence, and which bring despair.

The Rector, dangerously ill. Pray come home immediately.

That hurried journey through the long June days was a never-to-be-forgotten experience.

Sir Hector planned everything so that not a minute should be lost.

They left Pontresina at two in the morning, and a carriage and four, and halted only to change horses, reached Coeri in time for the express, and halted no more until they were at Victoria.

Then across London to Liverpool Street, then to the great quiet of the Suffolk Rectory, and the second evening of their journey.