Under the Big Dipper
Date: 2019-05-06T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Princesses -- Fiction; Balkan Peninsula -- Fiction; Diplomats -- Fiction

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Title: Under the Big Dipper

Author: Desiderius George Dery

Release date: May 6, 2019 [eBook #59446]

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by David E. Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDER THE BIG DIPPER ***

E-text prepared by David E. Brown
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive
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UNDER THE BIG DIPPER

HELÈNE

UNDER
THE BIG DIPPER

BY
D. GEORGE DERY

BRENTANO’S   ::   ::   ::   NEW YORK
MCMXVI

Copyright, 1916, By D. George Dery

TO HER

TO WHOSE GRACIOUS FORBEARANCE
AND NEVER FALTERING FAITH THE
EXISTENCE OF THIS BOOK IS DUE,
I HEREWITH DEDICATE THIS, MY
FIRST LITERARY EFFORT

TO MY DEAR WIFE

March nineteenth, 1916

UNDER THE BIG DIPPER

UNDER THE BIG DIPPER

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

INDIA the wonderful—India the home of Buddha and the land of mystery and misery. The country of glorious traditions and unsatisfied desires! What ambitions have not been dreamed, what visions not conjured in your cause! Assyrian and Greek, Mongol and Parsee, Portuguese rover, Dutch trader, Russian diplomat and English merchant prince—all have sought thee and thy wealth, all have fought and striven, chicaned and murdered, sneaked and schemed—for thy gold and dominion over thy people.

And the result? A land teeming with beings abject and low; a land where Paradise might have been nestling amongst the giant hills of the North, now laid waste and desolated of its ancient splendors—a land of dreams, but a land of unfulfilled desires. The country of caste and the grave of unborn ambitions; the country of dirt and superstition; the cradle of plagues and epidemics and famines; the land of the noblest palaces and temples, as well as of the meanest hovels which serve as dwellings for its sad-eyed patient inhabitants.

And over all rises and sets the sun of the tropics, over all shine the moon of Gautama and the stars of Zoroaster. Over all there rest the curses of disease, dirt and ignorance, the ready tools of greed and lust of power, the outcome of lack of coherence and the terrible rule of classes.

This cradle of humanity is still a couch of prodigious productiveness—and to our eternal shame be it confessed—these all-enduring, passive, gazelle-like creatures are really white—white like we are, of the same color as are the gay crowds of Hyde Park, or the Boulevards of Paris, Rome or Vienna, New York or Boston! And older as race and nearer to Eden than any of these. They pray to Brahma and many-armed Shiva, to Buddha and Mohammed, to the sun and fire of Zoroaster—and even to the cobra of the jungle; but forlorn and without hope as they seemingly are, they are still human beings.

Along the dusty highway leading from Madras to Pondisherry, well inland and therefore removed from the life-giving breezes of the Coromandel coast and the Bay of Bengal, under a straggling group of ficus, a native dwelling on low stilts raises its squalid roof above the yellow grime of its surroundings.

From the distant hills resounds the shrill blast of the locomotive; every once in a while the contour of gently rolling land permits a glimpse of a curious looking behatted smokestack, copied after the model of early Pacific days, belching soot and smoke, and pulling noisily amidst groans and creaks their little dingy cars. Along the highway the ungainly telegraph poles with their odd crosspieces copied after the favorite gallows-construction of remote rural England, bear witness to the encroaching hand of western civilization on the land. Even India is now but another source of supply for trade and commerce.

Near this native structure, in the shade of a clump of hybiscus and a few doleful fig trees, some saddle-horses and donkeys are tethered; sprawling in the deep weed-like grass and scrubby undergrowth a number of natives with swathed limbs and streaky, greasy turbans are contemplating with expressionless mien the cloudless sky in which float and soar buzzards and vultures upon seeming motionless wings. At some distance from this group and seated on a well-filled saddle-bag, a European is smoking a cigarette, as if unaware of the proximity of his humbler companions.

The stilted building itself, containing two compartments separated by a narrow hallway, is made accessible from the tangle of weeds and caked mud by a crude ladder-like few steps of filth-covered boards.

Even the bounty of the tropics and wealth of vegetation in this favored clime have not succeeded in hiding the unattractive nakedness of the mean dwelling. Straggling, unkempt brush and creepers but emphasize the wild condition of its near surroundings. Rough weathered beams, decaying boards, cracked dirty bamboo and sunbaked grayish clay afford the only protection against burning sun, heating wind and drifting rain.

In the larger of the two compartments, which hardly justify the appellation of rooms, two men are seated upon a low, rough-hewn bench. In the middle of the space an irregular heap of straw, covered with a torn and unclean sheet of unbleached muslin, serves as a couch upon which a man is lying prostrate—pale and evidently very ill.

One of the two seated men, a dark-skinned, bright-eyed native, heavily bearded and dressed in garments denoting a position of high standing, rises from the bench to kneel before the prostrate form. He holds the unresisting wrist in his capable brown hand and feels carefully with long prehensile fingers the pulse of the invalid.

The eyes of the sick man are covered by silky lashes; the features are calm and resigned; the nostrils expand and contract while the native physician, machine-like, listens and counts. Then the hand he holds is laid gently down on the coverlet and slowly rising he beckons to the other figure in the room to follow as he moves towards the door.

This other figure, until now silent and rigid in its vigil on the bench, sends a look of deep concern and pity upon the recumbent young man, and follows his companion into the adjoining space, where both retire to the wall farthest removed from the sick youth.

“There is no hope for your young friend, my lord. The ague has weakened his frame, the drug and excess have sapped his strength. He will die before the setting of the sun. I shall give him a draught that will ease his pain and hold the spirit to the last. Help I cannot; he is beyond the power of man.”

His companion, a tall, lean man of fine features, and even in his begrimed linens and dusty pith helmet a man of importance, gave the speaker a searching look and then bowed his head in evident grief.

“Doctor Saklava, I know you to be a physician of great judgment and equal skill. The governor vouches for you and I am more than grateful to have had your aid so promptly. If you say there is no hope, I must cease to indulge in any. But oh—if only something could be done!” Then in a calmer voice he continued: “The boy is young, his constitution strong, and after all youth clings to life! Is there truly no hope? It means so much to me!” The Parsee remained motionless and silent. The other went on:

“When I asked the governor for help he dispatched his chief surgeon at the same time he sent for you; Major Murdock might arrive at any moment. Will you not await him, pray, while I go in to the boy? How soon do you think will he awaken to consciousness?”

“In less than half an hour, my lord. And I think his mind will be clearer; indeed he may be perfectly rational. But his heart is very weak and his vitality low. The next attack of fever, which I beg to assure you cannot be prevented, will be his last, I fear. His temperature is now as high as any man can bear and live; his pulse is galloping and his lungs are under the maximum tension. I shall join your man in the grove and will await Major Murdock’s arrival. I presume he will bring a nurse and a cot?”

“The governor had arranged with the hospital at Mahabalibar. Would we could have found the boy a day sooner!”

“My lord, the seed of death is in man when the seed of life is planted. Any time during the past week your friend’s chances would have been no better. This district of ours is not the place for passionate youth from foreign lands, nor is it the country where indulgence can be committed with impunity. Our sun is cruel, our climate is deadly. He who cares not for his life here—is lost. Grieve not, my lord; fate has overtaken your young friend, but he will pass out free from pain and unconscious of the end that is inevitable. Until later, my lord.”

While the deeply salaaming physician retired, his tall companion returned with careful, noiseless step to the sick-room and seated himself facing the sufferer.

His elbows on his knees and his face buried in his palms, he contemplated the white and almost lifeless features of the dying youth. The regular, finely moulded face was fair like a woman’s, the proud, bold nose, high faultless brow and beautiful, wavy, chestnut hair, arched lips and delicate chin betokened a distinguished and even noble ancestry. Two spots of crimson showed on the cheeks, almost the only signs of life, and imparted an appearance of extreme youthfulness and innocence; the lips were red and bright, the closed eyelids clear and smooth. Must the boy die?

This silent musing brought a flood of memories to the motionless watcher. His eyes grew clouded, tears gathered in them. The boy slept on insensible to the bitter grief he was causing, unconscious of everything, peaceful and still.

A shadow fell across the doorway. Brushing his eyes the man rose quickly and cautiously passed out to greet the new arrival. It was Major Murdock, the surgeon, a severe-looking, stout man in undress uniform. A few whispered words, a handshake and the two physicians followed the tall man into the sick-room.

Dr. Murdock examined the sleeper’s face carefully, thoroughly investigated chest, heart-beat, pulse and temperature. His examination over he, in a low voice, requested the others to join him in the primitive porch.

“Your Excellency, I can but confirm the diagnosis and prediction of Dr. Saklava; your friend cannot be saved. He lives but under the influence of the narcotic that the doctor gave him, the only drug we know which will hold life until the next fit of this awful fever consumes it finally. Dr. Saklava has more experience in enteric fevers than anyone in this province; he is both competent and skillful in the knowledge and treatment of all native diseases. You could not have had a better physician. Your friend will pass away with the next attack. He will regain consciousness and there can be no harm in speaking to him. But after his fever returns he will be delirious—and in his weakened state neither drug nor cold bath nor nurse can avail. Do you wish me to watch with you beside your young friend, Count Rondell?”

“No, Major, I think I will remain alone with him and save him the shock of seeing too many strange faces upon his awakening. He doesn’t know of my presence, if you remember. Will you gentlemen kindly remain within hearing?”

“Certainly, my lord; when you want us, pray call.”

The Parsee doctor deposited a cup and bottle upon the bench, and after giving some whispered instructions to the man who had been addressed as “Count,” he followed the surgeon out of the dwelling. The tall man resumed his post of observation.

The oppressive quiet of the chamber was broken after a long interval by a sigh followed by the sound of a slight cough. Count Rondell leaned forward eagerly. The invalid had moved, an arm had been thrown up and the hand was feeling for the throat. Gradually the eyes opened and the sick man gazed stupidly upward at the dingy mud-plastered bamboo lace work of the ceiling, and then slowly and almost devoid of intelligence swept the foreground and rested curiously upon the watcher. Count Rondell half rose as he intently observed the change, and wondered vaguely whether he should speak or await the actions of the sufferer.

The void expression of the eyes, now free of fever, slowly yielded to one of recognition and then of shame. A heightened color mantled the brow of the sick youth and an elusive twitch upon the poor lips as they spoke: “How are you, Count? So you have caught me at last?”

The old man flushed, sank to his knee and with both arms extended, leaned over the invalid.

“God greet you, Your Highness! I am more than happy to have found you!”

His voice broke and he grasped the nerveless hands of the youth before him with deep emotion, whispering huskily, “My Prince—my boy!”

Tears gathered into the now softened eyes of the sick youth. The deep feeling shown by the man kneeling at his pallet touched him keenly.

“Do not grieve, dear Count! I am not worth it. Why should you weep for me? Why should you still extend your love and care for one so useless as I?”

“My Prince, I beseech you, do not speak thus of yourself! Let us forget what has passed and look forward to what is to come. I am glad to have found you, so glad to be with you. Now, all will be, must be, well!”

“No—no, my dearest friend and guardian. No—there is nothing to look forward to. I feel that the end has come. I know I shall never again see my loved ones, my land, my king. I knew it when they brought me here. Ill as I was, I was not unconscious. How long have I been lying here? Raise my head so that I may look at you well—and, pray, be seated!”

The Count gently adjusted the head and sat down.

For some moments not a word was spoken, then the young man broke the stillness:

“Dear General, I have given you and all the world a great deal of trouble, have I not? It will be all over and done with soon—pray, don’t grieve, don’t worry. What difference will it make to the world or to our Roumelia if I go and another succeeds to the throne? It could only be a worthier man whoever he may be! Why should you waste a thought on one who has been foolish as I have been? Why waste time on the dreamy fool who bartered a throne, the love and respect of a people, your friendship, Count, for the smiles of a false woman, a wanton? Have I not shown myself a coward? A man who after his first failure turned tail and ran off like a sulking boy? A good riddance I call it! Better to know the truth now than burden a hopeful land with so worthless a ruler. Do not weep; truly, I am not worth it!”

Count Rondell, his cheeks wet with the tears that were freely coursing down his now deathly pale face, extended his hands imploringly. With a great effort he recovered his calmness, and vehemently exclaimed, “I beg of you, my Prince, do not let us harp on actions which must have been beyond your control. Let us rather speak of your welfare and your health. May I ask you to look at it in this light, your Highness?”

“Very well, my good teacher; let it be as you will. What do you wish me to say or tell?”

“Your Highness, I trust and confidently believe we shall get you well and out of this deadly place very soon. But you may shortly relapse into a fever and with it into unconsciousness. I beg of your Highness to state now what you wish to have attended to. I ask for your commands! But first take this draught the physician has left for you.”

Indifferently at first, but after a sip or two, with grateful expression in his features, the invalid partook of the drink.

“Ah, that is good, General! I was very thirsty without realizing it. Well, there is really not much to tell and surely nothing to command. I am here alone, with no obligations towards anyone. As it possibly may be my last chance, you may want to hear how I came to this place?”

“I beg of your Highness not to tell more than you wish. Of course I shall be glad to know your reasons for choosing this dangerous country”—then once more breaking down, he murmured: “Why did you, my boy, why did you?”

The sick man lightly pressed the older man’s arm, letting his hand rest upon the sleeve. Count Rondell mutely gazed upon the suffering youth, and saw that the boy before him knew the price he was to pay for his folly, knew it all—and it seemed as if he wanted to pay it. Through his mind there flitted thoughts of the futility of man’s plans when God willed otherwise. With this bitter reflection there came the grief of the thought of the death of this young life that had had no chance for fulfillment.

“Count, the woman who made me forget my duty, who caused me to quarrel with you and his Majesty—the woman for whose sake I was willing to give up honor, glory and a throne—she was nothing but a wanton. I shall be brief. Returning one day to our villa in Mentone, rather earlier than usual, I found her with Monsieur Goddard, her late business manager as I thought, in very intimate seclusion. I asked for explanations—she laughed! The man had the best, the only right in the world to be intimate with her—he was her lawful husband—the only man she ever really loved and always had loved. What cared she for a romantic boy—a fool! He was the man who had introduced me to her, who had aided my wooing—and who had conspired with her to gull me! During the months I was whispering words of love and endearment to the woman I was craving to make my wife, she and he were in a conspiracy to ruin me. All they wanted was my money.

“Humiliated and desperate, I grew reckless. How well you knew it, my friend! How you pleaded with me when first this great passion took hold of me! Would I had listened to you and obeyed your wise counsel; but it was too late. The poison of this ignoble passion, which I mistook for the holy fire of love, had entered my heart, had clouded my brain!

“After this discovery—I felt I had broken with everything in life. As I sinned—I became reckless.”

The sick boy sank back, breathing hard and gazed absently into space. His friend rose to soothe his agitation, but was arrested by an imperious motion of the feeble hand.

“Let me conclude, General. After this blow—I chose to show that I cared not for one woman’s treachery—and tried to prove this by publicly making love to other women. And when one morning my valet reported your arrival in the town, I felt that I dared not see you, that I must flee! That day I joined the troupe of ‘Le Ballet Occidental,’ which was to leave for Naples. I joined the company as the admirer of Mademoiselle Genée, and I followed this troupe to Alexandria and Cairo, thence to Bombay and Calcutta—and finally to Madras.

“On the way to the French settlement at Pondisherry I became very ill and they thought it best to take me off the train and put me in charge of the hospital. And the first night I could bear it no longer—they wouldn’t give me morphine to ease my pain—and I ran away—and—here I am. During all these latter weeks I always felt and sometimes knew that you, my dear Count, were near me—but fate was against you, my would-be saviour—against you and with me—the lost one—and so here I am!”

The last words came almost in a whisper. The Count sat still, his forehead damp with cold perspiration. The young man had spoken like a judge pronouncing his own doom!

He could not move, he could not speak. His lips were parched, his mind numb. He gazed at the ashen face of the boy, at the crimson lips of the smiling, bonny face—God, what should he do?

“And now, General, the last stage has been reached,” said the youth recovering his voice. “All there is left to do is for me to ask your forgiveness, the pardon of his Majesty, my uncle, for all the unhappiness caused by me. You have in the vaults of the Credit Lyonnaise at Nice my formal renunciation of all claims to the succession and all family rights. There never was a marriage between Madelain and me—the proofs are with the Austrian Legation at Rome. Madelain was paid and all my dancer and actor friends are settled with. Come, General, be brave, be strong! Forget me—and if you can—forgive me. You in your wisdom will find a way to alter the succession, perhaps my little sister can secure the dynasty. Come, be cheerful, and do not grieve. It is but a worthless life that is about to pass out—I have lived my life—and lost. May God forgive me!”

The hand clutching the arm of the General fell back. The Count, in his agitation, mumbled terms of love and endearment as he eased the sick boy upon the mean couch—but the youth had swooned. Quivering and faint he hastened to the porch and summoned the physicians.

They came quickly, the Parsee first, who bent over the prostrate form. A light touch upon the sick youth’s chest and brow and Doctor Saklava announced the fit of fever had returned. He begged the Count to retire to the adjoining room or outdoors. Nothing could be done; he would watch and render all the help needed.

With the sinking of that day’s sun, in the meager light of a battered lantern, and attended by the doctors and servants, General Rondell knelt by the couch of straw and closed forever the eyes of the boy who was to have been his king—but who had willed it otherwise. The falling darkness found a sad cavalcade slowly riding back to Madras, carrying all that remained of one of the world’s chosen. And the tall, sorrow-stricken man rode on alone behind and found no balm for his broken heart in his thoughts.

CHAPTER II

A NARROW strip of haze above the western horizon obscures the coastline and dims the burning rays of the setting sun. The blood-red ball, just visible above that indefinite line where ocean, sky and land might meet, burnishes the lazy leaden waves of the sea, oily and sluggish as if affected by the oppressive heat. Purples and blues, reds and greens vie with each other in a seeming desire to extinguish the burnt orange which fades but slowly and reluctantly. Everywhere reigns the deep dusky yellow heat, with an utter absence of either sound or motion.

It is as if a thick sheet of glass had been interposed between the observer and the rest of creation, with nothing tangible, nothing real except the one all-prevailing sensation of oppressive heat.

The P. & O. liner gliding through the fiery molten bronze seems as if it were “a painted ship on a painted sea”; its motion barely perceptible, like that of a phantom ship, the wake in its path but a feeble streak in the dull coloring, and the funnels reluctantly and faintly releasing a timid cone of hazy smudge.

Dimly outlined against the Northeast the slowly receding line of grayish ochre marks the mute sentinels of Arabia; to the West a heavy bank of sienna-edged clouds veils the shore of Dana Kill and the African hill desert.

On the aft deck are grouped in nondescript neglect a few men in the uniforms of British East India troops. A stolid, swarthy Sikh and some lean Bengals with their patient, gentle eyes, clad in filthy though picturesque garments, huddle in the shade of dirty awnings. Forward, the solitary figure of the watch drowsily moves with halting nerveless steps in the narrow confines of his little realm. All is pervaded by quiet and repose, a sort of fatalistic waiting for the cooler evening.

A man reclining in a steamer chair on the hurricane deck is the one human being on the upper structure of the vessel. He is a slender sunburnt man past middle age with commanding features and a close-cropped beard flecked with gray. He is well groomed in immaculate white flannels. The half-hidden gray fathomless eyes, created to observe and to remain discreet, the fine mouth closely compressed, the long slender hands idly crossed on his knees, he sits seemingly as if in a dream.

He strikes a close observer as one who could not easily be overlooked in any gathering. His face would remain in the memory—a face of one born to direct the thought and work of others, to lead and command. It shows the marks of the inroads of time and care, the severe pallor of weariness beneath the tan of exposure. His posture betrays the soldier beaten in life’s battle.

A nearby cabin door is opened and a pleasant-faced young man in the uniform of a ship’s officer steps toward the dreamer.

“How do you feel on this hot afternoon, Your Excellency?”

The dreamer turns with a smile and replies, “Very well indeed, but a little lazy. Won’t you sit down a minute, doctor?”

“Thank you, Excellency.” Dr. Brown, the ship’s surgeon, with a little nervous motion and a quiet apology, draws a camp-stool near and seats himself facing the older man.

“I have completed the examination and analysis which my limited equipment permits, Count. I have read up the case and I should like to make my report. You know that my practice of late years has been restricted to the traveling public, but I feel I am competent to diagnose fairly accurately.”

“My dear doctor, I have the fullest confidence in your judgment,” with a deprecating gesture.

“I should say that owing to your sojourn in that confounded India your case has been considerably aggravated and has become more severe; it is not now acute or at all serious, but requires careful attention. Avoid excitement and do not undertake anything which will strain your physical powers. I regret that I must be strict with you with regard to your diet and habits. But when you arrive at Brindisi, go to Karlsbad, and in a few weeks you’ll be well enough to take up the affairs of your country.”

“Thank you, doctor. But to me time means the trust and perhaps the fate of others. It is, therefore, more than a question of self. Doctor, how long do you give me?”

The doctor flushed and looked pained. “Count, you must believe what I have said. I will not hide from you that you are in a serious condition but—once you get on land and out of this floating inferno, you’ll be as well as ever, I think. Don’t attempt to do too much now and don’t worry.”

“Thank you most sincerely, doctor. Well, I suppose even a diplomat can live plainly and give up wine and tobacco.”

He bade the doctor a pleasant “au revoir” and sauntered toward the ship’s side. In deep thought he leaned against the railing, gazing into the now fiery sienna of the horizon. The smile on his lips faded, his assumed indifference had left him. Deep lines of care contracted his brow and the eyes looked troubled and sad.

A quick step and a cheerful voice called out heartily, “Good evening, Excellency! Dreaming or thinking—or both?”

Heavily set, smooth-faced and jovial, Captain Pollard of the ship walked toward him.

“My dear Captain, I am only too glad to have you break in on my dreams. They were not the rosiest just now, even though the evening looks beautiful enough to charm an anchorite.”

The Captain nodded his head. “That red sky is rather a promise of another hot day for to-morrow, Count. In a few hours we’ll be in the Red Sea, the furnace of creation. I am afraid to-morrow will be a broiler. Look, Count, there to our left is the Ras Séan with the cloud wreath on top of him. In an hour we shall be in ‘Bab El Mandeb,’ the Gate of Dirge of the Arab. Gloomy premonition, I call that. We are going fine and are ahead of our schedule.”

“All right, Mr. Malone, what is it?” This to the officer of the deck who was rapidly approaching.

“The pilot is signalling from Tadshurra Bay, sir. Shall I slow down, Captain?”

“Very well, sir, glad to get him promptly. What is the boat’s number?”

“Seven, sir.”

“Good, that is old Abdullah, a good sailor and a fine fellow. Report when he gets aboard, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

The officer hurried away and shortly after the siren gave two short blasts and the boat lost headway.

“May I join you for a bit, Count?” Captain Pollard took the stool vacated by the doctor following the gesture of polite assent of the Count.

“The doctor’s report left a bad taste in your mouth, eh? If you don’t mind, I’d like to say a few words more on this same subject, your Excellency.”

The Captain stuck his hands deeply into his coat pockets, looking straight at the Count. “You are an old soldier and a gentleman who knows the world, Count. Dr. Brown came to me this afternoon somewhat worried. He doesn’t want to scare you needlessly but neither does he intend you should get off the boat a sick man. He is probably a little over-cautious. Now, just to please us all, let him look after you until we land. There is nothing more trying after a residence in India than the passage we have ahead of us for the next five or six days. Do as Dr. Brown advises and when you get home send him a nice letter telling him he was right. Is it a bargain?”

“My dear Captain, it certainly is; and I appreciate your interest very much and won’t fail you and the good doctor.”

He had regained his smiling manner: “Captain, why are we men such restless wanderers? You could settle down in your nice little cottage at Bournemouth, draw your pension, trim your apple trees, read your old friend Marryat, chat with Mrs. Pollard and curse the Liberal Party; and I—I could write my memoirs, raise tulips and roses and blooded sheep, sneer at the Radicals and Progressives, and criticize the weak policy of the Hapsburgs! What fun we could have, Hein?”

“Your Excellency, I guess we both do what we believe to be our duty. Neither of us is good at idling, I think, and our work is our life. Some day I might do as you say—but I hope that day is a long way off,” with a merry chuckle.

A crunching sound against the ship’s side and the pilot’s dingy pulled by two powerful negroes had come alongside. With the pilot two other figures were visible in the dim light. The nimble, old, beturbaned Arab pilot, with broad red sash around his ample waist, swung himself aboard, the two men following him.

On the upper deck the conversation which had lagged during this busy interval was further interrupted by the approach of a steward in search of the Captain.

“Two passengers boarded with the pilot, sir. One of them requests permission to speak to you for a minute, Captain.”

“Has the purser seen him?”

“Yes, sir; but he asked for you; he says you know him.”

“Very well, send him up.”

The steward left and shortly after a heavily bearded, well-set-up, broad-shouldered man, in rather shabby linen blouse and baggy trousers, a pith helmet in hand, walked towards the Captain. In the rapidly failing light the deeply tanned features with calm eyes and pleasant smile were just visible. With hand outstretched he stepped up to the group and in a hearty voice exclaimed: “How do you do, Captain Pollard! I was most anxious to meet an old friend again and couldn’t wait. Don’t you remember me, Captain? The clothes and beard make it hard, I guess. I am John Morton.”

“Why, bless my soul, I wouldn’t have known you! My dear Mr. Morton, I am delighted to see you!” He shook the visitor’s hand heartily.

“My, but you do look like a globe trotter—and one that has done some trotting! It is good to shake hands with you once more and to have you on the ‘Hindoostan.’”

“I am, indeed, glad to have the chance to get your boat, Captain. From my last camp the bay was easier to make than the upper Nile, and when I found at Aa-nin that you were expected to-night, I made a run for the shore and was just in time for the pilot’s sloop. I haven’t been near civilization in eighteen months, Captain! I have with me my man, Donald, whom you may remember. He looks, if anything, even worse for wear than I. May I see you again after the cleaning-up process, Captain?”

“Certainly, my dear Mr. Morton. I shall be delighted if you will honor me. I am as curious as an old magpie to hear what brought you here of all spots in the world! Are you nicely placed aboard?”

“Yes; thank you.”

He made a movement to withdraw but Captain Pollard took him by the arm and led him towards the Count.

“Your Excellency, will you permit me? This is Mr. Morton, an old friend of mine, an American gentleman who is quite a traveler and explorer—his Excellency Count Rondell.”

“Happy to make your acquaintance, Your Excellency; I trust you will pardon my appearance.”

“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Morton. Don’t apologize. You look fit and ready for good sport.”

The men shook hands. Morton stepped back: “Gentlemen, permit me to retire. I trust I shall have the honor later, Your Excellency.”

“There goes one of the finest young men,” said the Captain, looking after the rapidly retiring form, “a man in a million, Count.”

“He looks keen and strong; a bold man and true,” gently said the Count with almost a sigh. “Sportsman?”

“I don’t quite know, Count. I think he went out to explore the Soudan and the Blue Nile country, if I remember correctly. He comes of a very fine family—a man of rare good judgment and the very man to have around when trouble is brewing. Some time I will tell you how I met him. If you’ll permit me, Count, I’ll now look up that pilot. We are getting under way. Good evening, Excellency!”

“Au revoir, Captain. I shall have to interview the chief steward and see if Dr. Brown will allow me another meal to-day.”

Now that he was once again alone, the Count forgot the evening meal, forgot the steward and the man he just had met—he had weightier matters on his mind. This man of the world, trained to think while chatting and seemingly enjoying small talk—this old diplomat realized that he had arrived at a parting of the ways. The oppressive heat of earlier day had yielded somewhat to the gentle breeze rising from the ever-nearing mountainous shore. A brilliant crimson band silhouetted sharply the deep purple of Ras Séan, the bluish haze half hid the frowning abrupt cliffs of Perim Island; the first twinkle of the lighthouse shone like a firefly, coming and going in rhythmic flashes. To the north the broad dome of Disohebel Menghéli rose high, the towering guardian of the strait, the dread of the unwary skipper. Over the ultramarine hills rose the red moon of the silent East, mysterious and alluring, the light of the romantic night. Count Rondell, obeying the promptings of weary limbs, sank into his seat and gazed as if fascinated into the glory of the tropical eve.

The world was so beautiful and life so promising! Moments of the years gone by passed in rapid succession through his mind; the days of youth and hope—the years of ambition and fulfillment. The shadows of beloved faces rose to disappear; the joy of deeds performed, the regret of acts omitted. As in a panorama he saw his life over again and lived it once more.

A flock of buzzards flying across the hazy light of the moon that looked for all the world like a flattened giant orange, by a curious disconnection of the phenomenon so well known to him, awoke him to the present; to the warning he had received, to the call of a life which was to end. A slight tremor passed over the frame of the man, who seemed to have aged considerably within the last hour.

The training of decades, the inbred desire to suppress thoughts and control the mind, supervened. He lightly passed his hand over the smoothening brow, caressing the thick hair upon his temple and the old gentle smile appeared again in his eyes. “Well, I have run a long race—and on the homestretch I am beaten. Vivat sequens!” he whispered to himself.

He rose and walked freely to the rail, contemplating the wondrous evening, admiring the marvelous light effects in the now rapidly darkening sky. He gazed at the minute wavelets springing from the sides of the boat and spreading their gory crests endlessly toward the east, ever widening and disappearing in purplish black shadows. The first stars as if by magic had leaped upon the zenith, new born, blinking mockingly to him.

A smile gentler than before illuminated the fine features. “God is great, nature is full of wonders, and I shall not cry quits and sulk. There is work before you, my boy, work and duty. And when that is done, my beloved, I shall be glad to join you.”

With a deep sigh and a proud smile he wearily turned toward the line of cabins from whence a light step now proceeded.

His valet came forward, cap in hand. “Your Excellency, dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Will you not come to your room, sir?”

“Very good, Jean; but I believe I shall not dress to-night. I am fatigued and I expect no one else will. Just a little touching up and a dark coat and scarf. I shall follow you.”

Musing, he turned once more to the waters which had lost their mirror-like smoothness upon entering the narrow channel. Before him rose the escarpment of Perim’s forts, with their twinkling lights; the breeze carried to his ears the bugle call from the barracks, the one discordant sound in the serene stillness of the fairy landscape.

“Gate to an ocean—England will hold it,” he muttered. “Passage to power and trade—Albion will rule it. Other nations may strive and plan, dream and scheme, but Albion takes and holds. I wonder if, when my last call comes, I shall find a Briton guarding the Pearly Gates? Well, I have done the best I could for my king and my country. I must not grudge the men who have done theirs for their queen and land—and with more glorious and happier results. The race is to the swift, the laurel to the victor, glory to the lucky! L’homme propose, Dieu dispose!”

He gave one more look round, turning in all directions, and then slowly left the deck.

The moon had risen above the haze and shone a lustrous brightness. The sky, a deep unfathomable marine, was dotted with countless blinking stars; the shimmering sea was scales of silver; the hum of giant machinery throbbed on the balmy air. It was a night so glorious that one doubted if there could be anything but beauty and happiness on earth.

And yet—how much misery and sorrow, pain and tears are mingled with joy in life! The lure of the East, the mystery of dreamed-of Eden and with it strife and labor! The nobility of creation, the pettiness of life; the loveliness of nature, the emptiness of man’s efforts.

Five bells—the Vesper on shipboard.

The muffled call of the Muezzin from the nearby minaret of Perim town drifted across the silvery stream.

And the bells, re-echoing from fore and aft, seemed to call out: “All’s well, good night!”

CHAPTER III

AFTER a long, weary night, made seemingly longer by the slow passage through the tortuous channels, threatened by reefs and coral shallows, the “Gate of Dirge” was passed. The pilot dropped, the P. & O. liner entered through the picturesque Dacht il Mayum, the sluggish waves of the Red Sea.

Through the wondrous waters the ship cut her way energetically. The moon had set long since, the east was bathed in sulphur light and one by one the stars dropped out of existence.

The lower decks, forsaken the evening before, are now lively with passengers. The heat had made sleep impossible and now, one after another, they came up to breathe the reviving morning air.

What wind blows is from the starboard, but the port side is the shadier for the greater part of the day. It is this side which is quickly taken possession of by the Mohammedan part of the passengers. The gaunt Sikh, bewhiskered and beturbaned, the Persian venders with their fierce mustachios and fiercer eyes, shrewd-looking Syrians and fleshy Mamelukes, all congregate or segregate according to their individual desires, and all are bent upon their morning worship.

More or less gaudily colored patches of carpets and prayer rugs are spread upon the boards, devout heads bow down from prostrate bodies, turned to the east, to the rising sun, to praise Allah and to pray to Mohammed his prophet. They will turn to the east, even though Mecca is due north of the boat!

On the promenade and hurricane decks a couple of early risers are taking their constitutionals. On the bridge strides the fresh-looking skipper, and a neat second officer in glaring white is adjusting his sextant as he awaits the sun’s coming. A few deckhands and sailors are holystoning the decks and adjusting the striped awnings.

Upon the free and lofty upper structure in the broad space between the cabins and the captain’s quarters some privileged travelers, to judge by the important bearing of the men and the well-groomed appearance of the ladies, are languidly settling themselves down. They show scarce a sign of sleepless tossing in heated berths. One of these, a tall, lean man in Pongee, cap and scarf to match, bearing carefully trimmed little chops below the grayish hair, is Sir Balingbroke-Smith, Under-Secretary of the Colonies. He is holding forth to his daughter Muriel on the history of the islands which are just sinking below the southern horizon.

Miss Muriel endeavors to show some interest, appearing to listen with careful attention; but her eyes are wandering around the deck. She is waiting for the appearance of the stranger who had come on board the evening before and whom the Captain had discussed at dinner. The new passenger had declined coming to table as he needed “civilizing.” So Captain Pollard had put it; but he was a gentleman, though an American, who had spent the last eighteen months in the wilds of the Soudan and the mountains of Somali, instead of lounging at Shepard’s Hotel at Cairo or at the Casino at Nice. He was young, rich, independent and “as fine a chap as ever came out of Eton or Oxford, my lord.”

“Muriel seems tired or sleepy, or both,” said her aunt and duenna, the Hon. Mrs. Fitzhugh, the wife of an Indian officer. The good lady was returning to winter in London to recuperate after a trying season with her husband at Lahore, and incidentally was acting as chaperon to Miss Muriel. The ladies of the group duly agreed. Who would dare to differ from her? But all are casting side glances in the direction in which Miss Muriel insists on keeping her pretty face.

The Rev. Mr. Akley, in sober gray, with solemn face and pained, bloodshot eyes, is gazing intently at a group of prostrated orientals, a martyr to faith and duty. The latter, however, do not seem to mind the sad, pained expression in the eyes of the churchman. But even the countenance of the reverend gentleman is somewhat askew from the vertical—since he also is partaking in the general interest. Will this much-talked-of young man ever make his appearance?

And now that the sun has risen above the slight mist to the east, chairs are being pushed into shady and cool places. Chatting and fussing and good-natured pushing, the one business of the day must he attended to first—how to avoid the heat of the day.

“It is going to be beastly hot! If one could but get one’s Times and know what the world is doing? Muriel, my dear, if you insist upon taking such violent exercise before your breakfast you will not be really comfortable for the rest of the day. May I remind you that the next few days are the most trying of the voyage and that the best means to make it bearable—would be—a-a-absolute rest—very little food and liquid refreshments?”

Sir Balingbroke was very impressive. As breakfast had been mentioned by so high an authority as the Under-Secretary of the Colonies, the subject became now the general topic of conversation.

But the ladies managed to turn it into a more interesting channel, and Sir Balingbroke was gradually drawn into speaking of the new passenger whom he had met in the smoking room.

“A very estimable young man, I believe; Captain Pollard tells me that he met him on transatlantic liners—he says he is a well-connected, affluent American—a Mr. Morton, I think; quite refined and unassuming. I understand he has been engaged on some exploring or observation work in southern Egypt and the adjacent territory. It may be—semi-officially of course—that he is under the wings of the Royal Geographical Society. He mentioned that Lord Salisbury was kind enough to recommend him to the authorities—expects to go to London to report the results of his research. Very nice fellow, indeed.”

Eight bells, and shortly after the gong sounds for breakfast—the first important function of the day. The little coterie gathered on the forepart of the deck abandon chairs and troop down to the dining saloon.

In the saloon Mr. Morton was duly presented to the ladies at the Captain’s table and to a few of the gentlemen to whom he had not been introduced the evening before in the “smoker.”

The Hon. Mrs. Fitzhugh sarcastically remarked that there were still some men who were old-fashioned enough to remain on deck with the ladies after dinner—denying themselves their whiskey and soda. The men thus referred to tried to look pleased, but those who had sinned did not seem to mind the lady’s sarcasm.

Captain Pollard was evidently taking great pains to impress those sitting around the table that Mr. Morton was a man of importance. He singled him out in conversation and gave marked attention to what the traveler said. On a liner everyone takes his cue from the captain, and the American immediately became a full fledged member of the select coterie.

Mr. Morton frankly and almost boyishly admitted his delight at being once more in civilized surroundings. He smilingly pleaded guilty to an enjoyment of the society of ladies and hoped that his manners had not deteriorated. The ladies were charmed with him. He was good to look at and his pleasant voice and delightfully sympathetic smile won them over completely. His ignorance of the news of the day afforded them an opportunity for further conversation, and he listened with an old-world courtesy that only educated Americans show to their women. The ladies lionized him.

To the many inquiries about his adventures in the desert, he answered good-naturedly and in a rather off-hand way. Life in the desert had its interesting side and the months he had spent there had enabled him to gather valuable data which he expected to apply to work in the Great Basin of his own country, where his father and the federal government were interested in the question of irrigation. There had not been much danger in his adventures, for the natives were human and rather helpful than otherwise.

As he sat at table enjoying anew the amenities of civilized society, Morton confessed to himself that really the most important thing to him was the stimulating and pleasant expectation of being soon home again among his own people, with his dear mother and fine-souled, humor-loving father. How pleased and happy they would be to have him with them again! How jolly to sit once more in the cozy den, his friends and loved ones listening to his tales of adventure! Unconsciously his mind wandered to scenes of his intimate family circle. When the longing heart travels homeward, the half-way inns are but little conveniences on the journey; we take advantage of them because we must; always the heart’s eye looks longingly forward to its goal—home. His little sister—by George, she would be a young woman now, like the blue-eyed, clear-skinned English girl across the table, and better looking, if the promise of earlier remembrance was to be fulfilled. Two years do make a great change!

Yes—he must stop off at Paris for a couple of days and buy his sister and mother something worth bringing home. His heart grew warm as he pictured their happy eyes and heard their pleased exclamations. And his father! Won’t the governor be proud of the reports he was bringing back. Figures don’t lie, his father used to say. And what else should he bring him? Yes—he would have to go to London, too.

He hoped the fine old Nubian sarcophagus which he had shipped by stealth from Assab by the old rascal Ben Bandar (the old chap surely dealt in slaves on the sly) on a Greek sailing vessel had reached New York safely. What would his neighbor, Sir Balingbroke, have said if he knew that the Egyptian custom-house servants were the same old grafters they had been before Alexandria was bombarded and the Khedive all powerful on the Nile?

Almost with a start he awoke to his surroundings, mumbling some words of apology for his absent-mindedness. Mrs. Fitzhugh had addressed some remarks to him—Miss Muriel’s eyes were dancing as she smiled wickedly at him. Mrs. Fitzhugh haughtily forgave him.

This meeting at the table was the type of many others which took place during the next days, varied with some small talk on deck, and broken by some lengthier and more interesting conversations in the smoking room.

Whether the ladies approved or not, the shady depths of the small “smoker” on the upper deck proved a veritable Mecca for all the men. Here one always was pretty sure to find some of the passengers enjoying their cigars or cigarettes or even pipes, chatting of trade and drinks, horses and games, politics and policies.

Here was to be found the man who could foretell the number of knots the boat would cover that day; who knew the hour they would sight the African shore again. Another would descant of the ever-inspiring topic—the great Canal—the time it took to go through it, the money a boat had to pay, the advantages of being on a British boat and so on.

Here also it was where Jones told of Smith’s affairs while the latter was with the ladies, where Smith in turn was telling what Jones had been doing in India when the last-named gentleman had to obey the call of his better half and absent himself from the round table. It was not long, therefore, before everyone knew all about everybody else; or, at least, thought they did.

For Morton and some of the older men there was the evening gathering in the Captain’s roomy cabin, the exchange of tales and adventures with the jolly-faced seaman and the recital of some traveler’s tale of older days by some visitor.

From the Captain, Morton obtained his information about Count Rondell, who had once been the Captain’s superior officer some years back, when the latter had been in the service of Roumelia as a nautical instructor.

He heard from Sir Balingbroke how, during the memorable days of the Congress of Berlin, Count Rondell, then at the head of the diplomatic corps of his little country, fought hard and unremittingly for admission to the inner chambers of the historic conference, and how, in spite of the weighty opposition of Giers and the fact that he could not get official admission as a delegate, he had so won the esteem of all the statesmen there present that he had secured full independence, autonomy and great economic advantages for his country, and, then and there, had laid the foundation of the kingdom of Roumelia.

From this austere and cautious member of the British cabinet he also learned of the Count’s romantic quest in eastern lands for the young prince who had disappeared from home, and how necessary this only heir to the throne was for the continuance of existing conditions in the little kingdom. But Sir Balingbroke could not say whether the Count’s search had been crowned with success or not.

Captain Pollard pictured the Count as a man of unbending character, thoroughly upright and just. A man who ruled at court with iron hand but who had remained unsullied by its machinations—an aristocrat in office, a student and loving husband in his home. Sir Balingbroke nodded his head emphatically by way of confirmation of the Captain’s statements.

Morton spent considerable time in his own cabin, tabulating his collected material with the help of his assistant. During his absence from the ship’s circle he was largely discussed. The ladies especially were eager for information.

All the skipper knew, it seemed, was that Mr. Morton was the only son of Daniel B. Morton, the Arizona Copper King, one of the wealthiest and most influential of the many powerful men which America’s mineral wealth had created during the last decades. Young Morton was said to be a chip of the old block, well educated, manly and straight. After his college days at home, he had pursued special post-graduate studies at Oxford and Bonn, and had prepared himself to take up his father’s work. The Captain couldn’t explain why the young man had gone seemingly on a new tack. Rich as Croesus and living in a tent with no one but a man servant for over a year! Sir Balingbroke was puzzled.

Count Rondell was the least regular attendant at the Captain’s board. The latter explained that the Count’s health was not good. Dr. Brown had so reported to him.

Thus the days of heat and monotony stretched their weary lengths. They passed the harbor of Dshidda with its many picturesque boats, from little catamarans to large clumsy steamers. On the southern horizon disappeared also the rocks of Yanbu Bar, Sudan, Suakim and Loheia. On the fifth day after Morton had boarded the liner, when the sea once more showed the fiery red of sunset, they reached the head of the Gulf of Suez and the ship slid carefully into the basin which marks the southern terminal of the great Canal.

From Suez town the lights shot their sporadic blinking; the great tangle of boats of all descriptions and sizes tied up in the basin and adjoining docks began to show their mast lights and port lamps; the lighthouse on the narrow tongue of land stretching into the shadowy bay sent out its rhythmic signal flashes.

Morton, sitting opposite Count Rondell, gratefully leaned back in his flattened steamer chair and remarked: “What a relief to be so far north and at last on the eve of leaving this insufferable quarter of the world! I am glad to see a town once more, glad to see lights and real streets and hear real human noises even if they are as hideous as these are. It is good to look up to the heavens of our own familiar constellations and find our polar star promising the arrival home. See, Count, there, for the first time, can be distinguished all the stars of the Big Dipper! The Southern Cross is glorious, and I have admired it during many soundless nights in the desert; but give me our own starry sky, our own air, my own people!”

Count Rondell looked up with a smile. “To tell you the truth, my dear sir, I have traveled along latitudes I never expected to see and I barely noticed the Southern Cross. I certainly must be getting old and unobservant. But I can appreciate how you feel when you think of the loved ones who are waiting for you in your distant country, and to know that your coming home means so much happiness to them. I also am glad to see again the stars of the north—my stars—though I am returning with a heavy heart.

“I cannot help thinking,” added the Count, “of the part this waterway has played in the history of the world’s civilization. I see it as the highway of the trend westward of our humanity’s progress. You will recall, Mr. Morton, that in the dawn of civilization the traders of Egypt brought their spices and gold and ivory from India. They resigned their profitable trading to the shrewder Phoenician sailors who were followed by those of Syracuse and Carthage. Then came in the Middle Ages the merchant princes of the Venetian, Pisan and Genoese republics.

“It was a marine from this lost city who, with the aid of Spanish gold, discovered your own country when the trade of the then known world had already drifted into the hands of the enterprising people of the Hisparian peninsula. We know what the aggrieved Portuguese and the stolid Dutch contributed to this westward march; but then had to yield, in their lives, to the superior gifts and stronger physique of the English race.

“Always it has been the cry of the ‘Westward Ho!’ And it always will be so. It would seem as if man could not resist following the path of the sun. Your people, Mr. Morton, your country will now step into the heritage of the world’s commerce. I am sure of it. It is the will of destiny.”

Morton looked at the speaker with a feeling of awe. The thought so clearly developed was entirely new to him, and he had no answer to make.

A bond of mutual sympathy had grown up between the two men, so divergent in their aims and ambitions, so far apart in their ages. The younger admired the poise, the gentle courtesy and faultless manner of the elder. He admired his freedom from prejudice, his absolute toleration of the failings and frailties of others, and his prompt, unqualified condemnation of everything wrong, cowardly and selfish.

The older man on his part had become strangely attached to this virile, modest young man with his quiet calm ways, his broad and sound judgment of men and things and his democratic heartiness, which Morton possessed with all his seeming indifference towards others. An affection truly paternal had been awakened in him for this American who could not fail to represent to him a national type. He had met but few of his kind and had to confess to himself that in the past he had wronged them by his opinion. An American had meant to him an overaggressive boor; but in this young Morton he found as fine a gentleman as even he could wish for, a man also without the flaws of artificial mannerisms.

He could not help comparing him to the youthful prince who, by failing to suppress a morbid tendency to resist authority and restraint, had brought such fatal consequences upon himself and his country. “Why couldn’t this clean-cut young man have been of the line of the King’s dynasty?” he asked himself despairingly.

The subject discussed by the two had been of a broad character and general interest. Just before the interruption caused by the sight of land, they had been talking about the great similarity in the desires and aims of all people. Morton, who had intimated that his isolation in the desert had been somewhat of an intentional retirement to study himself and his own duty toward his country, had expressed himself in ways highly interesting to his companion. Returning to the subject, Morton said:

“It is remarkable that the seeming great differences between races and tribes are but outward and rather in their customs and habits than in their mental processes. I believe that the established use of the dromedary as a beast of burden, the necessity of living in tents owing to the absence of water courses and springs, the diet of fruits and sweetmeats, are really the things that remove the Arabs of Africa from the Europeans far more than their actual thoughts, their ambitions and emotions. These outward signs are what, next to language, strike us first as distinguishing marks. Once we get over these, to me at least, minor characteristics, it is surprising how easy it would be to trace the course of their thoughts, their actions, as running on lines almost similar to those that actuate the Frenchman or Italian or even the man from more northern countries. I have found love of truth, manliness and honesty, pride of descent, loyalty to kindred, affection for one’s own offspring, appreciation of learning, strong traits with these primitive men; while gluttony, drunkenness or license in almost any form is entirely absent from the nature of these children of the desert.”

Count Rondell had listened with close attention to Morton’s remarks. “There is no doubt,” he said, “much truth in your observation, my friend. To me it has ever been a matter for wonder how short the step is from the highest to the lowest. I am a member of a proud aristocracy and have been called the ‘Kingmaker,’ and yet I confess that beneath the outer skin of manners and polished bearing there is often but common clay—indeed, the common man frequently gains by being compared to his more exalted brother. I remember,” he continued, thoughtfully, “our party was very much entertained in Paris by the fine play of a small band of Gypsies then performing at our favorite restaurant. One evening, while giving the customary douceur to the leader, I asked him for his address as it was my intention to engage his orchestra for some small affair. The man could not write, and he asked me to put his address into my memorandum book. He owned but a single name. His pockmarked face, his little beetle eyes and low forehead gave but scant promise of intelligence. I asked him some questions about his life and ambitions—the man grew quite loquacious. He liked France and the French. He made a nice living, he had saved quite some money, had a good and thrifty wife, a cozy apartment and many comforts. The one thing which marred his happiness was the sad fact that his marriage had proved childless. The ‘bon Dieu’ had not blessed them. But for that he would not change with the manager of the hotel or any other man in Paris! I was deeply impressed because my own king had said the same words to me. But still, my dear Mr. Morton, blood will tell. And a nobleman is the product of many generations of thought, virtue and manliness.”

Morton nodded thoughtfully as he lighted a cigar. Both remained silent. From the shore came the sounds of murmuring crowds, the splashing of oars, the shrill tones of muleteers and the hoarse laughter of negroes. Then followed the clanking of chains, the straining of ropes, a few short commands from the bridge and the anchors had dropped.

Everyone was delighted to have reached another milestone in the long journey home. Passengers were discussing as to whether they should continue in the “Hindoostan” or take the night train to Ishmaila or Alexandria. Perhaps there might be some excitement in Suez, or at Port Said? Congestion of traffic in those days delayed the passage through the Canal and even the P. & O. liner might lose two days.

Stewards passed back and forth, in and out of saloons, and announced, in loud voices and in intonations ranging from Cockney to the resonant drawl of Aberdeen, “Mail distributed in Purser’s office at 6.30.” One, more respectful than the rest, approached the Count, “Your Excellency, the chief has cables for you; shall I bring them to you?” The Count rose and with a courteous leave went to the purser’s cabin.

Morton, to whom the sights were not novel, leaned over the starboard side, looking toward the quiet dark waters of the bay. He thought over the past few days of his life on shipboard, the acquaintances he had made, and the new experiences that had come to him. How strange these all were! What would they mean to him in after years? Then thoughts of home surged over him, and a great longing seized him to be there again. If he took the express boat from Alexandria he would be in Brindisi in time to take the train for Paris—and then London, and then the Cunarder for home—New York by the twentieth—and a whole month before Christmas! Christmas—and the snow! He’d cable and advise his folks. No, perhaps he’d better wait for his mail. His eyes wandered back to the deck below and saw his man leaning against the bulwark. He gave a low whistle and addressed the upturned face: “Don, I am going down to get the mail. Shall I bring you yours?”

“Allright, Mr. John, thank you. There won’t be much to carry when you get it, I guess. Haven’t many correspondents these days.”

“I’ll see you in the smoker, Don.”

The mail he received was more voluminous than he had expected. There were several letters, some with dates months back, and a cable.

He retired into a quiet corner of the smoking room. Don was there and handing him one lean looking letter, he excused himself and broke the seal of the cable. It was but one day old. “Glad know you out of desert well and homeward bound. Mother sister well. Send love. Am not very well myself. Better hurry home, boy.”

Mechanically he looked for the signature which was lacking. It seemed less personal without his father’s name, and he was puzzled that his father had not used the code.

The letters contained nothing but good tidings. There was no reference to his father’s health except in the one from his mother bearing the latest date. She wrote: “Father seems quieter than usual and somewhat restless. Nothing wrong but the doctor advises putting off his usual trip to the Rockies for the present and would like to see him go South before the cold weather sets in. We expect to leave Bar Harbor earlier than usual and go to Cleveland before the middle of October as father would be more happy if we joined him there. If you, my dear boy, could get home in time, we might spend Christmas in California together and for once escape the cold of the lakes.”

Morton grew pensive; he had never before given a thought to his father’s health. His father had always seemed to him as young as ever and a more rugged and sturdy man, a man of better habits could not be found. He hoped the plaintive word meant nothing—nothing but the longing of the old man for his son. Still—he guessed it was time for him to step in and ease the governor’s burden. After all—what better work could he do?

He lay back, smoking and dreaming, somewhat in revival of his solitary habits of the past months, and abandoned himself once more to the charm of being alone—alone with his thoughts and removed from undesired companionship.

After an hour or so he rose and went to his cabin, where he threw himself on his couch. Unable to rest, he busied himself with a survey of his few belongings that might need packing. Then nervously drawing up a table he began working on his report. But he could not collect his thoughts. Evidently he was not in the humor. He was about to put his things away preparatory to trying once more the darkened deck, when the door opened and a steward entered with a note.

In the envelope he found a card bearing the inscription:

“Count Arnim Barton-Rondell.”

and on the reverse side in a precise clear handwriting, “May I request you to call at my cabin at your convenience?—Rondell.”

Morton hesitated but an instant. “Tell his Excellency I shall be with him right away.”

Anything was better than this moping, and the Count was the very companion to brush away the cobwebs from his mind. He stuffed his papers into the nearest table drawer, gave a cursory examination to his appearance before the mirror, locked his cabin door and sauntered over to the Count’s quarters.

Why had Count Rondell sent for him? He wondered.

CHAPTER IV

WHEN Morton entered Count Rondell’s stateroom he found him standing behind a small flat desk in the middle of the room, his commanding, almost gaunt figure erect and tense. As he looked at the man, he experienced the same peculiar sensation he had felt upon receipt of the message asking him to call—a sense of indefinable anxiety mingled with curiosity.

In response to an expressive motion of the slender pale hands he seated himself opposite the Count. His eyes slowly traveled around the stateroom and noted its appearance in some detail.

Two swinging bracket lamps lit up the wall to his right, leaving the lower part of the room in deep shadow. The stateroom itself, somewhat roomier than the customary steamer cabin, had been transformed into a rather pleasing den. Along the lighted walls a low couch in some dark plush was enlivened by the brilliant coloring of a leopard skin thrown carelessly over the back and by a saddle-bag in bright crimson and gold. Above it were fastened a garniture of Persian helmet, shield and battle-axe, the gold inlay upon the damascene scintillating in the slightly moving light which fell upon it.

The floor, covered with a soft rug in deep maroon and with tan arabesques in design, contrasted oddly with the green baize of the traveling desk piled with books and portefeuilles. A curiously wrought bronze lamp shed a bright circle of light over it; an unusual article of furniture, it struck Morton, to take on a voyage. It was a handsome thing and he made a mental note to obtain one like it. His glance now rested upon the figure and face of the Count, who had sat himself in his deep, low chair and was resting his hands upon his knees.

“You will forgive an old and ailing man, my dear Mr. Morton, for making the most of his privileges as such. I trust my request to have you call has not inconvenienced you?”

“Not at all, Excellency; I was glad to come.”

“Thank you. It may not be considerate of me to ask you here—but I believe you won’t mind the limited space and closed portholes. I imagine your camp life has accustomed you to a great extent to discomfort and heat. What I want to say to you demands privacy.”

He paused and continued. “Mr. Morton, I beg you to permit me to approach what I wish to say in my own way, even if it may seem odd and unwarranted to you.”

“Go ahead, Your Excellency, I am listening.”

The older man leaned back and pushed a box of cigars toward his visitor. “Won’t you take one? I think you will like the flavor.”

His voice, until now somewhat strained, had become calm, and with an assumed nonchalance of manner, he added:

“I was told by the steward, Mr. Morton, that you had received considerable mail and some cables upon our arrival here. Does the receipt of these in any way alter your plans, which you were so good as to intimate to me the other evening? Pardon the question, but it is necessary that I should know in view of what I wish to say.”

“It does, Your Excellency. My letters from home are of little moment, but a cable, sent some two days ago, I think, tells me that my father’s health is not satisfactory and asks my quick return.”

“Ah, that makes it more difficult, then, for me to speak of what lies close to my heart, my dear sir. But necessity knows no law and I am in the position of a man who has no choice. Mr. Morton, I beg you to let me say a few words to you, in the hope that you will grant me your attention and—if possible, sympathy.”

Morton nodded and, reaching for the cigars, selected one at random and carefully lit it. “Very fine aroma indeed, Count; I haven’t had as good a smoke as this in many a day. Please begin; I am all attention.”

The Count nodded and began: “More than twenty-five years ago my king, then a young and little known prince of the Coburg family, was called to the throne of Roumelia by the vote of its people. Among the younger men whom he asked to join him in this new country to aid him in establishing a good government, I was one. I was a young Army officer at the time, with little ambition and with scarcely any diplomatic experience. I settled down in the new country. I was very enthusiastic, a prerogative of youth the world over, and became very much enamored with my work. Since then I have been very closely bound up with the fortunes of Roumelia and those of my king. I was one of the few of my Prince’s Court who succeeded in gaining the confidence of the Roumelians. I acquired their language and customs thoroughly. I succeeded in gaining the friendship of some of the leading men of all parties. I won the respect and I think even the love and perhaps the admiration of the Court by my loyalty to the cause of the country, my devotion to my duties, my work and my fidelity to the interests of the principality and later the kingdom, the creation and growth of which, I may be permitted to say, may be due, in a small measure, to my efforts.

“My king, God bless him, one of the noblest men who ever lived, was kind to me and trusted me implicitly. The work to which I had devoted my life was successfully done; the dynasty of my king firmly established: a clean, fine constitution, safe-guarding the interests of the people and assuring the welfare and development of my country, strongly founded. The one cloud in the blue sky of destiny was the lack of a son and heir.

“Many years ago, his majesty assenting, we secured an amendment to our laws of succession, by which the King’s brother was to be his heir, thus securing the succession to a younger brother and through him to his son, then a youth of health and promise. Thus far our work in perpetuating a dynasty had been wisely and well done. Do I weary you with these particulars, Mr. Morton?”

“Not at all; I am more than interested; I am learning. Please continue!” The Count smiled and went on:

“This structure, which, as I explained before, was of the utmost importance to a still broader plan, was, in this manner, erected as we felt on a firm foundation. Our land had developed wonderfully; from an almost unknown Turkish province in 1866 we had created a principality of several millions of frugal, thrifty and moral inhabitants, engaged in fostering trade and agriculture. We built railroads and highways, opening the country to foreign intercourse and markets; we laid telegraph lines connecting all corners of the land; we also introduced and firmly established an efficient school system. In brief, we transformed into a community of order and civilization a previously chaotic Turkish dependency. A dozen years after the beginning of our, I might almost say, my work, we fought a glorious and victorious war against our old oppressors and, although the jealousy and greed of the great Powers robbed us of the full reward of our victory; although the very nation whom we enabled to win what, without our aid and valor, they would have lost, deprived us of some of our territory, yet we grew in wealth, education and well being. When my prince was acclaimed constitutional king of the realm he had created, I, his servant, was rewarded by being chosen his faithful adviser and friend. Honored and trusted for many years, I believe I helped to form and execute those policies that I feel went far toward the establishment of peace and happiness in our beloved kingdom.”

Count Rondell rose to his feet and strode the floor of his cabin agitatedly. Resuming his seat after a while, he smiled pathetically at the younger man, and said: “Pray pardon me, Mr. Morton; my feelings get the better of me, I am afraid. My disease seems to have made sad inroads on me. Shall I go on?”

“Pray do, Count Rondell. Don’t disturb yourself about me. I am all ears.”

The Count crossed his legs and closing his eyes turned his face upward. His cheeks, lately flushed and feverish, now looked drawn and gray. Reaching for a portfolio he began automatically fingering its lock. Then with eyes wide and in a voice husky with emotion, he said:

“I now come to a dark chapter, my young friend. Men work day and night, plan and scheme, bribe and lie—all for fame and their country. The plans seem perfect, their execution faultless, the road to certain success assured—and then a little thing happens, a bolt becomes loosened, some man or woman fails you or steps unexpectedly on the scene—et voilâ!—the perfect structure is but a house of cards—and tumbles.

“And this usually comes when the architect has passed his prime; when the resisting power of the body has been sapped by the wearisome labor. When this crisis comes, instead of a strong man, it finds the statesman at a terrible disadvantage, perhaps with mind still active and resourceful—but oh, feeble and powerless against fate.”

Count Rondell spoke the last words as if in a trance. He had evidently forgotten the existence of his companion. He seemed to be lost in visions and dreams.

Morton’s cigar had gone out; he stared as if fascinated at the noble face before him, looking so sad and forlorn. He, too, had often wandered into the spheres of empire building. He, too, had had his dreams of being a leader of peoples, of opening up those vast desert spaces of his own country to the influences of civilization. Without knowing what tragedy was to be unfolded to him, he looked at the worn old aristocrat across the desk and felt that failure and disappointment, rather than success, were oftener the reward of great ambitions. He essayed a mental guess at what might be further revealed to him and awaited the rest of the tale with bated breath.

After a slight pause the Count relaxed his tightly compressed, bloodless lips and went on:

“My king was getting old; his brother had never been capable or active; he was just a gentleman of leisure—and the promising boy?—I wish it were not necessary for me to go into this chapter of our history. The boy, a lovable, fine young man, the pride of his parents and of his uncle the king, the idol of the country and my hope—the boy fell in love with a heartless and scheming adventuress. She broke his heart, brought our finely wrought plans to naught, and the youth to his end. Four weeks ago I closed the tired eyes of my Prince—closed them in a squalid hut in Madras, where, after an unceasing hunt of months, I found him. I was too late to save him for this world—I hope I preserved his soul for the next—for heaven!”

Count Rondell raised his hand to his brow as if making the sign of the cross. Absent-mindedly he stroked his hair, while a melancholy smile came to his lips. “May God be merciful to him!” he breathed, a tear in his eye.

With deeper feeling and a vibrant voice, he went on:

“Our house of cards had fallen. My labors were all in vain, my mission a failure and, perhaps, my life also. You are still patient, my friend, are you not?”

Morton leaned across the desk, lightly touching the other man’s arm with an encouraging pressure. “You did the best your wisdom dictated, Your Excellency. Regrets are useless now. It may be there is a silver lining to your dark cloud. Please, go on with your tale.”

“Well—thus far I have been relating to you the history of Roumelia, the rise and fall of my chosen fatherland. Now we reach the last chapter—the day we are living now. Will you not light a fresh cigar, my dear Mr. Morton? Permit me to retire for a moment.”

Going to his sleeping room, Count Rondell filled a goblet of water and drank feverishly. Morton lit a cigar the while he watched the Count sinking back into his seat.

The stateroom had become very close and oppressive. No sound but the rhythmical beat of the auxiliary engine, rather felt than heard, fell upon the ear. The steady yellowish light on the wall threw into relief the ghastly features of the old diplomat; the smoke from Morton’s cigar hung heavily against the ceiling, taking odd and fantastic shapes. The younger man was strangely moved. What a terrible drama had been laid bare! He could not take his eyes away from the pitiful figure before him—the old nobleman looking the very picture of despair.

“I am coming now to the last chapter, Mr. Morton. A few hours ago I received two cables informing me of events which have happened during my absence. The earlier cable says, in substance, in code of course, that within the last ten days a revolt had occurred in the capital. Rumors of the heir’s disappearance had emboldened the disaffected factions of the kingdom, who struck—and struck fearfully! The king had always lived simply—and trusted his people and his army. The few palace guards were easily overpowered; the king was taken prisoner and with him his consort. The ministers of state were forced to resign, a de facto republican government was proclaimed, and Demeter Sturdza, the leader of the Radicals, an old schemer and a villain masquerading as a patriot, has been appointed acting President. Everything is in chaos. The later cable is still more distressing. A trusty friend of mine, the late minister of Finance, sends it to me from Constantinople, to which place he has flown. He is one of the few of the old administration who escaped.”

The Count opened the portfolio nervously, took some papers lying on top, and with trembling hands adjusted his glasses. After a futile attempt to read he resignedly put both papers and glasses down and with a pitiful gesture resumed his narrative.

“My dear Mr. Morton—I cannot read it—I shall have to give you the contents from memory. The fearful facts are engraven on my mind only too deeply! The king has been assassinated—the queen is dead from shock. Prince Fernand was shot down in cold blood by a drunken Colonel of the Territorials, the ministers and counsellors are either dead, imprisoned or fugitives. The army, at first indifferent, is now obeying the newly formed government. The country has been isolated from the rest of the world, as the wires were cut. Martial law prevails and a reign of terror instituted. The property of the old régime has been confiscated.”

The old diplomat had risen before he finished his recital, staggered nervously and weakly to and fro, and, leaning on the back of his chair, he spoke the last words in jerky sentences.

“There remains the only member of the Royal family—a lovely young girl—a mere child—the sister of the unfortunate boy I had seen die. This innocent princess is without friend or protector. She has found a precarious refuge in the summer castle of the late prince in the hills of the North. When this cable was sent she was alive and, although deprived of her freedom, still unharmed.

“The poor girl has no knowledge of life, and is utterly helpless. Reared in the seclusion of the court under the care of the late queen—a most noble and saintly lady—she is still but a child in experience. She was my beloved king’s favorite—a beautiful, pure girl, a noble princess. She must not perish!”

Morton felt dizzy and sick. His cigar had gone out long since. He had almost ceased to think or feel. With a great effort he pulled himself together, and staring fixedly at his narrator, murmured thickly: “Why—why do you tell me of all these fearful things? What do you want from me?”

Count Rondell came to a stop at his desk and, laying his hands upon the back of the chair, said quietly:

“Mr. Morton, I am a doomed man. The doctor tells me I have, at best, but a very little while to live—and I feel he is right. I would not hesitate an instant to do what is my duty—but I know I cannot. My weak body will not obey my will. You are young, strong and resourceful. God has led you to this boat, led you to me in my hour of great need. Mr. Morton, I ask you, in the name of humanity, to rescue the girl from the fury of an insane populace—from the nameless horror that might be her fate—I ask you, my friend, to take my place and bring this girl safely out of Roumelia!”

He waved aside Morton’s protesting gesture and continued with deep emotion but with impressive dignity:

“Pray—my dear sir—do not answer me now. Take it under consideration. In an hour, two hours if you wish, let me know your decision. Do not act on the spur of the moment.”

Morton could hardly restrain himself. He felt he could not wait. Rising nervously, he exclaimed, his voice filled with indignation:

“Count Rondell, this is not fair! Why do you come to me, a stranger, with so impossible, so absurd a proposition? What right have you to unload your burden upon a chance acquaintance and put the blame of a possible fearful fate of a young girl at my door—my door of all men? What do I know of kings and princes? What do I care? Why do you come to me with this? Much as I esteem you—much as I feel for you in your sorrow——”

The Count drew himself up proudly and placed his hand firmly upon Morton’s shoulder.

“I have asked myself those same questions many times during the last two hours, when I was seeking for a solution, looking for a ray of hope in my despair. I came to you, sir, because I must do all that I can do—and there is not a soul to whom I can appeal or who can do what I ask, but you! I can hold out no inducements to you. I know not if glory or money means anything to you. Honors I cannot offer, for I have fallen from my proud position by the very events that have brought me pleading to you. Riches I have none—my property has been confiscated. I am a ruined man. I have some forty thousand francs with me—the money is at your disposal to cover your expenditures for the labors I am praying you to undertake. Why do I come to you? Because you are the last resource and the only hope left me; because I would do anything and everything to save this girl and——”

Morton was about to interrupt, but the old man, trembling violently, collapsed in his seat. Recovering himself slowly he reached for the large portfolio and opening it, slowly and almost mechanically fingered and folded the papers within it.

Morton watched him, stern and wide-eyed, resolved to remain calm and patient.

In a low voice, made the more impressive by its gentleness, the Count spoke:

“Forgive my vehemence—my insistence. I must employ every means at hand. I have not told you all; I have not told you the full depth of my despair. With the Princess Marie Louise is my little daughter—my only child. The child of my love—my pride, my only reward in this world—the child of my beloved wife! Here is a letter of hers, written but a few weeks before the awful events. A letter full of love and happiness—she did not then dream of the fearful days that were to come! When I left Holstein to follow my prince to a new and promising life, I had the plighted word of a beautiful girl to join me whenever I called her. In time my beloved came to me. We lived in a strange country, among strange people and stranger gods; but we lived in joy and love, making a heaven for us in this new land! When, after some years, our child came, our lovely little girl, my dear wife had heart and love for us both. She brought up this child of our affection, the only child God gave us, as only love can! Her own goodness is reproduced in the child—her beauty of heart and mind, her loving ways—all live again in her daughter! Five years ago she—died, leaving our child to my care. And now, here I am, a man with one foot in the grave—feeble and useless—thousands of miles away from my child—her child. My God! what——”

The old diplomat’s head fell upon his arms, amongst his papers, his shoulders heaving with his inarticulate sobbings. His hand had grasped a photograph from among the scattered documents and he was convulsively caressing it. Raising his head he looked at it with an agonized look and murmured brokenly, “Mein Kindchen—Mein Kindchen.”

It was more than Morton could bear. His lethargy dropped from him; the spell was broken, his energy returned. A second time he had been shown the hideousness of life. He knew not what to say. Then through his thoughts came the words of his own father’s cable: “Am not very well, better hurry, boy!” It was impossible for him to engage in what, after all, was but a romantic adventure.

What right had this old scion of a decayed aristocracy to appeal to him—to him, who had duties of his own, just as urgent, to perform? What right had anybody to tell him these hideous things, that grip the mind and distress the heart? What was this young woman or this princess to him that he should wait a moment before deciding? A refusal, prompt and emphatic—surely that was the only proper answer to make! Was the old man acting in good faith or was he, perhaps, staging this whole business, in order to entangle him into a foolhardy enterprise! What would his father say? What would mother think? What would his little sister—ah! his little sister, a girl like this girl! His throat felt dry and contracted, as if a cord had been tightened about his neck.

Good God! And if he declined—would he ever get rid of the awful thought that these girls might have been helped—and he had failed them? Could he ever look any woman in the face without thinking of the fate of these two gently reared women? A cold perspiration beaded his forehead and face. With an effort he rose from his seat and strode toward the old man, who sat now staring before him with glassy eyes.

All this had taken but a few moments, a few heart beats of agony and resentment.

The proposition was absurd—unheard of! He had better leave this raving lunatic alone—tell him most emphatically that he refused. At that moment his eye caught sight of the photograph on the desk. In the benumbed state of his mind he unconsciously looked and made out some writing across the lower part of the card——

“Meinem lieben Papa als Gruss. Seine Helène.”

Immediately before his agitated mind there rose the vision of Bonn, and the old days of his “Burschenschaft.” The happy voices and songs of his student years came back to him and with them the poetry of the German sentimentalist—the lovely sunshine and the cheer of youth.

Mechanically taking up the photograph he looked at it for a moment idly. The next moment he was riveted by what he saw. What a beautiful face; what lovely eyes; what a sweet smile! It seemed to him as if the young girl had spoken to him, had smiled at him—why—this child—why—this beautiful girl must not die—she must be saved!

All at once it seemed as if he heard an inner voice calling on him to bring her into safety, into life, to her dear father—and, above all, to himself! What had he been thinking of a moment since? Why—nothing could be simpler! He and Don could do the trick all right—the girl must be saved——.

He replaced the photograph gently amongst the papers strewn over the desk, and leaning forward, said with hearty determination: “Count, I have thought it over. I will do what you propose. I will go gladly to the assistance of the young ladies. Do you understand me, Count? We must get down to work and plan. Do you hear what I am saying?”

But his host did not hear him. He had sunk deep in his chair, his chin upon his breast, the eyes heavy and dull, barely showing reason. Morton was shocked.

“Count—come, man, pull yourself together; say something. I have agreed.”

A wan smile, like sunshine, stole over the drawn features of the helpless man.

“I must apologize for my rudeness,” he whispered more than spoke. “I shall be better in a moment.” He stretched out a trembling hand for the goblet of water, but Morton had reached it before him, and the old man drank the refreshing liquid thirstily.

The cool drink revived him. Some color returned into the blanched cheeks and the eyes regained somewhat of their normal lustre. He sat up more erect. “Did I—do I understand you to say, Mr. Morton—that you will undertake the—task? Did I understand you correctly?”

“Your Excellency, that is exactly what I mean. I shall undertake it—and by Jove—if it can be done, I’ll do it! And now, lie down for an hour or so. You must rest so that we can go ahead with our plans. I must learn all I can about the lay of the land—and I guess time counts more than anything else, right now?”

Gently pushing his host, who had tried to rise, into the seat, he said, “I’ll send your man to you.”

“My dear sir, my dear boy! Permit me to call you that for once—you have made me very happy! I feel confident you will succeed if any man can. I already have a plan—but you are right, I must pull myself together first and be ready for the work. Please, ring for my man and—in an hour I shall be at your disposal.”

“Good, let’s shake hands on it. Call me anything you please. I am proud you have chosen me. Don’t you worry; we’ll beat the entire crazy outfit—and I will have your girl out and in your arms in quick order. So long, Count, rest well!” He was about to leave when he recalled the older man’s stiff punctilious ways. Reddening slightly he turned and, with courtly bend, added, “Au revoir, your Excellency!”

Pausing upon the threshold he looked back. “Have you a book on Roumelia with a map of the country? I might as well get posted before I see you again.” He laughed: “I am that way, Count; first slow and hard to move; but once I see my way clear—why, I get enthusiastic and forget that I am no longer a boy.”

The Count had the very book on the desk, map and all. Morton took it and retired.

CHAPTER V

MORTON reached the cooler air and took several turns around the deck. The soft breeze playing on his face, the sight of the twinkling lights and the bustle from the shore, awoke him to himself. He began to realize the situation in which he had placed himself, and to regret the enterprise to which he had, in a sense, committed himself. It was so different from the plans he had already formed, so entirely at variance with his thoughts and his aims. Was it really to be so? Or was it but a dream from which he had just awakened? He felt like a boy caught in a forbidden act. By Jove, the most sensible thing would be to go back to the cabin and tell the Count that the whole scheme was impossible! Surely the man was not quite right in his head! What had he to do with so absurd an adventure? Don would be certain to think he had been talking with a lunatic if he came to him with the story. Oh, yes, Don was the very man to consult about this matter. He would see him at once.

Then, into the kaleidoscopic whirl of his thoughts rose again the portrait of the beautiful girl he had seen. That was real, without a doubt. How lovely she was! He recalled the fine outline of the oval face, the thoughtful brow, the slightly parted lips with their faint curve of a smile. He wondered what color her hair and eyes were. And then he saw the slender throat, the simple, graceful pose of the child-woman. She surely must have a mind as beautiful as her face. He could almost see the little mouth pout, and the beautiful blue eyes (yes, they were blue) fill with tears.

He swore silently under his breath and lit his pipe. He could think better smoking. A few puffs and he had made up his mind. He was in for it, right or wrong—he couldn’t and wouldn’t back out. He was wasting time, even now. He must be up and doing. Don must be told at once. He wouldn’t tell him more than a bare outline—simply announce the change in his program and order him to prepare for a journey—the Count would have some plan worked out.

As to his people—his father? Oh, well, he had already intimated that he might go to Turkestan. The governor was all right and two or three weeks more wouldn’t make an absence of two years seem much longer. He would get ready.

On the main deck in a cozy spot he found Don, surrounded by youngsters of all ages and both sexes, telling the little ones some fairy tale. It was remarkable how fond Donald was of children and how quickly the children took to him.

“I am sorry, Don, to disturb this little party. Would you mind coming to my cabin—I have an important matter to talk over with you.”

If Don felt surprise he succeeded in hiding it. Smilingly depositing a mite of a girl from his knee on to the deck, he disentangled himself from the swarm about him, and said quickly: “All right, Mr. Morton, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Promising the children to resume his tale next morning, and accompanied by shrill calls of: “Don’t forget, Mr. McCormick,” and “Don’t tell anything when I aren’t here,” he followed Morton.

Arrived in his cabin, Morton silently motioned his man to a seat and sat down himself. He at once informed Don that important matters about which for the present he could say nothing, obliged him to change the original plan of travel. The journey to Italy would have to be interrupted by a couple of weeks’ stay in Eastern Europe. An important undertaking had to be accomplished that needed cool judgment and careful preparation. Don must leave by the midnight train and embark the next evening on the Lloyd boat for Brindisi. Further orders would be ready for him when he arrived there. Donald simply nodded and made ready to rise when Morton suddenly changed his mind.

“Don, we have serious work laid out for us—I am not ready to tell you what—I don’t quite know myself what it is—but you will have to be over there at once and start at the business. I’ll have our agent from Rome meet you in Brindisi and he will act on your instructions. I’ll cable him and have letters of introduction ready. Now let’s put down what we need.”

Don was to secure a large amount of money in gold and bills current in Balkan countries; especially gold—for Roumelia.

He was to obtain all the information available about Roumelia, collect newspaper articles on Roumelian affairs beginning with October fifteenth, tabulate them so that they could go over them quickly, and get information about the best train connections with Bucharest. Morton would need the help of an American Consul. Don must induce the Consul at Rome or Naples to come to Brindisi to meet him, Morton. Morton would explain things later. Passports good for all the Balkan states, and especially Roumelia, would be needed. Also introductory letters to American Consuls and to such men of standing as the consul or the agents of the firm could influence.

Don’s face had, during this recital, been assuming a more and more puzzled expression. “Is it all on the level, Mr. John?” he asked. “It sounds kind o’ crazy.”

John grunted: “It’s all right enough; just wait until you know why.”

Don was further instructed to obtain a full equipment for three men—four rifles, revolvers and ammunition—all of the best make. A camp outfit for five or six people, rugs, furs, tools, canned meats and provender for horses for ten days.

Don looked so astonished that Morton couldn’t suppress a grin. He decided to take his man further into his confidence, and impressed him with the need of discretion.

Once Don had the outline of the “job” clearly in his mind, he looked relieved. Morton knew now that all his instructions would be obeyed to the letter, and that he was certain of a faithful adherent. Don’s interest took on an enthusiasm which showed that he was eager for the adventure. The primitive man in him had begun to assert itself. He would do and dare anything.

When everything had been agreed upon and settled to their satisfaction, Morton dismissed his man and returned to the Count in his cabin. He found the old man feeling much better—the eyes were brighter and the tone of his voice stronger. He was glad that Morton had come because he was anxious to lay out the plans of action.

He informed Morton that he had cabled to his friend in Constantinople asking further information and expected a reply the next morning. When he was told that Donald was going to Brindisi ahead of them, he was pleased—that would gain time, he thought.

Mr. Morton was to go to Kronstadt in Transylvania, only a short distance from the Roumelian border and equip there. A good priest of that town, a faithful and well-informed man, would be of great help to him. His good will was assured—he was under obligation to the Count and could be relied on. With native guides and helpers obtained there—men that knew the country and language—Mr. Morton could assume the dress of an ordinary citizen and give out some purpose of travel not likely to awaken suspicion. The guides would drive into Padina as farmers bringing their produce to the town market.

At Padina—there was one man there, a Jewish merchant who was very loyal to the Count and his family, a very shrewd and resourceful man who, in all likelihood, would be standing well with the new powers. The man was absolutely true and loyal and would be of great assistance.

These matters clearly understood the Count suggested that perhaps an outline of the history of Roumelia during the past quarter century would help Mr. Morton to understand the situation. Morton expressed himself as eager to be enlightened.

No one could be with Count Rondell without succumbing to the charm of his magnetic personality. He told his tale with the skill of an accomplished raconteur and with the knowledge of personal experience. The man who was speaking had played a great part in the drama he unfolded. It was a rare pleasure that Morton enjoyed.

“I know, my dear Mr. Morton,” said the Count when he had finished, “that as a republican you may not be in sympathy with monarchy, but if you will permit me to explain it may help to straighten out any false ideas you may have—at least, so far as my own country is concerned.”

“By all means, Count,” replied Morton heartily.

“I shall not attempt to discuss which is or which is not the most proper and most enlightened form of government—that would be futile now—we certainly agree that some form of government is absolutely needed to secure the peaceful development of any commonwealth. You Americans, with a virile and highly gifted population descended from peoples who have lived under liberal laws for many generations, inhabiting a virtually virgin land of great resources, without a history of oppression to live down—you are capable of existing and prospering under a democracy. Believe me, my dear sir, Roumelia never could and never will survive under a similar form of government. The novelty may appeal to them, the delusion of a new kind of freedom may delude them, but the people are not educated for it, they are not ready for it. They need the pomp of a court, the strong personality of an acknowledged ruler to temper demagogue ambitions and to curb the desire of the common mind to become enriched at the expense of the country. There must be some one who is above bribery, who will not be swayed by selfish motives but who has the public welfare at heart—such a man can only be the king. His position is God’s gift; and he is responsible to his Maker alone! A republican form of government in the Balkans! My dear sir, it would be a farce, were it not a tragedy!”

Morton made no reply, and Count Rondell crossed his legs and leaned further back in his chair.

“My dear Mr. Morton,” he said, with a plaintive smile, “may I speak my mind to you? I cannot explain it, but I was drawn to you from the first. You are a man whose kind I have always loved and admired—perhaps it is because we do not raise the like in my own country. I wish I had a son like you!”

“Count, I am proud of your esteem and regard.”

“My dear boy!” and impulsively the Count pressed Morton’s hand. “I am very, very happy and feel certain you will succeed. Save my beloved daughter and the noble Princess—and, perhaps, save also Roumelia from herself and her abominations.”

“At present, Count Rondell, it will be well if I think less of politics or kings and more of the two ladies who will need all our help. If one of them regains her right—well and good.” The old man puffed at his cigar thoughtfully. “You are right,” he said at last.

The two men sat in converse until a late hour. Morton smoking incessantly, was satisfied to sit and listen to this remarkable old man, who in spite of his delicate frame possessed a will of iron, a mind as keen and as brilliant as a diamond and a heart as noble and tender as a woman’s. The Count had told him of his search for the weakling of a prince and its tragic end. Morton marvelled at the devotion and nerve of this faithful servant of the Crown. “What a man!” he said to himself. “What a splendid example for any highly resolved youth to emulate!” Surely he would do well to be moved by a like spirit! “Nihil sine Deo,” was Roumelia’s motto, the Count had told him. Henceforth his motto would be “Omnia cum Deo.” His heart expanded in sympathy for the long-suffering statesman—he would be worthy of the trust imposed in him and would succeed.

Again the likeness of the beautiful girl came before him. An overwhelming desire to see the photograph once more seized him. With the instinctive cunning of a lover, he remarked: “Bye-the-bye, Count, you will, of course, furnish me with proper credentials.”

“Certainly. The letters I shall have ready for you are carefully listed on the memorandum I have prepared for you. I shall also ask you to take this ring. It will vouch for you with all my friends and followers. When showing it say the words, ‘Arnim’s pledge.’ And I must also give you the photographs of the young ladies.”

Count Rondell, to Morton’s delight, reached for the portfolio and opened its quaint and curious lock.

“This I think is the best likeness of the three I have with me,” and he handed over the very photograph Morton had first seen. “I shall have a copy of it made early to-morrow and will include it with the other papers.” Morton had seized the portrait and was devouring it with his eyes. “She is a beautiful girl, Mr. Morton!”

John turned his face away so that the Count should not notice his expression, and remarked politely but with an air of nonchalance: “Yes, Count, she is very bright and attractive. It is a little difficult for a stranger to see a likeness—does she favor you in any way?” In his heart he felt it was the most adorable, the most beautiful face he had ever seen.

“She may, a little; but to me she has always seemed like her sainted mother. Although a child in appearance, she is past nineteen and quite tall.”

Morton thought nineteen was young enough. He longed to keep the photograph. He felt he could look at it for ever. Reluctantly he handed it back.

The hour was late and Morton regretted he had kept the sick man from his bed. Rising quickly he excused himself and, promising to look in early the next morning, he retired to his own cabin. There he learned that Donald had completed his packing, and was ready for the journey.

He at once sat down and wrote a letter to his father’s agents at Brindisi introducing Don and giving him full power to act in his stead, and requesting them to aid his representative in every way they could. Don was to be given such funds as he needed and instructions to this effect would come from headquarters by cable.

To his father he cabled: “Will leave England second week November. Will advise steamer. Take care yourself, love all. Please approve by cable heavy drafts on your agents Rome, Brindisi. Am well.”

To his mother: “Cable Hindoostan Port Said and later Brindisi father’s health. Can I stay in Europe two weeks longer? Love.”

Having despatched the cables he settled down to write his letters—one each to his father and mother. The cable he had received disturbed him. He was anxious about his father’s health.

The letters, indicative of John’s character and his relations to his parents are, perhaps, worthy of reproduction.

Suez, October ——, 189—.

Dear Father:

At last I am out of the desert and once more within civilization on my way home. I cabled you to-night:

“Will leave England second week November. Will advise steamer. Take care yourself, love all. Please approve by cable heavy drafts on your agents, Rome, Brindisi. Am well.”

I shall have to go to Paris for some days, see some friends in Germany and report in London to the Secretary of the Colonies about my work in Egypt; expect to take the Cunarder that leaves November 14th from Liverpool.

Have had your letters of August 10th and September 16th upon arriving here, and some letters from mother and sis. Also have your cable of the —— in which you ask me to come home as you are not feeling well.

I hope, dear father, this does not mean that you are ill. You work too hard and play too little. When I get back I’ll want you to make use of me, put me into harness and ease up on yourself. I have had any amount of time in the desert to think of my work and my duty, and I assure you, father, I will settle down and try to carry on your work and your plans. I have always admitted that you knew best and were ever right. I repeat that now and want to put myself at your service.

I am hearty and strong. You will find me fit and willing, and the life abroad and the knowledge I have gained have done me good, I think. How I do look forward, dear Dad, to seeing you again; to sit by you and chat and plan! How proud I am that my work here has been so successful! Dad, you will be pleased. Your ideas are absolutely borne out, and with the data we have of Jackson’s Hole country I am positive the work can be done and finished in two and a half or three years. We can rely on at least 300 million gallons of storage reserve and a useful supply of not less than 18 million per day. Isn’t that glorious?

Remember, father, you always hinted that my duty, as the last of the Mortons, was to settle down, marry and see to it that I shan’t remain the last of your doughty clan. Well, I am as “dour” as any Morton ever was—and willing. As I am writing in similar strain to mother I expect between you two you will try and pick the mother of my future offspring. I guess you will want her to be fair and mother dark—I will thus, at least, have a chance of choosing for myself!

But, joking aside, Dad, I am ready to quit roving for good, ready to give up adventure, ready to settle down in the dear old home and go into business. And if I can’t duplicate you, father, I’ll make a good try anyway!

Have you gotten the Mummy which I shipped in May; and did the Sarcophagus reach you that I sent by “underground” in July? The latter is certainly a very fine specimen and will just fit into your gallery.

I feel fine. I am, if anything, heavier than two years ago, and didn’t have a sick minute while in Africa. I am browned as dark as the headwaiter at the Lake House and with a little practice could beat you on the links.

Unless I have cable from you will stick to the above plan and be in New York on November 22d.

Donald is well and glad to turn his nose west. He asks to be remembered to you. You will be satisfied with him when you look at me.

Dearest love to you all, my loved ones.

Give my regards to all our friends whom I shall be glad to see again this winter.

I embrace you, my dear Dad.

Your loving

John.

P.S.—“Am going to draw rather heavily on your agents in Rome or Brindisi, as I won’t have time to see bankers before getting to London. Will settle by transfer from my account when I return.”

The other letter to his mother, he wrote more carefully.

Suez, October——, 189—.

My Dearest Mother:

By this same mail I am writing to father and you will get all information about me from that letter. You are not supposed to show this, your own letter, to Dad; it is partly for you only, as you will see in the next few sentences.

I have cabled to you inquiring if father’s health is in any way alarming and expect your reply promptly. If the answer is favorable I shall take a week or so in Europe for an enterprise which looks very important to me and of which you, I am certain, would approve.

I haven’t even time to write a long letter, but as I shall be but a week or two later than these lines, my tale can well wait.

This enterprise, dear mater, I cannot specify more exactly than to say that I know you would applaud the principle involved and would yourself urge me to undertake it.

I can hardly wait until I am home with you, dearest mother, and with father and Ruth. I shall have an awful lot to tell, of strange countries, experiences and a study of life that has been granted to few men. You may lionize me, mother, and ask all the swell people of the ultra cultured crowd to come and listen to your son’s adventures. I shall let my hair grow, raise again the beautiful whiskers that were four days ago sacrificed on the altar of comfort and decency (tell Ruth I have preserved a photo with them on) and satisfy the craving of society for something novel.

Mater, dear, you always claimed I was a good deal “Randolph” in my exterior; did the R’s ever run into red hair? My whiskers—save the mark—were of a hue which an enemy of your proud Virginia ancestry might designate as—red! Please don’t mention it to Ruth; the photo doesn’t show the color and she might be shocked.

Now, Mother dear, be happy and be sure to be just as pretty as you always were. I think the natural bird will be ready to be substituted for the fatted calf by the time I get home, because—Thanksgiving will put me at your table and—Oh, won’t the turkey taste good!

Love to Ruthie and thousands of kisses to you both, dearest mother.

Ever Your Loving Admirer and Son.

“Apropos! If Ruth really pesters you as she surely will and starts a guessing match—tell her the lady is five foot eleven, hair raven and eyes—a deep violet bordering on purplish black—she’s proud and has refused me three times. I am going to follow her into her retreat, play the guitar outside her little window for ten consecutive nights, moonlight or no light. If she melts under the influence of the sweet strains, my pleadings and the proofs of dad’s wealth—I shall bring her home dragging her along by a chain of Marshal Niel roses; if she remains cold and disdainful—she, I mean Ruth, can pick the girl for me in old America. But mind you—only one at a time, please, for safety’s sake. You must remember I have dwelt in the Orient for two years, and the Orient—you recall the hundred wives of Solomon? So don’t subject me to the charms of more than one divine lady at a time. Love to all—I mean you of course and not the prospective ladies!—John.”

The writing and sending of the cables and letters quieted John’s mind; he had acquitted himself of his filial duties for the time being at least. With renewed zest he again entered into his plans for the enterprise before him—and it was not until a very late hour that he found his bed.

The steamer reached Ishmaila and Port Said in good time. Here he received his one cable answer from his father informing him that the delay would not matter in the least and wishing him good luck and an early termination of the new work. Agents in Rome and Brindisi had been notified to honor his drafts.

Early next morning the Mediterranean was entered and the last stretch of the voyage begun.

Count Rondell had become feebler and appeared less frequently and for shorter periods on deck or in the smoking room. His features had become duller and John caught Dr. Brown more than once looking anxiously at his new friend. The Count never complained, rarely referred to his health at all and, when with John, would speak only of his country and his early life. Each interview served but to knit him and John more closely together.

One afternoon, when Morton, as usual, was visiting the count in his stateroom, he found the old man strangely silent and seemingly very depressed. John tried to draw him into conversation, asking questions about his beloved Roumelia, but the Count replied only in monosyllables. He seemed curiously embarrassed. Finally, however, the old man roused himself.

“My dear Mr. Morton—I feel ashamed and humiliated—I am at a loss how to apologize to you.”

John looked at him in astonishment.

“This morning,” continued the Count, “I was visited by some kind-hearted gentlemen who were so courteous as to wish to entertain me in my forced seclusion. I learned from them, for the first time, who you really are. I am distressed to think that I had offered you money as the price of your services. I knew, of course, of a Mr. Morton, one of the financial bulwarks of the Western world, but I never thought of connecting you with him. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

“My dear Count, pray, don’t distress yourself on that account. We can devote the money to the expenses of the undertaking itself if it is needed. Let us not refer to it again, Your Excellency.” John spoke heartily and with emphasis.

“You are very good. You absolve me, Mr. Morton?”

“Absolutely, Count.”

“I am greatly relieved. Thank you.”

By the time they had arrived at the Italian littoral Morton was well posted on Roumelia and also completely in love with his tutor’s daughter. It gave him a curious pleasure to hear the father talk about his child. The Count never, for a moment, suspected that John was skillfully guiding the conversation to that subject, for he himself was an enthusiast on it. John, on the other hand, did not realize that he was playing with fire but sat opposite the old man and kept saying to himself, “You don’t know what I am thinking, old chap! I wonder what you’d say, if you did know? I am ready to fall in love with your daughter, head over heels! Just you wait— I hope you’ll like it.”

The Count’s valet had made a very excellent print of the photograph selected and this copy was now safely stowed away in Morton’s breast pocket. It remained there until he reached the privacy of his stateroom, and then he placed it in the palm of his hand and gave free vent to his excited imagination.

She did have beautiful eyes, this “little Helène!”

CHAPTER VI

PAST Santa Andrea, the Forte a Mare of the harbor of Brindisi, the steamer crept slowly through the narrow channel connecting the outer bay with the splendid and well-protected inner waterway, and drew up alongside the fine stone Molo di San Giovanni across the heart of the town.

Morton, standing on deck aloof from his fellow passengers, extended his silent greetings to Europe. His heart beat with gladness and expectation. The last days had seemed never-ending, so eager was he to begin the adventure on which he had now set his heart. He had made his adieus to the ship’s company and passengers. Friendships easily and quickly formed on board a ship are, as a rule, built on the slender foundation of the ennui of the moment; the boon companions of the smoking room soon become merely pictures for the memory to paint in, after days; even the charming lady whose deck chair adjoins yours fades into the hazy past—“Out of sight, out of mind!”

Morton’s first care on landing, after meeting his agent from Rome who had come to the ship, was to see that Count Rondell had been safely and comfortably housed in a hotel. The old man was very feeble and it was with difficulty that he was removed from the ship. The ship’s doctor had seen to it that a good physician was in attendance to give him all the necessary attention and care. This done to Morton’s satisfaction, he promised the Count to return in a short time and went himself to a nearby osteria for any cables or letters which might have arrived for him. He learned that all his orders and instructions had been properly carried out and, what was more pleasing, that none of the cables or letters awaiting him called for any alterations in the plans he had made with Count Rondell.

Learning that a fast train left Brindisi for the North in a couple of hours, he gave Donald his final instructions and the letters he had prepared for him and saw him off for Kronstadt, promising to meet him there the day after his arrival.

With his agent Morton then went to the hotel and met the American Consul who had come from Naples to offer his services. The Consul turned out to be a pleasant and bright young man who was fairly well acquainted with the Balkan countries. He provided Morton with passports and letters of introduction to American Consuls in the section which he expected to visit. He suggested that Morton should travel under his own name as an American capitalist interested in oil lands and as being also interested in purchasing some of the highly bred horses for which Roumelia was noted. The rest must be left to Morton’s own quick wit, he said, and the length of his purse—especially the latter. The political state of the country was not quiet; but he thought that Morton, as an American trader, should meet with few or no difficulties. The people of the Balkans were tradesmen and loved to meet anyone by whom they could profit. With this parting advice he left.

Returning to the Count’s hotel, Morton found him in bed, weak but cheerful, with his valet and a newly engaged nurse in attendance. Dr. Brown, who was in the adjoining apartment, had telephoned for a prominent specialist from Rome who was expected to arrive within a few hours.

Morton took a chair, and begging the nurse to leave him alone with her invalid, sat down by the Count’s bedside. He told him in detail of what he had done since leaving the ship. The information cheered the sick man and brought a brighter look into his tired eyes. He pressed the young man’s hand gratefully. “I trust you implicitly, dear friend,” he murmured.

Morton smiled and promised that he would wire and write whenever he could do so without endangering the attainment of his ultimate object. He begged him to be of good cheer and to be patient—all would end well. His father’s agent had instructions to be at the Count’s service. Mr. Kelly, Morton’s agent, would call on him from time to time, and he begged Count Rondell to make liberal use of his time.

The old man could not speak, so overcome was he with emotion; but he pressed Morton’s hands and looked the gratitude he felt.

The hour had now approached when Morton must leave. The doctor also had come in and whispered that the patient was being overtaxed. Morton therefore rose:

“Count Rondell, my dear friend, I know what is in your mind. Let me assure you, that come what may, I shall do my best to look after your daughter. If you should not be here to protect her—I will. If she does not find a suitable home at the court,—I shall bring her to my mother, who will be her friend. Have no anxiety, dear friend. Think only of yourself—think only of getting well again. But, again, whatever happens she will never want a friend so long as I live.” He reached for the sick man’s hand and as a final word, said earnestly, “I will succeed.”

Count Rondell’s eyes had been closed while Morton was speaking. He now opened them wide, and a wan, happy smile irradiated his face. He pressed with feverish clasp the hand held out to him and whispered rather than spoke: “May God reward you, my son. If I get well—I shall be your debtor for life; if I die before your return—I shall die happy. May God bless you, my boy—Good-bye!”

“Au revoir, Count—be of good courage and get well!”

Morton withdrew hastily, afraid to trust himself any longer because of the stress of his emotions, and glad to relieve his mind in discussing the final arrangements for the Count’s care with Dr. Brown. To his agent, who was also waiting in the hotel, he entrusted the moneys the Count had given him with the request that they be deposited at the local branch of the “Banca Nationale” in the name and to the order of the Count. He was to draw on Morton’s funds for all that was needed for the Count’s comfort and to stop at no expense, if necessary.

Leaving the hotel, he threaded his way through the narrow and crowded streets and arrived at the railway station, very tired and hungry. A nearby osteria invited him with its cheerful aspect. In the sunny back-room the brown-faced comely hostess served him a bountiful meal of which he ate heartily. When he had finished, he looked at his watch and found he had still plenty of time. He thought of the cables he had received and took them from his pocket. “Father rather unwell but not serious according Brooks. Delay permissible. All well and send love, Mother.” His father had cabled more laconically: “Go ahead. Christmas will do. Agency has orders.”

He rang the bell and asked for pen, ink and paper. The smiling landlady bowed and returned with a green and orange striped penholder and a tiny bottle partly filled with a pale bluish fluid. What should he write? He leaned over the table and played with the penholder idly, sipping occasionally the chianti from a many-colored glass goblet. The slanting rays of the October sun lighted up the plainly furnished room with its whitewashed walls on which hung a chromo of a rosy-cheeked Madonna and child, and a dark crucifix. The wax flowers on the mantelpiece attracted a bee which buzzed noisily against the bell-shaped glass covering. Occasionally Morton would look up and glance through the open window through which he dreamily noticed the little brick-paved garden, deeply shaded by the high wall and the buildings enclosing it. A few brilliantly colored dahlias, some clumps of chrysanthemums, and a few tomato plants despoiled of their crimson glory waved gently in the wind. A solitary starling skipped in and out from between the beds furtively glancing about with bright eyes and seemingly quite unenthusiastic over the place in which he found himself. Even in sunny Italy, the autumnal season has its sad forebodings.

Morton felt he owed his mother some reason for the change he had made in his original plans. She would certainly expect an explanation. What should he say without betraying the confidence imposed in him by Count Rondell? And yet he longed to tell her of what was really impelling him. Should he send her the photograph? And if he did what could he say? No—he must say nothing about the girl. He must write generalities,—perhaps drop a hint or so, and let it go at that.

The monotonous regular ticking of the clock in the adjoining public room reminded him forcibly that time was passing and that the train would not wait. Dipping the pen into the bottle, he began and wrote rapidly:

Brindisi, October ——, 189—.

My Dearest Mother:

Since leaving Port Said I have had time to reflect on my lengthened stay here, of which I advised you by cable from Suez.

In Port Said I received your reply saying that father’s illness was not serious and my further stay in Europe permissible. Also that you and Sis were well. Here in Brindisi I received further confirmation by cable from you and father.

Of course I am very happy that dear father’s ailment (I can’t imagine what it can be) is not serious and fervently hope that you will be getting him into fine shape soon. I hope by the time I get home, he will be his old self again. I am equally glad that you and Ruth are well and happy.

As to myself—physically I am disgracefully fine, mentally I have nothing to worry me. I am more than anxious to get home, to embrace you and kiss you, and tell you of my work, my adventures, and what I have learned and done. I want to settle down, do anything you want me to do, mater dear, either in business, in society or even as a husband! Yes, dear mother, I am willing to do what you always hinted I should do—take unto myself a wife, emulate father’s example and be a good American business man and—a “paterfamilias.”

I didn’t intend to write all this, but since the cat is out o’ the bag, I may as well confess it. I can imagine you now going over the list of eligible girls; for of course there isn’t a girl living who would not jump at the chance of marrying your boy, your handsome John—all we have to do is to pick the best!

Seriously, mother, I feel it is time for me to cease wandering and to look for happiness and satisfaction in a home. It is time for me to be a true Morton (tempered, of course, with the blue blood of the Randolphs) and try my best to carry out father’s wishes and work with him.

I have seen and learned a great deal, but all that I have learned only confirms me in my conviction that all work is ennobling, that all true labor is equally honorable to a man. And I will do all I can to make you proud of me. I am going to show you a trick or two! So you’d better sit up and take notice!

To come back to the subject of girls—don’t smile, mater—I have gotten a glimpse of a girl I want to know better. If she is what I believe her to be, I shall try to win her. If all goes well, and my ideal is realized—I am sure, dearest mother, you will love her. I do not think I can lose my heart to one not worthy of your regard, and I am too much your son not to have my judgment swayed by feelings and sentiments like yours.

My taste has never been impugned—I must take after father, who certainly had an eye for beauty if his choice of a wife is to be anything to go by. This, between you and me, dearest mother, is a confession.

Just think of it, in a few hours I shall have shaken the dust of Italy (and with it the nasty little fleas that accompany it); in two weeks both Africa and Europe will have become a memory, and I shall be on the water sailing for my beloved home, eager to breathe the free air of America, greet the star spangled glory of our own land and be with you my dears—for better and for worse—for worse for you, eh?

Tell Ruth to be good, not to eat too much turkey or pudding on Thanksgiving and keep up her French. I shall bring her some new books and, perhaps, a poodle to talk to. And give her my love—and for goodness sake don’t tell her about the nonsense I have written on the previous page.

To father give my dearest love and best wishes. If his work and health permit we might, after New Year, run down to the Everglades while you and Sis stay in St. Augustine, and get some sport.

You, dearest mother, I embrace many, many times.

I kiss and greet you all, my dears,

Your loving son,

John.

The letter sealed and addressed, John gathered up his belongings, paid his modest reckoning to the buxom lady of the osteria and walked briskly to the station, whence now shone the first lights of the evening against the yellowish sky.

Dr. Brown and Mr. Kelly were both there to see him off. Soon the song of the wheels kept time to his thoughts as the train sped on its way to the North—to the new land of his adventure.

It was a relief to be once again entirely alone, alone with his thoughts and his romance. His hand stole to the inner pocket of his coat. From among the papers he carefully selected the photograph and held it at arm’s length, contemplating it with happy anticipation.

“It seems like a fool’s errand, but, by Jove, you are a beautiful girl! May success attend me—and may I bring you back with me, to my people—my sweetheart—my wife!”

CHAPTER VII

SPARKLING sunshine and a clear blue sky reminding him poignantly of the glory of the Indian Summer of his own land, greeted Morton upon his arrival at the neat and attractive terminal of Kronstadt—his present goal and the town that was to be his Rubicon. Kronstadt once behind him, and he on his way south, his adventure would have begun. He thought of Khartoum, recalling an earlier experience when this furthest bulwark of civilization had been his last outfitting station before going into the unknown regions of Africa, and experienced a similar sensation now that he had felt then— Was it a good omen?

The questions and doubts which had beset him so frequently during the tedious and solitary railway journey across Italy, Austria and Hungary again assailed him. He tried to put them out of his mind. There would be no turning back for him. The prudent caution of the Mortons died hard, but the Randolphs won out in the end. Of course, he was a fool, but it was good to be a fool among so many wise ones of the earth—good to be this kind of a fool.

Deeply occupied as he was with these and other thoughts—thoughts of the instructions Count Rondell had given him—he was yet sufficiently diverted by the glorious day, the novel and stimulating sights, to enjoy the short ride from the station to the St. Aloysius Rectory. He admired the well-paved beautiful avenue leading from the railway station to the town nestling among the green and brown hills, which stood out clearly against the ultramarine background of bold mountains.

Equally attractive was the town itself with its quaint and quiet square, its clean gravel walks and the groups of religious statuary guarded by massive chains hanging from moss-covered stone pillars.

The red-faced cabby, who looked like a character in a musical comedy, stopped his vehicle before a narrow, red brick building somewhat retired from the square, flanked by the gray walls of a nondescript church. He pointed with his whip-handle to the small stone-faced door above which was a tarnished cross and grunted something that John could not for the life of him make out. Above the door, in a circular panel, he made out the words, “St. Aloysius.” This was the place, no doubt. Dismissing the cabby, he walked up to the door and gave a vigorous pull at the bell-handle. After waiting a few minutes, he heard steps along the corridor within and the grating in the door slowly opened revealing the wizened features of an old woman who peered inquiringly out at him. He spoke to her in German and inquired after Herr Reverend Moskar. The little woman, after a prolonged and careful examination of Morton, evidently found him satisfactory, for she opened the door and begged him to enter.

He was ushered into a darkened sitting room and had scarcely time to look around him, when a door communicating mysteriously with the interior of the house was opened and there entered a heavily built, stout man in cassock and mitred cap. The features were grave and imposing; but when Morton gave his name, he was pleased to notice the face relax and glad to grasp the fleshy palm extended to him in welcome.

“You are most welcome, Herr Morton, as any friend of the noble Count Arnim is. I have already seen your servant, Mr. McCormick, and received the letter you sent by him.” Had the gracious gentleman, however, brought any letters from his noble patron the Count, the priest humbly asked.

John handed him a letter from Rondell and showed the ring. Immediately the priest’s attitude took on an even more friendly and courteous manner.

“If you are not too tired after your lengthy journey, perhaps you will come upstairs where we can be more comfortable and private.”

Morton bowed. The priest led the way back to the foyer and whispered a few words to the old woman who was standing near the door with her withered hands complacently folded. She retired at once.

“Pardon me,” remarked the priest as they were ascending the creaking stairs, “but our people are inquisitive and somewhat given to gossip.” John smiled his understanding.

Morton was then ushered into a well-lighted room, the sombre walls of which were lined with well-filled book-cases, above which hung a number of paintings of religious subjects. When they were comfortably seated, Father Moskar begged his visitor to speak as frankly as he wished of all that he desired him to know.

From a little closet he brought out a couple of goblets, a bottle of golden wine and filled the two glasses. On the table was a box of cigars which he pushed over to his guest. The ice thus broken, Morton entered on his subject while the old priest listened most attentively, taking in every word said to him. When Morton had concluded, the old man said quickly:

“Herr Morton—I will do everything in my power—but do not tell me your plans. It will be better if I am not in your confidence. Count Arnim has told you that you could rely on me. I am honored; but it will be wiser if I act according to your instructions without being acquainted with your reasons. As I understand, your man, Herr McCormick, is now at the wagoner’s, who is one of my flock. He will be well served there. I am expecting, at any moment, the arrival of another member of my congregation—a certain Papiu Ilarian, who knows well both the mountains of our land and those south of the divide. He speaks German, Roumelian and Bulgarian well; he has been a soldier and knows how to obey; he is also strong, hardy and reliable. After I have talked with Ilarian, you will find him ready to do anything you ask from him. On receipt of the letter your man brought me, I thought it well to attend to a few of the preliminaries. At the wagoner’s you will find horses bred in our own hills and inured to the mountains. The wagoner has ready what you require and you will find he will deal honestly with you. I shall pray for you and the success of your venture. Ach—I hear the voice of Ilarian—pray permit me to see him alone first. Kindly make yourself at home.”

Father Moskar left Morton puffing idly at his cigar. He returned, however, in a few minutes followed by a man of medium height, with broad shoulders, short neck, close-cropped, round head, small, brown eyes deeply set under bushy brows, and a heavy mustache giving the deeply lined and tanned face a rather fierce expression. His large hands with prominent knuckles fingered nervously a well-worn plush cap. His stocky limbs were encased in leather breeches and heavy cowhide boots.

“This, honorable and gracious Herr Morton, is Papiu Ilarian,” remarked the priest. Morton nodded smilingly and a broad grin spread over Papiu’s face as he shyly shuffled and bowed. “I have been speaking to him and he tells me he is ready to start at once. He expects to receive two florins per diem, the customary fee of an Alpine guide, and his term of hire begins now and may end whenever you choose. I have given him information about the character of the work to be performed. You may rely on him. He has a younger brother, Mihai, lately a resident of Roumelia, who can also be hired, if you wish. He vouches for him. Mihai, however, speaks very little German, but he is quick and bold. I have sworn Papiu to obey and follow you. He wishes to shake hands with you to bind the agreement. If you will shake hands with him, Herr Morton—the oath to me will have been transferred to you. I will leave you together now and will return when you call me.”

He bowed gravely and passed through the door silently.

Morton had been scrutinizing the face of the guide while Father Moskar was speaking. Not a muscle of it moved, nor did he stir an inch from his rigid upright posture. The small, intelligent eyes looked at Morton steadily with calm assurance.

Morton rose and offered his hand with a hearty gesture. Papiu seized it in a vice-like grip. Morton felt the man would be as true as steel.

“Papiu, when we get back, I shall pay you liberally, and if we are successful, I shall make you rich!”

“Herr von Moorton—a bargain is a bargain. I am your man and you are my master. Whatever your nobleness orders—Papiu will do.”

Looking boldly into Morton’s face, he continued: “And my brother, he is good with horses, quick with the rifle, has eye like a hawk and knows Roumelia and the people. If I hire him for you, he will swear—and his oath is good. You pay him the same money and give his sweetheart a present when we come back—Mihai will help good.”

“Very well, Papiu, tell him he is engaged. And now—let us go and look up the wagoner, where my friend waits for us. Do you know him?”

“I have seen him judging the horses. He looks good and strong and is kind to the beasts. He comes with us, he my friend.”

“Good, Papiu, let’s go then.”

Morton had a very busy time of it during the rest of the forenoon. He found Donald waiting for him and with his and Papiu’s help, they made the necessary purchases and loaded the wagon. The things he had shipped from Italy had been delivered and were also included in the load.

During a frugal meal partaken of in the smithy, Morton arranged that he would start early that very afternoon by the regular train for Bucharest, in his assumed character of prospective investor and buyer of blooded horses. Donald and the two brothers were to leave next morning with the vehicle and the relay horses. They were to join him on Saturday at Padina, where they would make arrangements for relay horses and prepare a safe stopping place a night’s drive beyond Padina on their way to the mountains.

Mihai now came on the scene and was duly introduced. Papiu held some speech with him, looking very serious and impressive. He explained to Morton that the holy father had instructed Mihai and that his brother would like to shake hands with Herr von Morton. Morton accepted the hearty grip of the mountaineer who smiled his gladness.

Mihai proved to be an elongated copy of his elder brother. On being consulted, he suggested the “Bovu Aro” (Golden Calf) Inn as a good rendezvous, a little beyond Padina. Morton congratulated himself on having secured the services of two such fine fellows. He impressed upon them, however, the necessity for avoiding giving cause for suspicion to the natives of the country they were about to travel, and especially to steer clear of any military guards. His own man, Don, would keep out of sight as much as possible, so that a great deal would be left to their discretion. If they were asked their business they were to say that they were but going to market and returning; they would enter Padina from the Northwest, on the road running in from the Aluta Valley. On this road they were to make a careful record of all telegraph stations, villages and houses between their last stop and Padina. He gave them money sufficient to carry them on their way and for any further expenses they might be compelled to incur. The two men said they understood his instructions and would follow them carefully.

The horses were hitched into the shafts of the stout, canvas-covered wagon now all loaded and ready. Don and the two men got in; the wagoner mounted the seat and with a parting good-bye and a crack of the driver’s whip, they lumbered away, leaving Morton alone in the yard. He looked after the wagon and as he saw it disappearing in the distance, he speculated as to what would be the outcome of this enterprise—an enterprise so suddenly put to him and so suddenly entered on. Surely it would end well! Nay, it must end well. Putting all doubts out of his mind, he made his way to Father Moskar’s rectory. He thanked the old priest heartily for his kindness and promised to come back and tell him the result of his undertaking. The old man gave him his blessing in return.

At the depot he found his train waiting. It was made up of a number of baggage cars and but one car for passengers. Finding a comfortable seat, he amused himself in watching the conductor, in resplendent uniform, running alongside the train as he kept blowing energetically through a little horn the signal to the engineer to start. Soon the labored puffing of the locomotive told him that he was at last on his way. It was a wearisome journey, all up-grade, through deep cuts and over widely stretched viaducts; but he was too much occupied with anxious thoughts of the coming days to notice the beauty of the mountain scenery. He felt the pulling power of the engine and realized hazily that they were climbing, climbing, climbing. Suddenly it seemed to him as if the train had been lightened of a load, and looking out he saw that the engine had slowed down and that they had arrived at a little station on a small plateau. A prominent sign-post caught his eye. It was printed red, white and green on one side, and a bright yellow and crimson on the other. They had reached the boundary, the divide, and all around him rose up the great peaks of the Carpathians.

The gorgeous conductor stepped up to the compartment and informed Morton that he would have to change now. On the platform he found a number of gendarmes busily engaged in examining the passengers’ baggage. One of these accosted Morton in foreign-sounding German, and asked him for his valise and passport.

Everything was found to be in order. The gendarme, made happy by the gift of a cigar, ushered Morton into another car on a side-track. A shrill blast and the train moved slowly out. Soon the descent began and the rapid motion roused Morton to his surroundings. It was a truly magnificent sight to behold. White peak on white peak gleamed in the brilliant golden light of the afternoon sun. Then came rounded hills and after these the sharper contours of the Alpine range; and before he had had time to take it all in, the train had entered the rolling meadows and glades of the Great Danubian plain.

The splendid panorama had passed and Morton’s interest subsided. He leaned back against the leather upholstery of the compartment once more alone with his thoughts. Occasionally the conductor would look in at the window from the stepping board on the outside of the car and nod pleasantly to him. Morton would return the greeting automatically and resume his meditations. Yes, he was learning, and learning fast. In the desert from which he had but lately stepped out, so to speak, a man was measured by his offensive or defensive value—whether he would protect himself or be a danger to others. In the countries of civilization, he was similarly appraised, although in terms of social standing or money. In this isolated Transylvania, however, into which he had come, he had found a difference. Here was a loyalty founded on faith in human nature and religion. Father Moskar had gently but firmly declined even his offer of a contribution for the poor; while the two rough men had refused more than their just wages for their services. How different were these from those he had known in his past life! Nay, how different even from himself! Why had he undertaken this enterprise? He could not help confessing to himself that his motives were really selfish ones. What lay behind his readiness to rescue the Count’s daughter if not his own desires? Was not even love itself a selfishness—the supremest of all selfishness?

“I have been too long in the desert,” he muttered to himself; “it is high time I came back to civilization. Man was not created to live alone.”

The train crossed a bridge and the noise made by the sound roused him to his whereabouts. He was nearing his destination. The approach to the capital of Roumelia was not marked by the usual signs of a large city’s outlying districts. He missed the factories and the tall chimneys belching forth smoke; he saw no railroad crossings, or culverts, or streets crowded with toilers. Instead, he made out, in the dark and gloom of the fast oncoming evening, gaunt buildings against a leaden sky and sparsely lit thoroughfares. Then, with snortings and puffings, the train entered the ill-smelling and smoky shed of the depot. He was in Bucharest.

Scarcely had he alighted when a villainous looking porter grabbed his valise from him and said some words in a language which was Coptic to Morton. He decided to allow the fellow to have his way and followed him, through the press of outgoing people, to the entrance. Here he found a uniformed individual with a magnificent beard black as coal. Catching the porter by his sleeve, he held him while he asked of the soldierly Swengali, in English, the name of a good hotel. He was evidently understood, for the uniformed person spoke to the porter and in wretched English asked Morton to follow him to the Grand Hotel Metropole. John then noticed that the name of this hotel was embroidered in gold on the man’s cap.

The porter was feed and relieved of his burden, and Morton found himself installed in a hotel bus which was soon rattling noisily over the stones. Arrived at the hotel, he registered as from Cleveland, U. S. A., and was given fairly decent rooms.

His first business, after he had made himself presentable, was to write a short note to Mr. Bronson, the American Consul, to whom he had letters of introduction from Brindisi. He invited him to dine with him that same evening. Morton knew that there was magic in his visiting card and had no doubt that his invitation would be accepted.

This done, he leisurely descended the broad stairway that led to the large and rather garishly decorated foyer there to await the return of his messenger.

He had no sooner stepped into the hall than he was accosted by a tall and lean individual in faultless lounging suit, who addressed him in perfect French by name and presented his card. He was M. Puscariu, Agent of the Department of the Interior—Would Monsieur Morton permit him to ask him a few questions—excusable in the present state of the country? He was sure that Monsieur would have no objection.

Monsieur Morton had none. He held the card before him and read the name slowly and with perfect composure. Trouble was beginning already, he thought. He begged Monsieur Puscariu to proceed.

The sergeant of gendarmes had reported that Monsieur Morton had an American passport and had registered from Cleveland. The passport, however, had been issued at Rome, and within five days it seems. Would Monsieur Morton kindly explain.

John was nonplussed. He looked anxiously around for his messenger and, luckily, spied the boy just entering and moving toward the clerk’s desk. If there was one man on earth more than any other that he wanted for a moment, it was the American Consul. Begging Monsieur Puscariu to excuse him for a moment, he hurried towards the messenger boy and was informed by him that Signor Bronson would be at the hotel without delay.

Greatly relieved, he rejoined Monsieur Puscariu and informed him that the American Consul would arrive presently and explain for him. In the meantime, would not Monsieur join him in a cigarette? Monsieur Puscariu would be delighted. What a bond of fellowship there is in a smoke! It is well called the pipe of peace. Morton and the agent to the Secretary of the Interior, as they sat together on the broad lounge would, to a stranger entering the hotel, have seemed to be life-long friends, so quickly had the cigarette dissipated all feelings of restraint. Surely it is the frailties rather than the virtues that cement human relations! It would, indeed, seem as if it were the touch of weakness which makes the whole world kin. Perhaps, this it was which made Monsieur Puscariu look on the American stranger as a gentleman. Had he, however, entertained any other thoughts there was no time to dwell on them for Mr. Bronson just then entered hurriedly.

Morton rose to meet him and was greeted in return with considerable effusion. When the Consul learned the object of the agent’s presence, he drew the official aside—and told him very impressively who this Mr. Morton was. The change that came over the face of Monsieur Puscariu was amusing. From an official solemnity, it melted almost instantaneously into smiling respect. Here was a man whose very breath was odorous of ready cash. Ah, yes, this was quite a different matter. There was no necessity for any explanations—none whatsoever.

But Morton insisted. He informed the two gentlemen that he was to be in Bucharest but for a few days. He had come to make a preliminary and merely cursory investigation of the status of certain oil concessions. He was desirous to find out how the government would take the investment of foreign capital for developing this natural product of the country. At present, however, he would prefer to engage an attorney of high standing to make these inquiries and report to him. Incidentally, he might seize the occasion of his visit to secure some good stallions and a few brood-mares of the celebrated strain of Carpathian percherons for his farms in Ohio. These were his principal reasons for asking the Consul to call on him.

Monsieur Puscariu and the Consul exchanged quick glances—here was a fine opportunity for both. The Roumelian was now convinced that the quiet young man must be made much of—there was no doubt about that. He was the more firmly convinced after smoking one of Morton’s fine cigars and drinking a glass of Tokay. He knew the very attorney for Monsieur Morton’s business. He would send the gentleman to call if Monsieur Morton desired it. As Monsieur Morton did desire it, Monsieur Puscariu was still more firmly convinced of John’s importance. Assuring Monsieur Morton of his most sincere esteem and promising that the honored visitor to his beloved country would receive every consideration, the agent bowed himself out, leaving John alone with the Consul.

Mr. Bronson, a bright young fellow from one of the South Atlantic states, quickly took occasion by the ear and informed John of his disappointment with the position he occupied in Bucharest. His salary was far from adequate for his office. It was bad enough to be in Bucharest before the political upheaval; but since the revolution,—the place had become absolutely a hell’s hole. There was no money in his job! His fees for the past few weeks wouldn’t buy a square meal.

If John had any scruples, they vanished at hearing Mr. Bronson’s words. He felt himself justified in throwing out hints of the “governor always taking care of his friends,” and spoke of fees and commissions for parties handling the proposition rightly. He indulged in some “tall talk” about petroleum, and asked the Consul’s opinion as to the fitness of the attorney the agent had recommended. The Consul knew him and advised his retention; he was in with the powers that be, and that, just now, was important.

The attorney was sent for and arrived so quickly that Morton concluded Puscariu had not wasted any time. The lawyer proved to be the very man he wanted—shrewd, obsequious and greedy. A fat retainer to this powerful gentleman and he was sure he would neither be disturbed nor watched. From this same individual he obtained the name of a breeder of horses whose stud was an hour’s drive from Padina, in a small town at the foothills of the Arges. He obtained this information, as well as a letter of introduction, on the plea that, as he would be going north for a couple of days’ hunting, he would like to utilize the time looking for horses. He thought he would be back in Bucharest the following Saturday or Sunday, in which event he would advise the Consul and Mr. Attorney.

When the two gentlemen left Morton, they were both richer by many dollars than they had been prior to their visit. They parted from him with still larger hopes of future reward, and anxious to do the rich American every service in their power.

Morton, as he mounted the staircase, congratulated himself on having done a good day’s work—he was convinced he had provided for the removal of many unknown obstacles in his way.

In his room he sat down at the table and wrote the following letters:

The first in German, and written with a stub pen and in a disguised and uneducated hand, on plain paper, was addressed to Sig. Jacobo Rosen, Casa Cornu, Via Colomba, Padina. Rosen was the name of the Jewish merchant recommended by Count Rondell.

Hon. Sig. Rosen:—

Your friend, the good Sig. Nimar, the merchant returning from India, Arabia and Egypt, was taken seriously ill in Italy and could not come in person. He has heard from Constantinople and so as to admit settlement of the business pending between yourselves has requested and empowered me to act for him.

I shall be in your town to-morrow evening intending to purchase horses from the Olata ranch for export. I desire to buy the two famous mares about which Sig. Nimar spoke to me.

Upon my arrival I shall call upon you and ask you to arrange the affairs of your friend so that I can conclude my business at an early date. I have moneys with me and papers.

I shall stop at the “Bovu Oru.”

Most Respectfully,

John R. Morton.

This letter he enclosed in a soiled envelope.

The second letter, written on the hotel’s paper and with a fine pen, was addressed to his father at 210 Euclid Ave., Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A.:

Bucharest, October ——, 189—.

Dear Father:—

I arrived here to-night, and immediately got into touch with the Consul, Mr. J. S. Bronson, and through him with an attorney, Sig. Andra Jonescu, whose card I herewith enclose. He was recommended to me as the best lawyer on affairs of land titles, etc., and looks and acts like a capable business man. He understands English well and you can correspond with him directly. I have paid him his retainer and he will make a preliminary report shortly.

I am going to try to get some good percherons from the “Olata” ranch—our own strain will stand some new blood. If I secure any good animals I will try and ship them while I am here.

Everything appears to me to be quite normal; transfer of titles would be perfectly legal and all acts of the de facto government will stand test, I am told. We should have no difficulty in dealing either with owners of land or the administration.

Of course, I shall act with due caution and have some official of high rank confirm this before acting finally.

The government, I am told, would welcome the investment of foreign capital in land and industries and will give both protection and guarantee.

I am well and have enjoyed the trip. I will not remain longer than the business requires. I might get a chance at some good shooting (there is fine game to be had in the mountains and in the Delta), in which case I may prolong my stay a few days. If I don’t get to Paris by November 20th, will cable.

With love to dear mother and Ruth, I am, dear father,

Your loving son,

John.

Putting on his coat and cap, John walked down to the foyer, and having learned from the gloriously arrayed and imposing chief porter the location of the nearest mail box, he leisurely sauntered toward it.

The street was totally deserted, not even a lighted shop window was to be seen. This surprised him. He had been told that Bucharest was known as the “Paris of the East.” It looked like anything but that just now. He surmised the change was owing to the troubled times. As he slipped the letters into the mail box, he had a feeling that he had been followed. Without in the least betraying his suspicions, he paused and lit a cigar and then slowly made his way back to the hotel, smiling quietly. “You are welcome to read both letters—but one of them, I guess, you won’t recognize as mine,” he muttered to himself.

The next morning was spent in making a few necessary purchases. He visited the principal streets, and made it his business to look into the largest stores. He observed that he was being followed wherever he went; but he took no notice and went about his business as if seeing nothing. The town was in that state of suspended animation that betokens an unusually unsettled condition. Shopkeepers seemed surprised to find a patron; the few women he saw were sober and barely let their glances fall on him, though it could be easily seen that Morton was a stranger—he had taken good care to get himself up like the typical English tourist. Few conveyances of any description disturbed the curious quiet that had come over the city, a quiet as if from drowsiness.

Evidently, an ominous cloud was hovering over the place, and Morton felt that he was walking on the thin crust of a lake of molten lava, when any moment his feet might break through. Wherever he went he was certain to meet either a “Guarda Civil” with his fierce mustachios, or an officer with clanking sword and spurs, or a gendarme in his bizarre hat and baggy pantaloons many inches too long for him. But no one said a word to him, nor did he hear any words spoken.

He was not sorry to find that a train would take him to Padina and land him there that evening. Quickly packing a valise and informing the clerk that he would retain his room, he made his way to the railway station and found the train on time.

At the Padina depot, he inquired from a sleepy looking guard after the best hotel, and was glad to have the man point down the street to the very house he had intended to stay at. It was but a short walk and the foggy evening air hid the inhospitable appearance of the place. But it could not hide the miserable condition of the roadway, a trench-like, broad furrow, between low, dingy buildings of box-like structure. It was full of holes and pitfalls, and a pedestrian sank ankle-deep in its mud. John recognized the hotel by its swinging sign—an unnaturally meaty bull painted with garish, coppery bronze—which glittered in the feeble rays of an antiquated oil lamp fastened above it. He set down his bag and with a resigned sigh gave a vigorous pull at the bell-handle.

The door was opened by the landlord in person. He looked astounded to see a man with a valise—evidently, guests were not an event of everyday occurrence. But his countenance quickly assumed its professional smile and, with a nod of his unkempt head, he invited Morton in. To Morton’s inquiries, he responded in a curious jargon of German and Roumelian, which Morton understood sufficiently to be satisfied that he would find the accommodation he needed.

Bearing aloft an ill-smelling and smoky tallow candle in a tin receptacle, the landlord led the way up a stairway, the walls of which had been anciently plastered and whitewashed. Arrived at the upper floor, he entered a room and placed the light on a small table and the guest’s bag on a most uninviting looking bed. Then, turning, he gave vent to some more guttural sounds and left Morton alone. The sounds were intended to convey the information that the gentleman’s dinner would be ready in half an hour in the tap-room.

It was with many misgivings that Morton looked about the cell that was to serve as his residence for the next few days. The prospect was by no means a pleasing one. The walls of a dirty white, roughly plastered, showed many cracks and nail-holes, and numerous blotches of soot or smoke where previous visitors had evidently sent up burnt offerings on the altar of a night’s peace from vermin. The bed, piled high with pillows and quilts, assured warmth, but not cleanliness; a rickety washstand with rough bowl and pitcher, both chipped and cracked, two rickety chairs, a small table, and a number of wooden pegs driven into the wall, completed the furnishing. This was the first real shock to John’s fortitude. He had realized that he might have to encounter dangers, but he never thought that he might be nauseated. In his camp in the desert, vermin and insects were a part of the natural order of things, so to speak; but in this “hotel”—faugh!—Morton’s lips twisted themselves into an expression of disgust.

Still, it was an ill wind that did not blow some good. The very primitiveness of the place would protect him from an espionage which might prove to be far more inconvenient than the discomfort. And he was not just now interested in offering suggestions for running model hotels. He was about to make up his mind to risk a descent to the tap-room, for he was very hungry, when a gentle knock sounded on the door. Taking the battered candlestick in one hand and cautiously opening the door, he peered into the dark stair-landing. In the flickering light, the shadow of a man stretching along the deal boards of the hall seemed gigantic. But the feeling aroused by the size was quickly dispelled by the voice which emanated from the person. In a low, whining and apologizing tone, and in a language which was intended for German, the man inquired for the most honorable and respected Signor Moor-ton.

John made himself known. The little man bowed low, removed his hat, and begged permission to introduce himself. He was the unworthy and humble store-keeper Rosen, a purveyor to the wants of travelers whatever their needs or desires might be. Would not his Honor permit him to be the first merchant of the town to offer his services to provide whatever the gentleman wished to purchase in Padina? His stock of goods was the choicest to be had anywhere outside of Bucharest and the prices the lowest.

John was very much taken aback. Was this grotesque and trembling shadow, this ridiculous little figure the man in whom the Count had placed such reliance? Was he to be the mainstay of his enterprise? It surely could not be. And yet he must have come in response to the letter Morton had sent him, the night before. Perhaps the fellow was playing a part of set purpose! Still, it was an untimely hour for a visit.

“Why do you come here? Why did you not wait and see me downstairs? You Jews don’t waste any time, that’s certain. Well, now that you are here, come in and state your business. Be quick about it for I haven’t much time!”

He had spoken roughly, and with a quick turn he walked into the room.

CHAPTER VIII

WITH much bowing and scraping and apologetic mumblings, the Jew passed through the doorway and into the room. Once within, he gave a quick turn and, closing the door quietly, he carefully pushed home the bolt on the inner panel. When he turned again, John was astonished at the transformation in the man’s features and bearing.

The bent figure had assumed an erect attitude and carried a head surmounted by a brow indicative of high intellectuality. In the light of the candle which now shone fully on his face, the fine, dark eyes were full of intelligence. He continued to speak in a whining voice, as he held out a piece of paper to Morton, of matters of trade; but as soon as Morton had taken the paper from him he whispered: “Read while I talk. Answer questions without using names; we may be overheard or even watched.”

The whisper, in perfect German, was spoken with the intonation of a man of education. John needed no further explanation as to the real personality of his uninviting caller. He examined the writing and read:

“Pay no attention to what I am saying now—read!”

“Where did you leave my patron?”

“Have you vouchers to prove who you are?”

“What do you want?”

Morton walked to the table, and on the reverse side of the paper wrote:

“In ill health at Brindisi.”

“Have letter from Nimar and the Count’s ring; countersign, ‘Arnim’s pledge.’”

“Want to take two girls out for a long drive.”

He handed the paper back to the Jew, who never ceased from talking and gesticulating while he glanced quickly at the replies Morton had written. Morton took the Count’s ring from an inner pocket and held it out in the light. Rosen bowed courteously.

“All is well!” he said in low, clear tones. “To-morrow morning at nine walk along the street to your right, and under the third tree after passing the corner you will see a small boy in a red cap, playing. When he sees you, he will walk off. Follow him. He will enter a doorway. Pass through after him. Twenty paces further you will see an open gate in a high wall. Pass through that also and bolt the gate after you. To your right in the garden, you will find a green door. It will be unlocked; enter, and if anyone asks you your business say you want to see Sig. Rosen about the rare old crucifix he offered you. My daughter Rachel will be there. She will guide you. Is everything clear?”

Morton nodded.

The Jew then resumed his cringing manner and, backing softly to the door, he slipped the bolt back and passed through, whining aloud in his sing-song tones: “I thank your Honor for your indulgence. I hope you will let me show you the articles I spoke of. I can also exchange foreign money for our own. I have beautiful jewelry that would please your ladies, and very fine Turkish arms and antiques to show you. The best and rarest articles from Persia and Anatolia can be found in our town. I am your obedient servant—Good night! and thank you, your Honor.”

The last words came up to Morton from the bottom of the stairway and were accompanied by the sound of the man’s feet shuffling along the hallway.

Things were developing! Morton blew out his candle and felt his way to the tap-room where he found the promised supper awaiting him. The landlord looked unconcerned and served him rather surlily and with ill-concealed indifference. Sitting at a small table in the corner, and removed from the range of an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling in the middle of the room, sat a man apparently engrossed in the contents of a black bottle before him. Ah—this, then, was the explanation for the Jew’s caution! The fellow did not even glance at Morton, foreigner as he must have struck any native to be. He was evidently there for a purpose. Morton took no notice of him, but busied himself in doing justice to the savory dishes provided for him. He took his time about eating and ordered a bottle of wine which he found excellent.

His hunger appeased, he invited the landlord to help him finish the bottle. The landlord, nothing loth, drank heartily and answered readily the questions Morton put to him, which related only to horses and hunting, and took a second bottle to satisfy. And still the man in the corner said not a word, but kept on sipping the liquid in his glass and staring vacantly before him. When Morton had finished, he bade the landlord good night and ascended the stairs to his room.

In spite of his first distaste for the bed, Morton found it more inviting now that he had had a decent meal and was feeling the effects of the wine he had drunk with the landlord. He slept very soundly, though his sleep was filled with dreams of running fights with rough men and hairy beasts, of scaling rocky heights and sliding into deep pits, of detectives following him wherever he went and of a greasy-looking Jew grinning at him.

When he awoke, the full daylight was slanting through the openings of the blinds. He was soon dressed and in the tap-room eating his breakfast. His meal finished, he lit a cigar and walked carelessly down the street.

Keeping to the right, he found, as Rosen had told him, a boy, under the third tree, deeply intent on playing with some glass balls. Before he had approached to within some yards of the spot, the urchin had collected his marbles and was throwing and catching his fez in the air. When he had almost reached the lad, the little fellow ran off and disappeared through a low door in a plastered wall. Morton noted the spot and, walking nonchalantly, passed through it, with a carelessness of manner that betokened utter indifference.

He now found himself in a narrow garden plot bordered by a red brick walk. There was little enough in the garden to attract the attention—only a bed or two of autumn flowers, and at the far end, a grape vine roofing a small rustic kiosk. Beyond, the view was cut off by a low rambling structure with heavy tile roofing, the weather-worn eaves of which were covered with deep moss. There was no sign of life anywhere, except the chattering of a few sparrows in the dense boxwood hedge along the walk, and the cooing of some pigeons strutting on the brick walk.

Remembering the Jew’s instructions, he threw away his cigar and turned to his right. A green door in the plastered building confronted him. When he had closed the door behind him a voice from the dark shadows of the hallway called out: “Who is there?” He gave his name to the invisible interlocutor and added that he had come to see the crucifix Herr Rosen had for sale.

By this time his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness and he could make out the figure of a woman approaching. A door was thrown open and he was asked to enter.

The room in which he found himself was invitingly cozy. It was furnished with an old-fashioned hair-cloth couch and deep chairs. A finely carved round table and an old desk, littered with papers, occupied the rest of the space. The walls were covered in dark leather and decorated with choice etchings. In a corner a choicely carved cupboard stood out in its classic distinction. He had barely time to note these things when he heard the creaking of a door to his left. The hanging was thrust aside and a small but well-built young woman approached smilingly and courtesied to him with quiet self-possession.

“I am Herr Rosen’s daughter, Rachel. Please be seated.”

John bowed, sank into the nearest chair, the bountiful proportions of which he thoroughly enjoyed—it was very comforting after his restless night. At once the young woman plunged into the subject, speaking in fluent German.

“What do you wish me to tell you, Herr Morton? Have no hesitation; you may trust me fully.”

“I am here to take two ladies out of the country, Miss Rosen. Perhaps it will be better if I do not give their full names.” Miss Rosen nodded knowingly. “Very well, then,” continued Morton, “my first object is to be introduced to Miss Mary and Miss Helène. Then I want to find out how they are being detained.”

Miss Rosen hesitated for a moment and then spoke rapidly as if she were thoroughly conversant with the whole matter.

“Miss Marie is more or less a prisoner in the castle—exactly opposite this house”—she pointed in the direction of the red tiled building he had observed in the garden. “Miss Helène, however, is allowed more freedom. She will be here in less than an hour. She would not forsake Miss Marie and is with her as her companion. She comes here every day after chapel for some of the things they are permitted to have. She is supposed to be at her prayers, but she comes to us instead. I will see that you meet her in this room. It would be no use for you to speak to Miss Marie; the poor girl could not help you in any way. Miss Helène is different. She will do whatever you ask her if it means their freedom.”

“How are they confined, Miss Rosen?”

“The Princess—pardon the slip, but no one can hear us here—Miss Marie is in the south wing of the castle, adjoining the chapel, which is built close to the enclosure of the grounds and at the South Gate—the side entrance to the summer castle. If you go through our house that way,” and she pointed to her right, “you will reach Calla Aurel; almost directly opposite to our house is the entrance gate. Marie is never allowed to go out, but Helène is permitted to walk in the town for an hour. If she exceeds that time, she will not be allowed to go back.”

“Then Miss Helène could leave Padina if she wished?” inquired John in surprised tones.

“No, the gates of the town and the railway are guarded day and night. No one can leave unobserved; indeed, scarcely a soul has left town in the last two weeks. But she could be gotten out of town, however, if she could find anybody to undertake the task. Father has offered to arrange it; but she declines to go. Miss Helène will not leave the Princess.”

“Can you suggest a way by which Miss Marie could be smuggled out?”

“I know of only one way which I think would be feasible.”

The young woman looked earnestly at Morton as if trying to read his mind. “May I tell it to you?”

“By all means. Your father has told me I can rely on you. Tell me what you have in your mind.”

The girl smiled. “I will, but my plan requires quick action. Our maid is the sister of Sergeant Valera, who is in command of the guards at the south entrance to the palace. One of the guards is her sweetheart—they are to be married as soon as he can afford it. The girl tells me that her Marco will do anything for her. She can arrange that he shall be the guard on any required night. The rest would be simple—merely a liberal sum of money.”

John looked at the girl admiringly. “Splendid, Miss Rosen, splendid! The money will be easy—I’ll attend to that. Arrange for Marco to be the guard for to-morrow night and I’ll get them both out of this place. Can you manage it?” John had risen in his excitement. “I’ll look over the ground now, if I may.”

“Not so fast, Herr Morton,” came in quiet tones from Miss Rosen. “You will only arouse suspicion. Wait here for the present. Miss Helène will be here now any minute and you can talk it over with her first.”

“You know best, dear lady,” and John, somewhat calmed, reseated himself.

“Tell me, Herr Morton, what news from the capital?”

“Things are in a very unsettled state there, I am afraid, Miss Rosen. The fate of the royal family and the imprisoned leaders of the nobility is not known positively. The Parliament has adjourned for the celebration of the feast of All Souls and will not re-open until Saturday evening. It is expected that Flava will, on that day, try to carry the assembly in favor of his extreme views and that the Flavarists and the liberal Left will cast their vote with him if he so chooses. Everybody takes it for granted that he will ask for a vote condemning the royal family and nobility to expulsion or, perhaps, worse. He will not spare any of them. In the cafés it is rumored that he is seeking to duplicate the proceedings of the French Chamber after the fall of the Gironde—and you know what that means! If we are to act, we must act promptly, or it may be too late. The two ladies must be out of this town by Sunday at the latest.”

Rachel’s face had grown pale. Her hands kept crossing and uncrossing convulsively, and a look of deep fear came into her eyes.

“God of my people,” she whispered in an awed voice, “this is terrible! You are right, Herr Morton, the ladies must be taken away. Oh, Herr Morton—our peasants and our townspeople here are so good and obedient if only they are left to their own good natures. So happy and contented! They love their homes, they love peace and adore their king! Unhappy land—the football of ambitious villains! Yes, yes, Herr Morton, the ladies must be rescued. And we, too,—my father and I will go also. God help us!”

Morton listened silently to this outburst, unable to say a word. What crimes are not committed in the name of liberty! And what fearful sufferings are not endured for those so-called rights of man!

“Father has told me that you are an American. You are the first from that country I have met. You look as if you could accomplish what you undertake. Oh, how I wish I could help!”

“You can, nay, you are helping, Miss Rosen. But you are too young to have such a burden and sorrow thrust upon you.”

“The daughters of our race become women very early in life. We ripen soon. Our people have had to bear a life of persecution for many generations. We know what it is to suffer. That has ever been the lot of the Jew. Believe me, Herr Morton, ours is but a brief childhood.”

Morton could say nothing; he could but look the sympathy he was feeling. The color had mounted to the girl’s cheeks and she was speaking from an overflowing heart:

“It will help you, perhaps, to know that my father has always been very close to—to Miss Helène’s father. They were friends for many years. Father is a very learned and wise man, Herr Morton, and very brave and loyal. Once he is your friend, he is always your friend. You can rely on my father. He will be here shortly. He is absent on purpose. He did not want to be in when you called, so as to put off suspicion.”

Morton could not help admiring the fine poise and keen mind of this remarkable young woman—seemingly a child in years, but a woman in sense. “You and your father should come to my country, Miss Rosen. Your father’s talents would be recognized there, and you also, with your wit and beauty. In my country, your people are powerful and honored. Persuade your father, won’t you? If he needs help I will help him.”

“Thank you, Herr Morton; but I hear some one coming. It is Miss Helène.”

Rachel bounded up and was through the door in a flash. In that moment, however, he realized whom he was to meet. He stood up, his heart beating, and waited. He had not to wait long, for the curtain was pushed aside and the lovely face of the photograph was framed in the doorway.

The clear, mellowed light which filtered through the lace curtains of the windows fell full on the sweet countenance and revealed the slender figure as it stood against the velvet background of the portières. Miss Rosen had thought it best not to come in with her.

The door behind the curtains closed with a gentle click. She came toward the center of the room and leaned one hand against the table whilst the other timidly rested upon her bosom, which was rising and falling in her agitation.

Morton’s gaze was riveted on her. He saw as in a vision the pale face of soft contour, the delicate nose with quivering nostrils above slightly parted tremulous lips—moist as with the dew of innocent childhood, the eyes encircled by dark shadows—blue eyes, the blue of the wood-violet. She was more beautiful than his dreams. She was looking at him with a pitiful, questioning look, which went to his heart and roused him from his state of trance. All his manhood rose up in him in response to the appeal, and bowing deeply, he said:

“I am Mr. John Morton, Comtesse, a friend of your dear father. I am the bearer of a letter from him to you.” He held the package towards her. “I am here to be of service, if I can, to you and the Princess.”

With her hand still upon her bosom, she whispered rather than spoke:

“Miss Rosen has told me you have letters from my father—pray forgive me—I have been walking fast and am a little out of breath——”

She took the letter in a delicate, white hand and saw that its envelope was unaddressed. It was sealed, but in the corner she noted her father’s mark.

“Thank you. Permit me.”

With trembling hands she broke the letter and, turning towards the window, began to read.

During the reading, John stood drinking in the beauty of the agitated girl. He was exultant and distressed by turns. Exultant in that fate had led him to her—distressed at the sorrow that had come into her life. Come what may, he would, at least, rescue her from her present cruel position and bring her to where life would be worth living. His whole soul welled up in him, and it was only after a great effort of will that he calmed himself to the exigencies of the moment.

The letter read, the girl dropped her arms listlessly. She turned to Morton, her eyes filled with tears:

“How was my father when you left him, Mr. Morton? Was he very ill?”

Her voice broke a little from the stress of her feelings. She spoke in excellent English, though with a distinctly foreign accent, and both tone and words went to the young man’s heart.

“Count Rondell was not well, but he was not suffering. He wished me to hand you this ring as a further guarantee of myself. I was also to repeat to you his message: ‘From Arnim to his Kindchen.’”

Helène broke down utterly at these words. She took the ring with trembling hand and kissed it passionately the while tears coursed down her pale cheeks.

John turned away and watched the sparrows flitting across the garden. The scene in the stateroom with her father rose before his mind, and again a deep yearning filled him.

“Forgive me, Mr. Morton. My father’s letter unnerved me. What am I to do?”

John turned a face full of smiling sympathy:

“Comtesse, let me first assure you that I am entirely at your service. Your father could only suggest some plans, but I hope I shall be able to find a way out. But, pray, be seated.”

Comtesse Helène sank into the chair lately occupied by Miss Rosen. She looked up at Morton with eager questioning in her eyes.

“Can you obtain for me an interview with the Princess, Comtesse?” Morton asked.

Helène shook her head. “That would be impossible,” she whispered.

“Well, it may not be necessary. Miss Rachel has suggested a plan which fits in excellently with the preparations I made before coming to Roumelia. Could you and the Princess be ready to leave by Saturday evening?”

Helène gasped with wide eyes. Morton, seeing her state of mind, smiled reassuringly.

“Have no fear, dear lady, all will be well. But you will help me if I know how to proceed. Are either of you permitted to leave the castle?”

“Why—I—I can go out every forenoon for an hour. The Princess is not permitted to leave the castle. We live on the second floor of the wing adjoining the chapel—the wife of Captain Gradsiano, of the guard, shares the floor with us. On the floor below us are the guard rooms and the Captain’s office. We are permitted to go to chapel for our devotions every morning and evening and on Sundays for mass at eleven. I am the only attendant on the Princess. Signora Gradsiano sends a woman with our meals at the regular hours.”

“Who goes with you to chapel?”

“The guard.”

“Comtesse, to-morrow, on your way to vespers, walk as close to the gate as you can. I understand the chapel adjoins the South Gate. I shall be there with my men, ready to take you both away. A closed carriage will be in waiting, with good horses. Bring nothing with you, for everything will be provided for your comfort and needs. Put on your stoutest shoes and your stoutest hearts. If you have any papers or jewels that you value you may bring them, but nothing else. Will you do this?”

“But where are we going to?” the girl asked piteously.

“Your father instructed me to take you to Thuringia. Did he not tell you that in his letter?”

“Yes. He says I am to follow her Highness there. But how are we to get there?”

“I will see to that, Comtesse. Every preparation has been made, even to the securing of fresh horses for the road. Believe me, you need have no fear. I have trusty men to help me, and they will be ready.”

Morton spoke confidently and looked the confidence he felt.

“Time flies, Comtesse. Your hour is almost up. When you see the Princess, pray tell her of the plan and see that she is ready. I will be here to-morrow at this time and give you final instructions.”

The girl rose, her lips trembling and her eyes filled with doubt. She walked slowly to the curtained door, her head bent. John drew aside the drapery, and opening the door bowed deeply, saying: “Until ten to-morrow, then, Comtesse. I beg of you to be of good cheer; and permit me to say that we are deeply devoted to your cause.”

Helène bowed her head lower and left the room without a word.

Once more he was alone—but not lonely. He had seen her and spoken to her—face to face. He felt as if he had been on that high mountain and had come down again, his face shining. “God is good to me,” he breathed to himself. He was grateful for the silence of the room, grateful also that no one came in to disturb his thoughts. Mechanically he sat down and lit a cigarette. Everything was going well—everything would go well, if the Princess agreed. How easy it would be if the Comtesse alone were concerned! And as he thought of Helène his whole being dissolved into pity. How worn she looked and yet how beautiful! The blue of her eyes was the color of heaven itself. Would they ever shine on him with love?

The sound of voices in the hall woke him from his dreams. A moment later the door was pushed open and the alert face of Rachel with its dark and flashing eyes showed itself in the doorway. She was followed into the room by her father.

The Rosen who appeared now was an entirely different Rosen from the servile trader of the previous evening. He was neatly dressed in sober black and faultless linen, and gave the impression of being a scholar rather than a tradesman. As Morton shook hands with him, he could not help noting the well-cared-for fingers which met his in a hearty pressure. A smile lighted up his features. John was drawn to the man.

In obedience to a nod from her father, Rachel withdrew and left the men to themselves.

John was full of his plans and eager to have Rosen’s opinion. The latter listened attentively to all the details, nodding occasionally in approval. Morton had taken from his pocket a map of the country, laid it on the table and pointed out the routes he had arranged on. Rosen agreed that the plan was a good one, but as John alone was to get the girls out of the castle it would be necessary for him to have a diagram of the town. Rosen supplied this by drawing one very carefully on a sheet of paper. He advised John that bribes were dangerous in the present juncture of affairs—there was too much risk in them. There would, however, be nothing to fear from Marco. Once the girls were out of the town the sparsely settled country would offer few obstacles to his getting across the border. If John could cut the telegraph wires on the way as he planned to do, it would help by delaying the police.

But he would meet his greatest difficulty in the actual crossing of the border, thought Rosen. There was no road over the mountains for hundreds of miles, except by means of the passes, and these were well guarded by the military and the Lingari gendarmes. If he attempted to cross without a passport, Herr Morton might have to fight for it. That was the weak part of the plan. Did Herr Morton realize it?

John coolly said he did realize it; but he would take the risk. He was of the firm opinion that he would manage to get through somehow.

Rosen suggested that Morton and his men should pass as smugglers. Tobacco smuggling was quite common over the border, and the guards were amenable to the persuasive power of gold. “It’s the yellow metal, Herr Morton,” remarked Rosen with a smile, “and not paper, that will get you across.”

Morton said that he would see to it that he had a sufficient supply of this with him.

These matters having been settled to both their satisfactions, John begged Rosen to instruct his daughter to purchase a proper outfit for the young ladies—an outfit proper for the journey and at the same time befit their station in life. Rosen promised to see to that, and the two men parted for the day.

The late noon found John at his hostelry partaking of an excellently cooked dinner served in the most primitive fashion. He then drove out to the Olata ranch, where he purchased several fine horses and arranged for their removal on the following Monday. His man, he told the horsedealer, could call for them and pay the balance of the purchase price.

John had now done everything that would bear out the statement he had made as to the purpose of his visit to Roumelia. He was satisfied that there would be no cause for suspicion. He would retire early, since it was imperative he should be fully prepared for what had to be done the next day. The morning would find Donald and the men in Padina, and he must be up betimes to give them their instructions for the evening.

The man he had seen drinking in the tap-room the night before was sitting in the same place busily engaged eating. As before, he took no notice of the stranger in English clothes, and John was well satisfied that it should be so. Evidently, the authorities were still deeply interested in him.

The windows rattled from a strong wind which had risen. Gusts found their way through cracks in the panes, chilling the room and almost extinguishing the candle. But John’s thoughts were far away from the wretched room in which he lay. He was in a palace in his dreams, gazing at the beautiful maiden who walked in stately grace over its marble floors.

A great gust almost blew the shutters off their hinges. John awoke and shivered. The wind was roaring outside. “Good,” he thought, “a storm will be my Providence.”

CHAPTER IX

MORTON had set the alarm clock for a very early hour, so that it was still almost dark when its insistent ringing roused him from his slumbers. He was still drowsy and scarce knew where he was. Then he remembered that the day was Saturday and the place Padina. In a moment he was out of bed and dressing rapidly in the dawning daylight. He was thinking quickly, too, wondering if Rachel Rosen had arranged with the maid’s sweetheart, Marco. That was the key to the first gate which barred the undertaking. If she had failed, then there was nothing for it but to make a bold dash and, if the worst came to the worst, fight for it. Well, he would be ready even for that, though he hoped sincerely it would not come to that.

But another doubt assailed him. Would the Princess be willing to take the step? Confound the Princess! He would compel her to go. He would not permit himself to stand on ceremony, now that everything had been arranged.

Morton hurried below and found a stupid-looking lout sweeping the tap-room floor. The door of the inn stood open, and a cold damp wind was blowing into the room. He stepped out and saw with satisfaction that it was raining heavily, with a cold east wind blowing in sharp gusts. Returning to the room he inquired of the servant if his breakfast was ready; but the man looked at him blankly with unintelligent bovine eyes. Evidently he was not understood. Resorting to signs he finally got the fellow to catch his meaning, for he ceased dusting and began to lay the table.

From the back part of the inn came now the sound of wheels rumbling on cobblestones. John realized that this must mean the arrival of Papiu. Stepping quickly through the hallway to the rear exit he saw the very man alighting from a primitive and cumbersome conveyance, the wheels of which would have supported a six-inch gun. Papiu took no notice of John, but kept looking at the sky and examining the house. Morton caught his cue from the man’s actions and returned to the tap-room, where he found his breakfast waiting for him. A few minutes later Papiu entered, dripping wet, and, seating himself by the table adjoining the one at which John was eating, called loudly for the waiter. The landlord, in shirt-sleeves and leather apron, appeared now on the scene, and after exchanging a few words withdrew to attend to Papiu’s requirements.

Immediately they were alone, the driver leaned over and deftly slipping a piece of paper into John’s hands, quickly resumed his seat and yawned lazily and loudly. Morton read the note, which was from Donald.

Everything had been done as ordered and all was ready. Mihai was waiting with the reserve team at the crossroad, Kilometer 34 of the map, and Papiu’s saddle horse was just beyond the town gate. He, Don, would remain in the wagon until he received further orders from Mr. Morton.

John was greatly relieved. Returning to his room, he put on a heavy ulster. On his way through the tap-room he whispered to Papiu, who was munching black bread and fat bacon, “Remain here till you hear from me,” and passed out into the rain.

The street was utterly deserted. Disregarding the sweeping, cold downpour, he made his way to Rosen’s house by the gateway he had entered the day before. Rachel greeted him cordially and smilingly put aside his apologies for his soaking condition. It was the very weather father had been praying for, she told him. When he was snugly seated in the room which had now become sacred to him, she told him that everything had been arranged as they had planned. Marco would be on guard at the South Gate between five and seven that evening. The watchword was “Luna Dragu.” He would permit two ladies to pass out unchallenged. It had been settled that after he had been relieved Marco was to strike out for the big river, where his people would be waiting for him, and cross over into Bulgaria. His sweetheart would meet him there later. As to the clothes for the girls, she pointed to three packages, each marked with a number. No. 1 was the Princess’s, No. 2 the Comtesse Helène’s and No. 3 the articles both ladies might use in common. John was perfectly satisfied, and expressed his sincere thanks for all the trouble she had taken.

“I am only too happy to serve them,” Miss Rosen replied. “I shall be fully repaid when I know they are once again in a safe place.”

“You may rely on me, dear lady,” said John earnestly, “to do everything in my power.”

“Father will be in soon,” remarked the girl, “he’s just gone out to the café to hear the news. Won’t you sit in his office until he returns? You may smoke there,” she added, laughing.

John thanked her as she led him into a small but well-furnished study adjoining. “Here is where father does all his important business,” she said. “You will be quite safe here.”

“Thank you. I will wait for Mr. Rosen’s arrival.”

The bright girl courtesied, and with a look of admiration at John left the room precipitately. Left alone, John lit a cigar and began studying the map he always carried with him. He calculated that he would make Kilometer 34 in about four hours, despite the rain and bad roads. This would mean that their first resting place would be some thirty kilometers further in the mountains. That would be well, indeed. But, again, doubts arose in his mind as to what the Princess herself would do. She was the unknown quantity which he knew not how to allow for. However, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

The door was softly opened and Rosen entered, carefully closing it behind him. The two men wasted no time in idle talk but set themselves at once to the business in hand. Rosen was pleased to learn that the team and the men had arrived. He himself would see to the delivery of the packages at Herr Morton’s inn to Papiu. It would not be necessary for John to return to the inn as he, Rosen, would discharge the bill and see to his baggage. The landlord was all right, there was nothing to fear from that quarter; but there were spies about. He knew that. He was glad of the storm; it would be their best friend. Everything was working for them and—Rosen would see to the rest.

John was greatly relieved. He had to confess to himself that the enterprise had assumed, now that he was face to face with it, a rather dangerous aspect. He could never have managed without the assistance of this devoted man and his equally devoted daughter. He thanked Rosen, and proceeded to count out the gold for Marco, which Rosen would deliver.

John found the merchant quick and decisive in action, and a most interesting companion. He was a great admirer and devoted adherent of Count Rondell, whom he regarded as his benefactor. And as for the Comtesse Helène—ah—he and his would gladly die for the dear young lady. He mourned the sad turn of affairs, which for the time being, at least, would leave the Count penniless. He, Rosen, would remain in Roumelia for some time to look after Count Rondell’s affairs as best he could.

A discreet knock and Rachel whispered: “The Comtesse is awaiting Mr. Morton in the sitting room.” Morton rose at once and made his way to the room.

Helène stood near the window, apparently in deep thought. She was dressed in the identical garments she had worn the day before, but she looked even paler than then. Evidently she had spent a restless night. Her eyes were heavy, with dark rings around them; but the blue in them was a glimpse of heaven to Morton. She returned his cheery greetings with a wan smile and in words scarcely above a whisper.

John placed a chair and begged her to be seated. He told her of the success their preparations had so far met with and assured her smilingly that all would go well. What had the Princess said?

Helène sat and looked as if she were not listening to him. Her lips quivered and she nervously fingered the lace handkerchief she was holding in her hand.

“Mr. Morton, Her Highness is afraid to trust herself to a stranger. She is unstrung and I have not succeeded in persuading her to act as you propose.”

Helène leaned forward, resting her elbows upon her knees, and pressed the lace against her tired eyes. Suppressing a sob with a quick intake of her breath, she continued in a trembling voice, though with no trace of resentment in it:

“Why did not papa send someone we know—one of our own people? Please, do not misunderstand me. I have done all I could—I told her everything you bade me say,”—the tears were not to be denied now; they fell slowly unchecked.

John felt as if he would choke. It was as he had feared! He looked at Helène confounded and utterly at a loss what to say.

“Do not blame Her Highness, Mr. Morton. She has had much to bear. She has been waiting, hoping, expecting news from her brother, the Prince, who was abroad when the dreadful upheaval came. She has not heard a word, and she is almost distracted. She cannot believe that she is alone now—that she has no friends any more. And I don’t know how to convince her.”

Morton had recovered himself. He no longer felt any commiseration for the Princess but instead an overpowering resentment filled him. Was this girl to be sacrificed to satisfy an hysterical weakling of a Princess? Once the Comtesse returned to the castle, she would be a prisoner for the day, and the arrangements for the evening would have been made for nothing. Why, it was absurd, ridiculous! Confound all Princesses! He must take things in his own hands now.

His face flushing he rose and planted himself firmly before Helène. “Comtesse, under the circumstances there is but one thing to do. I am ready now, this very minute, as ready as I shall ever be. In half an hour the team will be here. You will get into it just as you are and we shall start north at once! The Princess has chosen, and we—we cannot be expected to sit down and wait for Providence or a miracle! I shall call Herr Rosen.”

He expected, nay, dreaded, a breakdown and a flood of tears. But in place of hysterics, he met a woman as determined and as proud as himself.

Helène rose, her eyes flashing, her face pink with indignation.

“How dare you, sir, speak of Her Highness in that manner! How dare you take advantage of my helplessness! I am a Rondell, sir, and a Rondell has never forsaken his king. My duty and my choice are with the Princess. Permit me, sir, to retire.”

John was dumbfounded. This was worse than anything he had even dreamed of. Good God, she must not be permitted to leave the house. What was he to do? Where was Rosen or Rachel? He must plead with her until one or the other came.

“I beseech you, Comtesse, not to do anything rash! I implore you to be calm and to listen to me! I assure you, nothing was further from my thoughts than disrespect towards the Princess or yourself. Will you not oblige me by permitting me to reason with you?”

Helène, somewhat calmed, looked piteously at Morton. Her resentment had vanished and in place of the proud royalist there stood the helpless woman-child. Her lips quivered and the tears fell uncontrollably. She collapsed rather than sat in the chair, her head sank upon her arm.

“Oh, papa—why did you abandon me?” she moaned. “Why didn’t you come for us yourself—why did you leave me here without anyone to advise me?”

Anguish in face and heart, John stood gazing at her in pitiful sympathy. He realized what a hard fight the child must have gone through—pleading and persuading with the Princess. He began to think quickly. He must abandon reasoning and plead—plead and beg for a favor. He remembered some words his father had once said to him: “Never argue with a woman, my boy; kneel down to her, confess you have been wrong, throw yourself upon her mercy—beg forgiveness. She will follow you then.”

“Comtesse, I beg you once more to forgive me! Pray listen to what I have to say.” He broke off with a catch in his voice.

“I have traveled five thousand kilometers—to get here. I have disobeyed the call of my loving parents, of a father who is ill, of a mother who has not seen me—her only son—in years. I have come here with other brave and loyal men, to bring you out of this dangerous land. Be just to me, dear lady. I may not have the fervor of loyalty for royalty, for I am an American—a republican. In my country kings and queens are but as other men and women. It is their worth that counts with us there. I wish I could have brought your dear father with me. But that was impossible. He sent me to act for him. Your father is most devoted to Her Royal Highness, and I—I am ready to do all that he would have done. But first in his heart is his child. He enjoined me, Comtesse, to think of the Princess first; but, if I could not prevail there, I was to think of you. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said, ‘help my child.’ That is why I am here, and that is why I spoke as I did. If I have done wrong I beg you to pardon me.”

John had put his whole heart into his words. Helène lifted her head and turned her eyes on him in questioning wonderment. But he left her no time to interpolate.

“Can you blame me, dear lady, if your words unbalanced me? Faithful to my promise to your noble father, I have made every preparation. My men are ready and waiting. They will perish if the Princess fails us at this the eleventh hour. And after to-day there will be no hope; for to-morrow the tyrant of Bucharest will inaugurate a reign of terror and God alone knows what will happen to us all, then.”

Helène’s eyes showed the remorse she was feeling. She gazed with awed look at the man who had thus unselfishly taken upon himself a duty which should have concerned her own kin. She was ashamed of her words and knew not how to express her changed feelings.

“Comtesse, will you not speak with the Princess again? Tell her of what I have said now. Convey to her your father’s earnest desires. She should think of that, for your father was her father’s most devoted friend. A new duty has devolved on her; in addition to the duty she owes to herself, she owes a duty to Count Rondell, to you and, I will say it, to me, who has her honor at heart. I am now, I must say it, the one hope left. Assure her that she may trust me implicitly. Your noble father, the Count, would not otherwise have sent me. Go back to the Princess and use your most persuasive powers. If she consents, all will be well, and I shall be very happy. But give me, first, your solemn promise that, come what may, Princess or no Princess, you will be at the chapel at six o’clock this evening, and that you will come to the gate where I shall be waiting for you. Comtesse, I cannot let you go without that promise.”

His eagerness had carried him away. He stepped up close to the trembling girl and took her unresisting hand and held it firmly in his own warm, strong one.

With parted lips and with wide eyes Helène had taken in every word of his passionate pleading. This man would keep his word. She was satisfied of that now. And her father had written to her: “Obey implicitly and follow Mr. Morton’s instructions absolutely.” He must be right.

Trembling she groped for the little cross hanging upon her breast. God would not let the dear Princess perish—and she—? Well, she would try again—she would convince her mistress!

“Yes, Mr. Morton, yes! I will do what I can. I promise everything. You are right—we must act at once! But, oh, what will happen?”

She was trembling all over, fearful of the picture her fancy had conjured up.

Morton, still holding her hand, gently led the girl to her seat.

“Please, Comtesse, be calm and take heart. Nothing at all will happen. We shall get away and you will be safe and happy in a few hours. Do not fear. I swear to you that we shall bring you safely across the border.”

Helène grew calmer. She felt her native energy coming back, and with a blush she gently withdrew her hand from Morton’s grasp.

“Mr. Morton, I want to thank you for your goodness and your forbearance. You have been more than kind. I promise to be at the gate at six; with the Princess if I can, and as I pray I may be—alone, if I cannot.”

John had won. Rising and bowing with reverence before the beautiful young woman:

“Comtesse—I thank you. I shall always cherish your brave and noble words. And now, if you will permit me, I must give you your instructions. Take nothing with you, so that no suspicion may be aroused. The corner window opening toward the street is, I understand, that of your room. I shall watch that window. If the Princess consents to go, leave the curtains closed as they are now. If she does not, draw them apart, and I will understand. On your way to chapel, walk slowly along the chapel front, which will be in deep shadow at that time, and go to the South Gate. The sentinel will not stop you. The small door nearest the wall will be open and I will be awaiting you there. If the Princess is with you, lead her. And now, Comtesse, until six this evening!”

The sound of Helène’s steps in the hall brought the alert Rachel in apron and turned-up sleeves from the kitchen. She glanced questioningly at Morton, who simply nodded and said: “The Comtesse knows what to do.”

The rest of the day passed quickly in the house of the Rosens. A very excellent dinner was served him by his hostess. After dinner he smoked his cigar and chatted with Herr Rosen in the study. Later he sat in the little enclosure fitted as a counting room adjoining Rosen’s store, and looked across the quiet street at the gray walls of the castle. The storm had abated somewhat though the rain still came down and kept the street deserted. Through the grayish veil of mist he could distinguish the solitary figure of the sentry in hooded cloak, rifle reversed with bayonet pointing downward, slowly walking back and forth. He could not help speculating what the night would bring. Now and again he would look up at the window, but no sign of parted curtains was to be seen. Towards dark Rosen came to inquire if he had received any word. No, the curtains still remained closed.

An early and silent supper was hastily partaken of, and sunset found each man at his post. John saw the wagon drawing up at the gate in the narrow street to the rear. Good, Donald and Papiu were on the job.

Don, who was introduced to Rachel, seemed to be the least nervous among them all. He took things phlegmatically as if they were a part of his regular duties. Outside the wind had shifted and blew as strongly as ever. The men waited for the hour to strike. Rachel came in and told John that the maid had reported to her that Marco was on duty. John shook hands with her silently. Then, with a final word of warning to Don, he hurried to his post.

CHAPTER X

MORTON braced himself against the gusts of wind and squalls of icy rain which drenched his face and body. It was with difficulty that he was able to see his way. There was no need, he said to himself, to keep a lookout on a night like this. All the better. The flickering smoky flame of the oil-lamp over the main gate cast a faint yellow light around and threw ghostlike, moving shadows about the entrance. Stumbling frequently against the large pebbles in the roadway and wading almost ankle-deep through pools of muddy water, he managed to reach the denser blackness along the castle wall, and stopped under its protection to take a breath.

Glancing toward the sentry-boxes he saw the outline of a human figure as a dim motionless silhouette. His hand sought the butt end of his ready revolver, and the touch gave him confidence. Cautiously he groped for the door. It yielded easily to his pressure. With careful glances he satisfied himself that no one was about—the street totally deserted—the only sounds to be heard were the steady splash and beating of the rain and the groaning roars of the wind.

Through the heavy bars of the gate he could see the dim murky rays filtering through the befogged window panes of the guardroom under the wing which harbored the girls. As he stood peering into the distance a faint light shone through the transom over the entrance to the chapel, and he knew they were lighting up the place. It was followed by red and green rays of light streaming through the stained-glass windows of the nave.

Some minutes, which to John seemed an age, passed, when the sound of a plaintive bell was borne to him in muffled tones on the damp, foggy air. It was the vesper bell. Immediately through the drifting veil of slanting rain he perceived figures flitting across the vaulted opening in the castle wing. He was conscious of some one moving in the shadow on his right, and before he realized it, a heavily cloaked figure came into view followed by a similarly clothed but smaller form, a bare rod behind.

Morton at once pushed the gate open and waited breathlessly.

“It is I—Morton,” he whispered, as the first figure neared him.

“I am Helène and—” she seized her companion’s hand, too excited for words.

“We must hurry—quick, quick,” he whispered sharply. He led them along the shadowy border so as to avoid the range of light, and urge them across the street to the scant protection of the trees along the opposite pavement.

He could almost hear his heart beating above the panting of the girls by his side. He dared not run and feared to walk too slowly. One minute and the worst would be over.

Helène walked steadily, but her companion stumbled frequently and was trembling in every limb as she held on to his arm. Ah—here at last was Rosen’s house.

Donald was ready and passed the girls through without a moment’s delay. They were met by Rosen, who stood, his hands up as if in the act of blessing, in the dimly lit hall. The noise brought Rachel from the sitting room. She guided them through the house to the exit on the further side. With an affectionate pressure of Helène’s hand and a kiss on the sleeve of the Princess’s cloak, she murmured her parting wishes.

Once more they were in the rain, but this time sheltered from view by the walls of the garden. Donald walked ahead, lantern in hand, and opened the gate for the girls to pass through. Behind them came Morton alert and ready.

In a few minutes they arrived at the place where the wagon stood waiting. Quickly lifting the Princess, he whispered to her to lie down on the right. Then turning to Helène he gently passed her in bidding her lie to the left. The next instant the blackness of the cart’s interior had swallowed him also, and the vehicle rumbled and splashed its way as if it were being driven to market. Don alone remained without, walking rapidly by its side and searching intently to the right and left.

The girls huddled close together, and lay with their arms about each other. The rain beat down on the canvas covering, drowning all other sounds; only occasionally could they hear the crunching of the wheels rolling clumsily over the roughly paved road. It was with difficulty that they kept themselves from falling on one side or the other. As they were wondering what might happen, they heard the voice of Morton raised above the din, assuring them, in German, that everything was going well; they need have no anxiety. He would light the lantern after they had put the town gate behind them. He had barely finished speaking when the wagon gave a great lurch and bounded forward with a fearful clatter. They had entered the main road leading out of the town, an abominably paved causeway which seemed to have been made for preventing anyone either leaving the place or coming into it. It was with the utmost difficulty that John could now make himself heard but he managed to convey to the girls the information as to where they were and that they would soon arrive at the gate. It would be necessary for them to keep perfectly quiet, until that danger was passed.

Helène held on to the hand of the Princess, whispering endearing and encouraging words. She knew that Morton would protect them at all hazards, even though she could not see him. He had shown her that he was neither a man to be trifled with nor one to give in at the first difficulty. Her thoughts of him were of confidence; she remembered the appealing words he had spoken to her that morning. He was brave, or her father would not have sent him, and he must be good or her father would not have trusted him.

The wagon rumbled less now, and the driver could be heard speaking to his horses. The wheels crunched the gravel more heavily as they turned more slowly, and the next moment they had come to a halt. Soon voices were heard, and a shaft of light streamed into the wagon through a small opening in the canvas covering at the rear. Helène saw John looking out from between the canvas flaps. He was crouching silently, a pistol in each hand.

A loud laugh followed by a command and some exclamations, and then a cheery: “Bene, avante.” The rain was now falling in a soft patter on the cart’s covering, so that the clinking sound of the driver urging the horses on could be easily heard. A creaking of the harness, and they were off once more at a slow trot.

“We are safe,” came in a loud whisper from John. “A few minutes more and we can have a light.”

For the first time since they had left the castle the Princess now spoke. “Mr. Morton,” she said in English and in a voice betokening the strain consequent on her condition, “I know not how to thank you. I——”

“Please, say no more,” begged Morton.

Helène could not speak. The tension had been almost more than she could bear. She found relief, however, in laughter, an hysterical kind of laughter it sounded to Morton’s ears. But he was glad to hear it; it told him that he need have no further anxiety about the girls’ courage; they would measure up to what was still before them.

The wagon came to a halt and John stepped out, carefully closing the canvas flaps behind him. He returned soon, however, and informed the girls that there was nothing the matter; he would leave them alone now and take his seat alongside the driver, and a man would precede the cart on horseback. In a few minutes a brass lantern was swinging from the fore peak of the canvas hood, its grateful light spreading a pleasant warmth into the interior of the vehicle.

The girls, curious as to their situation, looked about them. At first they could make out nothing but vague shadows, but as their eyes became accustomed to the flickering light they saw with surprise the excellent arrangements that had been made for their comfort. Two strong but soft and yielding couches ran lengthwise along the floor of the wagon, with a space between them. In the corners were a number of downy pillows, while from the canvas covering hung two robes of fur.

Helène was delighted. “See, Princess,” she exclaimed, “see what a cozy place we are in.” The Princess lay huddled, sobbing softly. “Oh, dear lady, do not give way. Come, rest yourself on this couch.” She lifted the girl as best she could, laid her on one of the boxes and covered her with one of the robes. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“I am not afraid, dear Helène,” said the Princess, “but the suddenness of all that has happened has unnerved me. I’ll be quite well again soon.”

The flash of a lighted match flared in and the odor of a cigar was wafted to them on the breeze. How good it was to smell the fragrance. It meant a man, and a man meant protection. The next moment Morton’s cheery voice came through: “Make yourselves comfortable, ladies. You’ll find everything you want. Take my advice and get a sleep.”

Helène thanked him and said they would. She went back to where the Princess lay and saw with satisfaction that she was sleeping. Without, the storm seemed to have renewed its fury. The rain beat on the canvas, the wheels groaned and crunched, the wagon lurched from side to side in its heavy progress, and the swish of water poured from overhanging trees. Helène had now grown accustomed to these sounds. She looked at her watch and noted with surprise that it was but just gone eight. They had been only two hours on their journey—two hours that had seemed to her like two days! She felt very tired; her head ached and her limbs were cramped. She would take Mr. Morton’s advice and rest; perhaps she would feel better after a sleep.

“Are you asleep?” It was Morton whispering loudly to her from the front seat.

“No,” she whispered back, “what is it?”

“I just wanted to tell you that you must not be anxious if you hear noises soon; we are about to cut the telegraph wires. In another hour we shall make our first stop for a change of horses.”

Helène thanked him for the information and lay down. She tried her best to sleep but failed. She heard the driver halt his horses and distinguished Morton’s voice giving orders. Then she heard the clinking of steel implements and the sound of branches snapping. They must be cutting the wires, she thought. A few minutes later she heard Donald call out: “All’s finished, Mr. Morton,” and the journey was resumed.

And now she knew that they were ascending, for she felt the straining of the horses in the creaking harness, and counted deliberately the squelching of their feet in the muddy track. It had grown quite cold, and the fragrance of spruce and hemlock came to her. She lay on the couch looking up at the swaying lantern, half dozing, half waking.

As in a dream she heard Morton speaking to Papiu and Donald: “It is snowing. We certainly are in luck. It’ll cover up all our tracks. Say, Don, isn’t it good to feel the snow again? We haven’t seen any in three years, have we?” And Donald’s hearty laugh came back in response. “It ain’t much of a snowfall,” he said, “but if things work anyway like they do at home, I guess we’re in for a good blizzard.”

She cuddled herself closer in the fur robe and felt happy in its comforting warmth. How long she lay there thus she did not know, but she rose up suddenly and looked about her in wide-eyed surprise. The wagon had come to a halt, and she heard the flaps at the rear of the vehicle being drawn aside. The Princess, too, had been aroused, and she, too, was staring with frightened eyes about her.

“Here we are, ladies,” came the cheery voice of Morton. He was standing outside, a lantern swinging from his arm. “Our first stopping place. You may come out now.” He assisted them in gallant style out of the wagon and led them to a wood-built shack. “Welcome!” he cried, laughing. They entered and found themselves in a low roughly built room in the center of which stood a table made of boards and by its side a crude bench.

Placing his lantern on the table he bade them be seated. He would bring them some food. Helène and the Princess looked about the place and shivered beneath their furs. It was cheerless and bare enough to satisfy the most fanatic of hermits. The yellow light from the lantern filled the distant parts of it with unearthly shadows. The two girls instinctively moved closer to each other.

John returned almost immediately carrying a promising looking basket from which he took out some snow-white napkins, a goodly supply of sandwiches, oranges, cakes, tin cups, a flask of wine and a carafe of water.

“There, ladies, is a feast for the gods, or, I should say, for the goddesses. Eat heartily because you will need all your strength. I will leave you now to yourselves. I shall be back in half an hour. Have no anxiety.”

The girls were hungry, and the food and drink were very welcome. Their appetite satisfied they felt both strengthened and cheered. Donald came in and introduced himself by addressing the peaked roof. They smiled and nodded kindly at him. He busied himself removing quickly the remains of the dinner and disappeared.

The Princess was smiling happily now. “Dear Helène,” she said, “I was very wrong. I ought to have known that you knew best. Please forgive me!”

Helène pressed her friend’s hand with happy tears in her eyes. “The Holy Virgin,” she said, “will protect us, and Mr. Morton is a gentleman.”

Punctual to the minute John came in and found them ready to continue their journey. Helping them into their place of refuge, he carefully closed the rear flaps and resumed his seat by the side of Papiu. Once more the cart took up its rumbling and the wheels their crunching. The road was hilly, and the four horses strained and pulled, urged on by the driver and a man who sat astride one of the leaders. The girls lay comfortably covered and snugly embedded on their couches, but the steep incline caused them to slip occasionally, and once Helène came to the floor of the wagon with a thud. Morton called in that they should put up the boards they would find near the end of their couches and brace their feet against it. Helène carried out his instructions, and could not help wondering at Morton’s forethought. He had thought of everything. He might be in the business of rescuing girls in distress.

Their progress now was much slower than it had been so far—the climb was becoming steeper and steeper. Soon the squeaking of the wheels ceased and the wagon swayed no more—they had come to a smoother road. The wind had almost gone down entirely; but the sound of swaying trees, the crisp swish of evergreen branches against the sides of the cart, the whisper of the woods, came to them in softened drones and murmurs and soothed them drowsily. Soon both were asleep.

Morton, in front, puffed silently at his cigar, perfectly happy and deeply thankful for the success which so far had followed him in this undertaking. It had been a day of no little anxiety; for, in spite of the cheerfulness he assumed before the girls, he had had, it must be confessed, many qualms. The Princess was an unknown quantity to him, and he did not know but that she might be difficult to manage. His hope lay in the Comtesse—in Helène—he dwelt lovingly on its syllables as he murmured the name softly. She was a great girl, he kept saying to himself—a great girl. What lovely eyes she had! And her smile—Ah! her smile—it was like golden sunshine after rain. He puffed at his cigar and found it had gone out.

Then the rider on the leader gave a loud grunt, and Donald’s voice came to him, calling out, “Whoa, boys, Whoa!”

Papiu had reigned in his horses, and the cart came to a full step with a shock.

Helène awoke with a start. She heard the horses shaking their bits and the men hurrying about as they undid their harness. Then Morton came in and said: “Time to get up, ladies. We have arrived at our own house.”

She rose quickly and gently woke her companion. The Princess rubbed her eyes and inquired what was the matter. Helène told her what Morton had said. In a minute both were ready and Morton assisted them to alight.

They were before a low, roughly built hutlike building, under snow-covered trees, the drooping branches of which swept the roof-planks, which were glittering in a crystalline snow-mantle. A couple of lanterns hung from the eaves over the entrance to the hut and lit up the strange scene. Opposite this structure stood a loftier building. The lantern on a bench showed a narrow porch with a low door leading into a lighted room. Boards on the wet snow were placed as a foot-walk, and over these the two girls were led by Morton into the house.

“Welcome home!” he said gaily, his eyes laughing.

CHAPTER XI

HELÈNE awoke the next morning wild-eyed and distraught. She had had a most frightening dream. She had dreamed that she was bound and enveloped in a coarse rug, carried like the captive of some barbarian soldiery. Two terrible looking men in shaggy furs and great turbans were taking her down a narrow winding step-way hewn in a steep rock. She saw the slimy walls dripping with water and felt the heavy, damp air weighing on her chest so that she could scarcely breathe. She tried to scream in her terror. She heard the roaring of the surf beating against a door into which she realized she would soon be carried a prisoner. She must act at once—cry aloud for help. Straining at the thongs that bound her cruelly she gave a groan. It was then she awoke.

Her throat felt dry and almost parched. Trembling in every limb, she passed her hands over her face and took courage to look about her. Her eyes caught a purplish color against yellow boards; irregular cracks and knot holes let in faint streaks of light. Where was she? She pushed aside a heavy braid of hair that had fallen across her face and tried to collect herself. A grating noise from without drew her attention to the wall, where she saw a partly opened broad low window across which floated a purple scarf. Gradually she remembered. One by one the events of the past hours came back to her. She recalled the last words the young American had addressed to her. He had asked her to leave the window open, and she remembered carrying out his suggestion to put something over the opening so as to keep out the morning’s light. He had left her a lamp and a clock. Yes, the lamp was still there, its pale yellow flame flickering feebly now. The clock also was by the bedside ticking quickly. Its “tick-tock, tick-tock,” somehow comforted her; there was a human quality in the almost impudent carelessness with which it was doing its business—so regardless of her own feelings. How silly of her to be frightened by a dream!

By her side lay the Princess, her face and hair almost pansy-tinted in the light that filtered through the improvised purple-colored scarf-curtain. She was breathing regularly in a sleep that would be strengthening in its refreshing rest. And then came thoughts of the dangers yet to be endured and overcome. Would they once again be free and happy? Would it be granted to them to see their loved ones again? The questions brought a longing hope shot through with pain. But come what may she would play her part as her father would have wished her to play it.

Stepping out of bed so as not to arouse her companion, she dressed herself in the rough peasant’s costume she had worn the day before, and crept on tip-toe to the window.

Pushing aside the scarf, she leaned out to inhale the cool, balmy air. But the sight that met her eyes made her start back. Surely this was fairyland! Through majestic tree trunks and spreading boughs of noble firs, shafts of sunlight shot down on an earth white with snow. In the golden light the crystals shone and glittered again. The light wind blew the flakes and showered them abroad so that they seemed like floating diamonds as they dropped noiselessly to the ground. High up through the branches she caught a vista of a deep-blue sky, crossed and recrossed by the gleaming white bars of branches and making a pattern of lace work as intricate as it was wonderful. She felt as if she had been transported by some genii into a palace of snow and stalactites. And through it all—through this indescribable maze of virgin whiteness—floated and vibrated a bluish haze, an azure atmosphere that seemed as if it could be felt—pulsating light and living shadows playing a bewildering dance. Helène could scarcely breathe, so entranced was she. She leaned over the window-sill and watched the downy snow as it fell, released from its hold on the branches under the redeeming influence of sunlight. The blood coursed rapidly through her veins; her heart quickened and a new courage and hope came to her. She forgot her anxiety, she forgot the dangers, she thought of nothing but fairies and flowers and the sweet visions of her childhood. She was all compounded of wonder and worship, and happy, happy, happy!

A clear shrill whistle, the intimate call of a bird, drew her attention to the mysterious depths of the lower foliage. A little crossbill was hopping and flitting back and forth; and then she remembered that it was still autumn in the valleys below. And with this remembrance she was brought back to the reality of her present situation—of her escape from the palace with the Princess; of Mr. Morton—how brave and gentle he was! Of the terrible journey through the storm—how kind and considerate he had been!—of their arrival at this place—how encouraging and courteous he had proved himself! Who and what was this man? The little bird flew off with a whirr, and a knock sounded on the door. Helène jumped back quickly.

“Good morning, ladies!” came Morton’s voice through the closed door, “it is a lovely morning and breakfast will be ready as soon as you are.”

Ah, what a friendly sound his words carried with them! She stepped quickly to the door and called out heartily:

“Good morning, Mr. Morton. I am already dressed, and the Princess soon will be. Isn’t it glorious outside?”

“Glorious, indeed. Don’t hurry. Call out the moment you are ready. We are just in the next room.”

“Thank you; we shall be with you in ten minutes.”

She listened to his firm steps and heard the outer door being closed. For a moment she stood smiling at the wooden partition.

“Helène, Helène, where are we?”

She turned quickly and found the Princess sitting up in bed, her hair in disorder and her great dark eyes staring frightened at her.

“Oh, my darling,” she cried, running up to her, “get up and dress at once. It’s so lovely and beautiful outside. I have just been speaking with Mr. Morton, who came to tell us that breakfast would soon be ready. I am so hungry that I could eat all Roumelia.”

“I didn’t know where I was when I woke up,” sighed the Princess, “and when I found you were not by my side I got frightened.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of now. Mr. Morton says we are quite safe. Come, let me be your maid this morning,—we must put on pleasant faces if only to show Mr. Morton that we have confidence in him.”

“You are right, dear Helène. I am afraid I’ve been a bit of a kill-joy. But, oh, you don’t know what I’ve suffered.”

“I do know, dear Princess, and I feel for you in all my soul. But the danger is passed now, and you will soon be with your friends.”

Thus comforting and cheering her companion Helène helped her to dress. In a little more than the ten minutes they were both ready, and with fresh, smiling faces walked timidly into the adjoining apartment.

They found no one there; but a table all laid out with tablecloth, plates and eating utensils was in the center of the room, giving it a homelike and inviting air. Helène walked to the door, and in her clear, ringing voice called out:

“We are ready, Mr. Morton!”

Instantly, almost, it seemed to her, John appeared, and greeting both girls, he led them to their places at the table. Papiu entered with a bountifully loaded tray, and the meal was begun under his grinning waiting. He beamed on them all as if there were no higher duty than service. John took the occasion to tell the girls of their present situation.

“We are quite safe here,” he assured them. “The men and I were out at daybreak exploring the country, and I was glad to find that the tracks of the wheels have been quite covered up. We took the precaution, however, to cut the telegraph wires on the other side of the valley, so that no communication can be sent to the border on the northwest, for which we are bound. I am sure we have nothing further to fear. All that it needs now is to be patient. There may be a few difficulties; but these can easily be overcome.”

The Princess smiled at Morton graciously. “You have placed us, Mr. Morton,” she said, “under a debt of gratitude which we can never repay. I must ask you to forgive me for my seeming lack of faith in you; but you will, I am sure, appreciate the circumstances of my position.”

“Please, Your Highness, say no more. I quite understand. In my eagerness to help you, I forgot that I was a total stranger to you. Count Rondell made it so imperative—I was not to leave you to the mercy of the new government, at any cost. That was why I begged your friend, the Comtesse Helène, to see you again and do her utmost to persuade you and to inform you of the political conditions about which you might, perhaps, be in ignorance.”

“You were very kind and thoughtful, Mr. Morton. I assure you I can never forget what you have done.”

Helène looked delighted at the happy outcome of this the first real meeting between her beloved Princess and Mr. Morton. Her face was all roses and her eyes beamed the emotions she was feeling.

“And now everything will be all right, won’t it?” she asked jocularly. They all laughed, as they rose from the table.

John explained that it was necessary for him to leave them now for an investigation as to the next stage of their journey, but he would see that Donald and Papiu remained behind to keep guard. He would go with Mihai. If they liked they could sit on the porch running along the south side of the cabin, but in that case they must be careful to wear their fur coats. He then shouldered his rifle and was soon seen to disappear in the close timber.

Helène and the Princess, only too eager to enjoy the freedom of the open air, put on their coats and sat sunning themselves under the sheltering wing of the house, drinking in the pine-laden air and filling their souls with the silent, imposing beauty of the forest-clad mountains. What a change from the rooms in the castle! Surely nature was kinder than man! She gave so freely of her bounteous treasures and asked nothing in return—nothing but the heart to feel and the spirit to enjoy her gifts. Helène looked at her companion and saw that her face had become clouded again. With a quick movement she drew close to her and put her arms about her, and thus they sat for many minutes in silent sympathy with each other. Nature is kind, but she is sadness-breeding even in her most generous moods, and it is then that the heart sends out its tendrils feeling for another heart. Perhaps that is why people are happier and simpler in the country than they are in the city.

Their meditations were disturbed by the sound of footfalls on the mushy snow. It was Donald emerging from the wood, rifle under his arm.

The girls greeted him smilingly.

“Fine morning, ladies, but kind o’ mean under-foot,” and he smiled a little sheepishly as he stood before them. They relieved him of his shyness by encouraging nods.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Mr. Morton told me to look after you.”

“Nothing, thank you,” replied Helène; “we are quite comfortable and enjoying the splendid air.”

Both, however, were hoping he would not go away. They longed for some companionship rather than their own—some other human being who would speak to them and tell them things—anything. Helène caught the Princess’s eyes and saw the same desire in them.

“Please, Mr. McCormick, won’t you sit down?” she asked in her soft, seductive voice. “Sit down and talk to us.”

“Thank you, miss, I don’t mind if I do.”

Donald’s social instincts, like those of all true Americans, were very strong in him. Moreover, he had not had many opportunities of exercising his English-speaking tongue since he had left Brindisi. His intercourse with Papiu and Mihai had been in the deaf and dumb language, mostly. Laying aside his rifle, he brought out a roughly made stool, and sitting down, cap in hand, faced the girls.

“Ah, it does a fellow like me good to see your sweet faces, ladies. And how did you like my breakfast?”

Of course it was delicious. So was he, they thought.

“Well, now, miss, that’s awful kind of you. But I would have done better if I’d had some time and things, and less strictness.”

“Strictness? What does that mean?”

“Why, miss, I wasn’t allowed to build a fire until the sun was way up. Mr. Morton didn’t want no smoke about.”

“Your friend is a very cautious man.”

“My friend? Oh, I see, you mean Mr. Morton. Well, he’s a friend all right, and a very good one; but he’s really my boss, you know—my master, I guess you’d call it.”

“Oh! I thought you were comrades.”

“Well, bless your pretty eyes, miss, we’ve been pals and comrades many a year and in many a land; but as I get paid for my part of it, I guess it’s a job with me. With Mr. Morton, it’s sport and study. A mighty good sport he is, and a fine student, too.”

Don was warming up.

“You interest us greatly—please go on.”

Donald’s leathery face creased itself into numerous wrinkles as he smiled.

“There ain’t much to tell, I guess. I’ve known Mr. John ever since he was a boy of ten or twelve, and a finer youngster never lived. His father, old Dan Morton, used to come every summer to the Upper Lakes for the fishin’, and when the boy got old enough to travel he took him along. In those days, I used to work as a guide in summer and fall and did loggin’ in winter and spring. After the great catch of 1874, the old gentleman had me for guide regularly; and when young John started to come up alone, I always rowed and cooked for him.”

Don paused for a moment; mechanically, his hand slipped into a side pocket of his coat to reappear with a pipe in it. He glanced at it, then recollecting himself, he quickly put it back. The Princess smiled: “Please, Mr. McCormick, don’t deprive yourself. Light your pipe.”

Don looked queerly dubious and hesitated. “You are very kind, but I’m afraid my tobacco ain’t a cigar.” The girls laughed and assured him they would enjoy the aroma. Don nodded and lit up; but as he puffed he was careful to blow the smoke so that the wind would carry it away from where the girls were sitting. These girls were all right, he said to himself—nice and pretty and considerate. He began to feel quite at home with them. Puffing serenely he took up his narrative with added zest.

“Mr. John wasn’t very strong as a youngster; he had some fever when a baby that left him kind o’ delicate. But he was fearless, quick and mighty steady. After a couple o’ years he started to pick up—and now—there ain’t a logger in Minnesoty that can beat him in rowing or wrestling or at huntin’. I took to him from the start, and I love him as I would if he were my own son. The Lord don’t make ’em any better than John Morton—let me tell ye!”

“It is fine of you to say so, Mr. McCormick,” said Helène; “and I’ve no doubt Mr. Morton thinks very highly of you, too.”

“I guess he does. He took me to the city, gave me all kinds of chances; but somehow or other I never could cotton to straight town life. Always wanted to go back to the woods and the water—I am satisfied to end my days there.”

A pause for a few more puffs.

“Well, about two years ago, Mr. Morton comes up to his camp pretty late in the season and wants me to go huntin’ and fishin’ with him. It was kind o’ late for fish, and Mr. John is a queer hunter, he is. He would just watch the game, follow them up, maybe—but shoot? You can’t get him to kill anything. He has all the trophies he wanted, he said—and as long as we had grub there wasn’t no need of killing God’s creatures.

“He was quieter than usual, and he says to me that he wants me to go with him to Africa—doing some exploration work, some observing—and says he, ‘Don,’ he says, ‘you come with me and we’ll have a good time; you’ll learn some new things, see new kinds o’ game, and get fine experience; and I can do something I wanted to try for years.’ It was kind o’ sudden like, but I agreed. And so, the week after Christmas we went to London and Paris and from there to Egypt—and there we stuck out for nigh on twenty months. I ain’t seen snow in two years—’most forgot how real cold feels—and I’m mighty glad to get a taste of both once more! And to think that some ten days or so ago I was in the hottest part of the world—now, would you believe it?”

“Where was that, Mr. McCormick?”

“Why, bless your pretty face, Miss, in Egypt and the Red Sea. Hot?—two minutes of that climate, and there wouldn’t be a trace o’ this snow left!”

Helène could barely suppress showing her keen interest. Now, perhaps, would come what she had been longing to know. “And was it in Egypt that you met my father? Did Mr. Morton know my father very long?”

“I don’t know anything about that, Miss; Mr. John didn’t tell me much.”

“Then you and Mr. Morton—you are not officers or soldiers in our—the Roumelian Army?”

“Why, bless your hearts, miss, so far as I am concerned, I didn’t know such a place as Roumelia was on the map ten days ago; and it’s very little more that I know now! Mr. John, he came to me the night we got to Suez, saying I should get ready to take the midnight train, go to Brindisi and act under written orders—and I went. From there I took a train to Kronstadt; and four days ago I drove the teams down to Padina with the dagoes—that’s all I know. When Mr. Morton gives you orders you ain’t askin’ no useless questions, I guess. He knows what he wants—and you are supposed to go ahead and do what you’re told. But you needn’t worry, young ladies, there ain’t no better man living than Mr. John—and few have as level a head as he’s got!”

“You are a great admirer of your master, Mr. McCormick,” remarked the Princess, who till now had sat very quietly, quite willing to leave the conversation to her friend. It took her some time to become accustomed to the peculiar drawl of the lanky foreigner; but when once she caught the quaint humor of the man she enjoyed him greatly. She wondered also at the simple directness of his manner, which was deferential without being in the least subservient. This must be due to the democratic spirit of his country.

“I don’t know if it’s admiration, young lady, but I have learned that Mr. Morton knows what’s right. There isn’t a man anywheres that can teach him much! You can build on him and never get left. If he says a thing—it’s so; and if he stands up for you you’re all right. And then, he ain’t putting the load on the other fellow, either! When it comes to hard knocks, he takes his share—and takes it without a murmur. He is square, is Mr, John—and white all through! You can bet on that!”

“White all through? What does that mean, please?”

“It means, miss, that he is good and true and fair all over. Not a yellow streak in him! Why, out in the desert—the niggers and them Arabs—they found it out quick enough—and Mr. Morton, he had the run of the country and their good-will pretty soon after we got settled there and they had a chance to see what kind of a man he was! After we had a little ruction with them once—why, after that, they would eat out of our hands!”

“Eat out of your hands?”—The Princess’s eyes were big with inquiry.

Helène gave a little laugh—equally at loss. “Now, Mr. McCormick, please tell us what that means.”

“Oh—I guess my talk ain’t just the easiest for you to get on to. I always forget that not all people come from America. Why, after these natives found out we were square, that Mr. John wasn’t afraid of them or anyone else, for that matter, that he wouldn’t stand for any crooked deal—why, they were just good—that’s all! I remember it as if it was yesterday; out there in the Soudan—a God-forsaken country that I can’t see why people will insist on living in—when Mr. Morton got to investigate our store tent one mornin’—he found a tripod and some instruments missin’. We looked ’round, found tracks in the dust and sand proving that some barefooted rascals had stole in over night. Mr. Morton, he just throws his rifle over his shoulder, says, ‘Come along, Don, we must see about this.’ Well, we got our Arab driver to bring the horses and rode over across the valley to a camp of Wadi-Arabs we know’d were stoppin’ there. Mr. John rides up and asks for the Chief. And when this feller—a fine-looking old chap with whiskers like Moses—comes up—‘Can I talk to all o’ your people for about five minutes?’ says he. The Chief just stares, asks Achmed—that’s our servant—a thing or two—and then gives a call like a foghorn. Out come a crowd o’ men, big and small, old and young, and they all lined up behind him without sayin’ a word.

“And then John Morton asks them to step up to the hollow into the shade of the rock—it was gittin’ mighty hot by that time—he just stands up on a boulder, leans on his rifle not caring any more than if he were in Euclid Park—in Cleveland, you know—and he says to the Chief: ‘I’ll say what I got to say in English, and I want you to translate it to your people.’ And the old man nods and grunts somethin’, an’ my boss—he goes on. And he tells ’em all right! ‘I have come here a stranger,’ says he, ‘to be a neighbor to you; I am peaceful. I don’t bother about you and I mind my own business. Now I want you to do to me as I am doin’ to you! Somebody, last night, took my tools and instruments, and I need them in my work—and I want ’em back! If any of you men is in need—you can come to me and if I can help ye—I will! If you need food—I’ll share mine with you. If you are in trouble and I know a way out—you can have my assistance. But I won’t allow any man to steal my things, and I am a feller you want to leave alone. I never wronged anybody—but neither will I permit any man living to do a wrong to me.’—Then he motions to the Chief and the old man he translates it to his people.”

Don stopped out of sheer breathlessness; his enthusiasm had carried him at a rapid pace, while the girls, fascinated, bent over, devouring every word. He paused long enough to relight his pipe and send out a few mouthfuls of his beloved golden-leaf smoke. Its pungent odor came to the girls’ nostrils and added to the reality of the mental pictures they had built out of his narrative.

“You ought to have seen him—standin’ there among those savage people, alone against a hundred—but as steady as a rock and as cool as a cucumber! Not an eyelash did he move! I wasn’t sure what would come next—but I guess Mr. Morton, he knew. He looked fine! I wish his father could ha’ seen him! The old man always was proud of his boy—as he had a right to be. He used to say to me: ‘Don, I want my boy to be a man first and a gentleman after!’ And I guess Mr. John is both, and both to the limit.”

He paused and gave a reminiscent stare into the infinite space above him. A few thoughtful pulls at the pipe followed by a copious discharge of saliva and he proceeded with his tale:

“Well—after the Chief had finished, two young fellers just drawed their burnooses a bit tighter over their faces and sneaked off. A minute later they brought the instruments, laid them down before Mr. John, and, walking with their heads bent in shame, they passed before the Chief. The old priest he just looked dark and grieved and waved them off without a word. Then he up and walks to John, hands him bread and salt and says: ‘Noble stranger, my people and me are humbled by your just complaint. Hereafter you needn’t lose sleep over my men; none of ’em will ever wrong you again, none of my people will do anything toward you that he don’t want you to do toward us. If we can do anything to please you—say the word—we are your slaves. And Mr. John—he took the bread and salt. Then we mounted the horses and rode home. Our servant, he carried the instruments and after that—none of them fellers came within a big spell of our camp! Those Arabs know a man when they see him pretty damn quick, I guess!’”

He shifted uneasily in his seat and shut his mouth tight. In his excitement he had forgotten he was speaking to ladies. “I guess I’m talking too much. I must apologize. But you’ve been so interested that I couldn’t help myself.”

The girls assured him that they had enjoyed his story extremely and begged him to tell them some more of his interesting adventures. But Don was too cautious now to be caught a second time.

Morton now appeared, followed by Mihai. He looked up at the porch and took the situation in at a glance. Don approached his master looking as if he had been caught, like a child in a naughty act. A few whispered words passed between them, and Don walked off without even giving the girls a glance.

“I suppose Donald has been chattering,” remarked Morton as he stepped on to the porch, “he’s a great yarn-spinner and doesn’t know when to stop. I hope he has not bored you.”

“Oh, no—not at all! He was telling us some of the incidents of your life in the desert——” Helène was attempting to shield the fellow.

“A-h—then I guess he’s been sounding my praises. But you must not believe everything he says. He’s a true Yankee, and knows how to drag the long bow. Have you rested?”

Both the girls assured him that they had and that Mr. McCormick had entertained them immensely. Morton smiled, and excusing himself, left them to themselves. The Princess, however, was tired; the bracing air had made her drowsy. She begged Helène to remain while she lay down in her room.

Morton was really disturbed about Don’s chatter; he was afraid he might have spoken of Count Rondell’s illness. He would find out, and warn the man to say nothing about that matter to the Comtesse.

Helène sat for a long time thinking over what she had learned from Don’s narrative. Instead of clearing up the situation it had only aroused in her more questionings. She could not explain Mr. Morton’s presence in Roumelia. Why had he undertaken this mission? It was true that her father had written begging her to place implicit confidence in him—but why this man, this American of all men? Even if it were dangerous for him to come himself, could he not have sent one of his own friends? It was more than she could understand. And yet—and yet—she was glad it had been this man. He was so different from the men she had met. He came from a country where there were neither kings nor nobles and yet, he knew how to command and be obeyed. His father wanted him to be a man first—yes, he was that—the equal to the best she had known. She felt herself blushing at her thoughts. No, no, no, she must not let herself think like this. Rising suddenly she crossed the open space before the cabin, and with quickened steps passed under the firs, to where a rushing stream was frothing its way down a deep gorge.

CHAPTER XII

HER back against the protecting trunk of an ancient hemlock, whose exposed gnarled roots gave a good foothold and a secure seat, Helène sat curled up with her feet tucked under her warm skirt. She was watching intently the turbulent waters hurrying in the direction that meant freedom and safety to her, the Princess—and to their escort also. The child in her felt the longing for refuge, the desire to flee from the land that had denied her, but that was yet her own land. The woman in her, the existence of which the girl did not suspect, mingled with these fears and desires the mysterious feeling of having found a man who would, with strong arm, come between her and danger.

Helène had never been in so wild a country. She had never been alone in the woods, and the peacefulness of her surroundings, the grandeur of it all, impressed her deeply. Her situation seemed so unreal, as though it were almost impossible to believe in its fact. Was she little Snow-White with the Seven Dwarfs across the Seven Hills? Was she like Saint Elizabeth driven into the wild forests by her jealous spouse? It seemed as if some gnomes or fairies were peeking out from under the tumbled chaos of roots and boulders; as if every little heap of dried pine needles were the seat of some good little goblin. No, it really was true; here she was sitting watching the cataracts of an unknown mountain stream tumbling and gamboling down hill, dressed in peasant’s garments, with hobnailed shoes on her feet, provided by a strange man speaking a foreign tongue, from some most unknown part of a distant world, and yet, strange to say, she was quite happy! Would anyone ever believe her if she told the tale? Stowed in a wagon equipped like a gipsy’s caravan, in the dark storm and driving rain, dreading discovery every instant! And the arrival at the hidden house under the whispering trees, still under the calm protection of a strange man who provided everything and seemed to rule even the elements. It was all so wonderful! And how good and brave he was!

“Miss Helène, may I sit and talk to you?” Her face turned scarlet as if he had heard her thoughts. She stammered and attempted to rise. “Pray, don’t disturb yourself, Miss Helène. You have selected a charming spot, and if you will permit me, I’ll join you in your retreat. But first take this robe; the air is damp here.”

Morton came up to her with steady, quick steps. Helène scarcely dared to look.

A soft rug was laid across her lap, and John stood beside her. “Is it not fascinating to watch a mountain stream straining and speeding towards its future? I love it, and it is so long since I have been near one. A glorious day, Miss Helène, and all the elements in our favor. May I sit down?”

Helène looked up. “Certainly, Mr. Morton.”

Her gaze sank again and rested on her shoes. How clumsy the boots were! Looking up she met John’s questioning eyes.

“I am glad your feet are resting on a dry spot, Miss Helène; you must guard yourself against catching cold.”

“Are you not over cautious, Mr. Morton?”

“Possibly, but you know I have just come from a country where it never rains, where it is always hot and dry, and it may be I am worrying about the effects of dampness more than the people here would do. It seems a crime to ask you to wear those heavy boots, but——”

“Oh, Mr. Morton, I don’t mind them at all. You are very kind and thoughtful. We are under a deep obligation to you.”

“Please forget the obligation. Just be brave and help the Prin— I mean Miss Marie, to keep her courage, and we shall soon be out of this forsaken land. May I adjust your rug? Ah—now you are snug and comfortable.”

“Thank you. It is delightful to sit here and watch the brook. Isn’t the contrast between the pure white on the ground and the deep green of the trees striking?”

John assented. “This is as beautiful a spot of mountain scenery as I have ever seen. The Carpathians are far wilder than I imagined. I have never been in these Eastern sections of Europe. This fine Alpine landscape equals that of Switzerland and the Tyrol. Do you know this country well, Miss Helène?”

“Not very well. Three years ago my father took me to Kimpola at the foot of the Negoi, our highest peak, you know. The mountains there are covered with snow and ice all the year round; the slopes are very steep and rocky, devoid of all vegetation. It is far more attractive here.”

It seemed providential that he had come at this time; her doubts could be satisfied—why not take courage and ask him to explain?

“Mr. Morton—may I ask you some questions?”

She tried to look unconcerned though inwardly she was greatly agitated. Would he resent her presumption?

“My dear Miss Helène, I am quite at your service.” On his open countenance she could not read the mental reservation he had registered in his thoughts; she might ask, but he would tell her only what was good for her to know.

“First, then, allow me to apologize for my rudeness to you upon our second interview. I—I was very much agitated and—I felt humiliated that a stranger had been sent to us to succor the Princess. Even now I cannot understand why one of our own cavaliers had not come forward on behalf of his monarch’s niece.”

In the pause that ensued a deep frown puckered the young man’s brow. Helène continued: “I am in the dark as to what happened at the Capital, but our army and our court boasted of many a noble devoted to their King; I—I do not know what to think, what to say!—Mr. Morton—I hope you are not offended at my foolish questions?”

John looked at her steadily with eyes serious, his face alight with sympathy. “Pray, Miss Helène, do not disturb yourself about feelings; but take my advice and let well enough alone! It might be better not to inquire too curiously. What need you care what happened at the Capital, or what motives have prompted the inaction of your Roumelian cavaliers? Be brave and patient—and when we are once across the border line—why—you may ask all the questions you like. Think now only of Transylvania and safety.”

“Mr. Morton—how long have you known my father?”

“I have not known the General very long, but I have known him long enough to have obtained his confidence. Evidently, I was the most available man for the job—I mean the plan, and—here I am. Are you dissatisfied with me?”

Helène colored deeply, raising her hand almost as if in supplication. “Oh, Mr. Morton—please! You have been so kind, so considerate, that I scarcely know what to say. The Princess feels as I do. But she also feels so forlorn, so abandoned by her own people that she can only wonder how you came to be our protector.”

“Comtesse—pardon the slip—Miss Helène, please do not dwell on that. Of the affairs of Roumelia and the Count I know but little. I am here but for one purpose, and we are well on the way towards its accomplishment. Nothing else matters. You may recall, however, I have never claimed any allegiance to the cause of royalty. All that has been and still is on my mind is your safety and that of the Princess—” He broke off with an assumption of impatience. “Your father, dear lady, felt it was his duty to do all he could to protect Miss Marie—of course, you were in his thoughts also. It has been my happiness to be of service to the Count. Please, Miss Helène, do not live in the past, but look ahead! The world is beautiful, you are young. All happiness is before you. In a few days you will have forgotten these dark weeks. You will then be restored to your father. Tell me now about yourself, Miss Helène. What kind of a life does a lady of a court, a petted and admired Comtesse, lead?”

His assumed lightness of manner deceived the unsophisticated girl. Youth does not dwell on misfortunes forever—it is more comfortable to be irresponsible! Her frown disappeared. How delightfully naïve this foreigner was!

“There is very little to tell, Mr. Morton. Until six years ago I have lived at home with my dear parents—very quietly—studying languages, a little art and music. When my dear mama died—after a dark and lonely six months—papa sent me to the ‘Seurs de Sacre Coeur’ in Gratz. Last year he called for me and I joined him in Bucharest. When Princess Marie and her court left for their annual stay at the Summer Castle in Padina—her Majesty the Queen proposed that I should join the Princess. I think father worried about my being left alone, but it seemed to be the best arrangement for both of us. I have really never been at the Court itself; indeed, I have not yet been presented!” Her eyes danced with fun. “This frock would look fine for my début—would it not?”

She rose, shook herself free from the folds of the rug and gave him a deep courtesy, mischief and laughter in her eyes, as she murmured: “Your Highness—Your obedient servant!”

John, entered into the spirit of the rekindled happy moment, and holding out his hand to the charming maiden, bowed low and murmured back: “Your slave, my lady.” Both laughed aloud.

Helène was the first to recover herself. She glanced at the fine frank face before her, and recalling her neglect of her companion, exclaimed, with somewhat heightened color: “I must see if the Princess requires my presence! Permit me to go into the house.”

“Please stay. Before I came here Miss Marie told me that she would lie down and rest. She is probably asleep.”

“Are you not afraid I shall catch cold, Mr. Morton?” Helène asked roguishly.

“Now, you are teasing, Miss Helène!”

“Forgive me, Mr. Morton. No, you have been more than kind. I can never thank you sufficiently. The Princess and I must be a great anxiety to you. I shall tell my father how good you were. Shall we return to our old observatory?”

All shyness and timidity had now left the young girl. She was safe with this strange American. His quiet strength inspired confidence.

Resuming her seat, she snugly wrapped herself up and abandoned herself to the charm of the view. The warmth of the sun sent her blood coursing freely through her veins, and she gave a free rein to the happiness of the moment. Without realizing it, her protector meant more to her than she would have dared to admit to herself. Certainly he was good to look upon. His eyes were so frank and gentle and they looked at her with such protecting glances, in their expression. He was telling her now of his travels and his home life. He spoke warmly of his father and with devotion of his mother. He seemed glad of the opportunity to speak of his people.

“You know, Miss Helène, I have a little sister at home, about your age—a jolly, fine girl; you would like her, I am sure. And my mother—you would love her—everybody does. She is tall and very handsome, with the loveliest gray hair, and the face of a young girl. I wish you could meet my people some day. You would like them, I think. And father, oh, he’s a splendid fellow. He is the kind of man who is everybody’s friend. He’d adopt you as his own, five minutes after he saw you.”

The Comtesse laughed heartily. “But your sister—how old is she and what is her name?”

“Ruth is just twenty; she is named after her aunt, my mother’s sister.”

“What a beautiful name—Ruth! I have heard that your country loves the Bible names. Is she fair?”

“No, Ruth is quite a brunette. Father is dark—Ruth favors him.”

“And when do you expect to see your family again, Mr. Morton?”

“I expect to be in New York toward the beginning of December. I had some disquieting cables about my father’s health—you know I haven’t been home in almost two years. He isn’t old, but he has worked hard all his life. I should have been home earlier, but—but for some things that had turned up unexpectedly,” he concluded rather lamely.

The girl grew thoughtful; she guessed to what he referred. She began to realize what a sacrifice it had been for him. What could she say? Dared she speak her thoughts? With blood mantling to her cheek and brow, she remained silent.

“A penny for your thoughts, Miss Helène!”

“We have no pennies in Roumelia, we call them ‘banu.’ And I don’t think they are worth even a penny.”

“I will take my chances on their value.”

Providence has endowed woman with a sixth sense which, when called upon, forms a defensive armor of no mean strength. Helène’s intuition told her she was on dangerous ground, and she changed the subject of their conversation. Mr. Morton’s eyes had been insistently directed to her face, not for an instant had they faltered—and the expression in them was a little disquieting to her.

“Please, Mr. Morton—may I inquire what we are to do next?”

Poor John! He had noticed the heightened color, cursed himself for an imbecile that could not govern his tongue, saw the glorious eyes covered by their silken lashes, and perceived the embarrassment. He took it for a hint.

“The men are clearing the short stretch of lane that leads from the road to our camp here. The road itself is in very fair state. The moon rises about midnight, and if sufficiently light we shall start at that hour. If very cloudy, or if it snows or rains—I wouldn’t care to travel. It wouldn’t do to light lanterns; we might run into a patrol or something like that, and would be seen before we had warning. I have examined the road and country with Mihai, some kilometers to the north of us; the brothers know the country thoroughly. Still—I would wait another day, if necessary, rather than risk all by undue haste.”

The thoughtful blue eyes looked confidingly into his, and John decided that prudence had indeed become a virtue.

“We are quite safe here, Comtesse, and could remain undetected for days. Still I hope it will be clear to-night and that we can start. As it is, we shall have to rest the horses about half-way. We must cover the last stretch in the dusk or at night. Mihai, who is an experienced woodsman, suggests that even a light cloudiness should not prevent us from starting. You remember, Comtesse, that the men had a little mishap with their reserve horses, and that we have no relay between here and the Pass; and, of course, horses are all-important to us just now.”

Voices from the wood drew their attention.

“Hello, here come the men; I had better see them at once. Do you wish to go in, Miss Helène? At three o’clock,” consulting his watch, “we shall call you to dinner. Thank you for a pleasant hour, Comtesse; I hope I haven’t bored you.”

“I enjoyed our chat immensely—and thank you ever so much, Mr. Morton.”

The afternoon meal was very much like the breakfast, and consisted mainly of canned meats and fruits.

John sat with the ladies, helpful and cheerful as always, telling tales of his life in the Soudan. It was his business to keep them in good spirits, and he acquitted himself admirably.

The sun sank lower, the shadows lengthened, the blue of the sky deepened; there was not a cloud on the horizon. Helène had begun to enter into the spirit of the adventure, and felt quite proud of being in the confidence of their leader.

Towards evening the packing began, and every article was gone over with great care and deliberation. John was everywhere, calm and quiet, seemingly seeing everything, the men accepting his absolute authority as a matter of course.

The fast sinking sun found them ready, their work finished. Papiu went forward up the lane, taking his place as sentinel. Donald took up his post as watch in the wood to the north, while Mihai retired to his quarters to sleep.

John approached the ladies, who had now retired to their cozy sleeping apartment, and begging permission came to the door.

“We are in good luck, ladies; we shall start shortly after midnight. Everything is in order. Get some sleep now, as there may not be an opportunity for another rest for many hours. I will call you at eleven for a little supper before we start.”

The girls thanked him for his advice, and, after a hearty “Good night,” John withdrew.

Left alone, the two girls made themselves comfortable and settled down to sleep and rest, lying together in close embrace. The Princess was soon fast asleep, but Helène could not sleep. Her thoughts kept her awake. Through her brain coursed the events that had happened, the dangers yet before them, and the strange circumstances in which she now found herself. Where would she meet her father? Where would they live? How would she find him? The Princess, she knew, would eventually go to the Court of Saxe-Weimar—but what would she, the daughter of an ex-Minister, do there? She did not long for life at Court—and what position could her father occupy in a foreign land—himself a stranger?

What did it mean? And what was Mr. Morton’s relation to her father and to this affair? These questions puzzled her again and again! She could not rest.

Stealthily she lowered her limbs to the floor, scarcely disturbing the covers, and crept from the bed. Slipping into her fur slippers—she tiptoed into the far corner to the tiny lamp that shed a bright light upon the diminutive table. She drew up a stool and took from her blouse the letter from her dear father Morton had delivered to her. She read it again slowly, studying each sentence. No, there was nothing there of his plans, and not a word about himself. He simply said he could not come in person.

During her reading she had not noticed the chill which pervaded the room. Now she could see her breath as vapor against the still rays of the lamp. Creeping back to the couch for a rug she wrapped it around her and curled herself up on the crude parapet of logs running along the outer wall.

Was her father a prisoner somewhere in a strange land? Was he ill or—tears gathered in her burning eyes.

What did it mean? And she—without a friend or a relative in the world—without experience of the world! She recalled the girls at the convent, and how much more they seemed to know of life than she did; how astonished they had been on many occasions at her ignorance. They had dubbed her “Diana the Ingenuous.”

She was without clothes or money! How did people get these things? She stared into the gloomy recesses of the darkened room and shivered, oppressed, afraid. The Princess could neither help her nor clear up her doubts—the poor child knew less than she did herself. Was ever anyone so forlorn, so abandoned?

Then her pride and her natural energy came to her assistance. She must think—and she could not think in this prisonlike room. She would go out, and breathe the night air, and pray—pray for enlightenment. “Oh, father,” she sobbed, “why do you not come for me?”

With her rug about her she crept to the door and, cautiously opening it, peered into the darkness of the adjoining space. Not a sound was to be heard. She closed the door behind her and moved swiftly towards the exit leading into the open and stepped out onto the porch.

There was light enough by which to distinguish the outlines of beams and eaves against the bit of sky visible above the tops of the tall trees. In the deep shadow of the porch her eyes, now accustomed to the doubtful light, made out the shapes of the bench and the packages with which it was loaded. She hoped no one would find her there. It was very cold, but she wrapped herself in the rug, glad of its protection.

Through the firs came the sound of the rushing waters of the stream in the gully; she could see the stars and a faintly brighter spot in the heavens toward the east. Leaning against the roughly hewn pillar in an attempt to rest, she now began to regret her childish flight from the room.

“Hello!” came in suppressed, but very peremptory tones, “who is there?”

The ever-watchful Morton stepped from the offing towards the gully.

“Oh—Mr. Morton—it is only I!” Her words came in timid gasps. “I couldn’t sleep. I was restless and unhappy, and I thought I would sit outdoors a while. I am sorry if I have disturbed or startled you—I shall go right in!”

Morton threw away his lighted cigar and went towards the house.

“My dear lady, what is the matter?” With quick steps he reached her and took a limp little hand protectingly into his own. “You haven’t startled me. Of course—if you could not sleep—I know how stuffy the room is. Is the Princess asleep?”

“Yes, sound asleep, poor darling; but I couldn’t rest.”

“Come, Miss Helène, let me arrange a seat for you here on the porch. Sit down and rest yourself.” Suiting his action to his words, he removed the bundles from the bench, pulling his seat somewhat nearer to the edge of the flooring, spread the blankets that had covered the packages over the boards, and leading Helène to it gently urged her to sit down, and he carefully wrapped her in the rug.

“Now you can sit in comfort. I am sorry you must be here in the dark, but I do not dare to light the lanterns, and cannot give you a fire in the room—there is no chimney. In an hour or so our supper—or rather breakfast—will be ready and shortly after that we shall start. Do you see that light streak over the hillside, Comtesse? That is where our friend the moon will appear in sixty minutes or so, and then—we shall bid good-by to this gloomy place.”

“Oh, Mr. Morton, you are so kind. I ought not to add to your burden by my foolishness. Please, don’t mind me—don’t let me keep you from your intended work. I am making your duties only the more arduous.”

Morton gave vent to a hearty though subdued laugh. “I haven’t a thing to do but to wait until the fixed time arrives. I also couldn’t sleep. If Donald catches me he will scold me, too. So you see, Miss Helène, we are culprits together. It is a glorious night—it couldn’t be better for our plans if we had ordered it. Mihai will ride ahead. The horses are in fine form, and by daybreak we shall be fully twenty-five miles up the road. Then, after a good rest we will start out towards the saddle of the mountain range, and get there just in the right time. Why, to-morrow at this hour I will have you both in a nice cozy room at the best hotel in Raros. The morning after you will be in a warm coupé on the railroad, speeding on your way to your friends! It couldn’t have gone better in the piping times of peace!”

“You are very good,” murmured the girl. His confident cheerfulness was infectious. Fear and doubt had vanished, and she resolved to be obedient to his earlier request and refrain from worrying. But as to one thing she had made up her mind—she must know about her father.

“Mr. Morton—why doesn’t my father write where I am to meet him? And why didn’t he at least come to the border?”

Luckily it was dark. “More trouble coming—this young person has a mania for questioning!” Morton reflected, but he was now thoroughly on the alert!

“Oh, did I forget to explain that? Why, the General felt that if he were recognized anywhere near the Roumelian line, the alarm might be given and then my opportunity to get you two ladies away would be gone. The only thing to do was to be bold and avoid arousing suspicion. We were informed as to the conditions in Padina and elsewhere—through Baron de Haas, who wired from Constantinople, as you know. Where will he join you? Hm—I am not certain, but I have arranged to wire him the moment it can be done safely and I think he expects to meet you at Weimar. He will be there ahead of us, no doubt.”

“Mr. Morton—where did you first meet my father?”

“On his return trip from India. We spent days in each other’s society, and became quite intimate. I am very proud indeed to be a friend of the General, whom I admire above all men. I deem the confidence he has placed in me a great compliment—nay, even a noble condescension!”

There are many workings of the human mind not yet understood—a girl’s courage seems to expand in direct ratio to the cube of her obscured sight. The timid Helène knew she could not be observed and suspected her informant, whom she could not see in the darkness. She was, therefore, the more determined to find out more of her father.

“Oh, you met him on the steamer from India? How was my father when you saw him last?”

John was quick in his answer, and took refuge in rapid speech.

“The last time I spoke to the Count was on an evening as lovely as this. The stars were shining just as bright as they do now. We were discussing astronomy and kindred subjects. The General is an unusually well-informed man—and a delightful companion! I asked him if he admired the much glorified Southern Cross, sung in verse and praised in prose—and your father surprised me by confessing that he had never noticed it at all! Then we spoke of the stars of our own latitudes—you know we in America see the same heavens as you do. He was pleased when I told him that our own ‘Big Dipper’ was far more beautiful than the famed southern constellation. I remember well his remark: ‘Give me our own land, our own stars, our——’”

“The Big Dipper? What is that?”

John was delighted to find he had succeeded in turning the conversation.

“Why, Comtesse, don’t you know the beautiful constellation of seven big, bright stars that point to the Polar Star? To men living in the free air of primitive and thinly settled countries, it is their guide in their travels—their compass at night. See, Miss Helène, yonder in the north—that fine group looking like a giant S? That’s the constellation which we Anglo-Saxons in our practical, non-poetic way call ‘The Big Dipper.’ In form it looks like a pot with a crooked handle, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, we call it the ‘Great Bear’—it is the ‘Ursus Major’ of the old Romans! I—I have always loved it. Astronomy is one of my favorite studies, Mr. Morton.”

John mentally patted himself on the back; he certainly had managed it well. He entered with renewed enthusiasm on the subject and allowed her to instruct him in a science the study of which had taken up many nights of his life. Never in his life had John Morton, the learned savant and traveler, enjoyed himself so thoroughly. He was perfectly happy to sit at the feet of his new teacher.

He turned eagerly towards Helène, and though he could but faintly make out the outlines of her hooded figure, he yet saw the eyes that shone intermittently under the protecting shadow. Once more he relapsed into the stage of adoration. He pictured to himself the glorious eyes, the temptingly arched lips, the delicate cheeks. His heart went out towards the lonely, forsaken girl. He longed to take her into his arms—to comfort and caress her. But—what was he thinking of? He pulled himself together with a mighty effort.

Helène, all unconscious of the turmoil in the breast of her companion, leaned towards him and pointed upward.

“You will hardly believe it, Mr. Morton, but I don’t think I ever sat up as late as this, nor do I remember ever having seen the sky so beautiful and so full of stars as it is to-night. It is a most glorious sight.”

“It is, indeed, Miss Helène. Even I, who have lain awake numberless nights, the entire dome and horizon free and unobstructed above me—have never seen it more gorgeous. For me the night skies always have a curious charm—the lure as of a mystery—they fill me with unknown longings. I believe I could easily become a devotee to the worship of the starry heavens.”

Without knowing, perhaps without even realizing it, he had taken hold of the extended hand of the girl, and drew it gently to himself in a light and tender grasp. Helène was utterly unconscious of his action; she was so happy.

“They have a strange power over me,” she whispered rather than spoke the words. “I could sit and look at them and forget everything else.”

Morton’s voice, equally subdued, whispered back: “Is it not your own famous Queen, the poetic and noble ‘Carmen Sylva,’ who says: ‘The night has thousands of eyes watching its children’? There is a lovely lady!”

“Oh, Mr. Morton, is she not? Noble and good—and so beautiful! Have you read her books?”

“Some of them, Comtesse, and I admire them exceedingly. But don’t forget that for more than two years I haven’t seen a new book. During those two years I have dreamed of happiness to come, my longings have become crystallized—and under these stars, I feel, my fate is being sealed—here or at some other place—who knows? Miss Helène—for two years I haven’t looked upon—I haven’t spoken to a woman. Meeting you has shown me so much more clearly the great treasure of a noble woman. Do not attribute my words to the hour or the stars. Let me plead—plead for myself. Permit me to tell you that from the bottom of my heart, I am glad to have known your father; glad he selected me to be the bearer of his letter; happy to be of service to you. I shall always bless the fate that let me meet you! And when you are back among your friends, I hope you will let me still be your friend and grant me the opportunity to be worthy of your friendship—your regard.”

Rising, he lightly touched the hand he had been holding and gently released it. Then he added: “And may the ‘Big Bear’ plead for me!”

Helène sat motionless. Her heart was beating wildly. His words filled her with a curious warmth as though in response to a desired caress. She blessed the darkness that hid the tell-tale burning in her cheeks,—she felt she didn’t know what—she knew only that she was happy, at peace with everything—and above all—she was glad it was dark!

She rose confusedly and, to his great surprise, said in a low voice, quite clearly:

“Mr. Morton—I have known few gentlemen other than my father; but it has been my privilege to meet you. I shall be proud of your friendship—any time and anywhere.”

She bowed slightly, but suddenly recalling herself to her position, she became afraid and added: “And the unhappy Princess, I am sure, feels as I do.”

“I thank you. And now, won’t you go in and waken Miss Marie? I see the silvery strip over the hill widening; Mihai is scraping in the shed and breakfast will soon be ready.”

Then to himself he whispered: “God bless you, dear love!”—Aloud, he added: “Till breakfast, Miss Helène!”

CHAPTER XIII

THE frowning and forbiddingly gloomy slope of the hillside across the gorge to the East showed clear against the sulphur streak in the sky, when the lumbering vehicle drew up before the porch and the order came to start.

Morton in short serviceable sheep furs that set off his square shoulders and powerful chest, helped the ladies into their wagon-recess. The horses strained and pulled; the sled-runners squeaked and scratched but luckily held; the drivers, by turns, coaxed and threatened, prayed and swore, until at last the vehicle was gotten under way. Papiu walked at the head of the horses, Donald handled the reins while the younger of the brothers, astride the leader, encouraged the animals in the subtle, mysterious ways which only the experienced teamster knows. As they emerged from the protection of the firs and the thick undergrowth the road became brighter and sloped perceptibly towards the narrow valley which marked the location of the mountain road leading to the West.

John, who was following on behind the vehicle which had now become in reality a sled on wheels, aided the runners, with the help of a stout stick. There was no opportunity for conversation.

The girls, snugly wrapped in furs, sat in silence observing the mighty efforts of the men and after a while picked up sufficient courage to inquire if they could not aid the poor animals by walking. Morton shook his head and begged them to remain where they were, for the present. Later on, when the climb would begin, he might ask them to do what they had suggested.

With many oaths and imprecations on the part of the men and with not a few misgivings on the part of the girls, the valley was finally reached. They then removed the appended runners and hid their tracks as best they could. They followed the fairly firm road-bed winding along the banks of a noisy mountain stream, and struck off to the North.

The stars were shining brightly, the narrow crescent of the pale moon had risen high and clear above the mountain slopes and timber, the rattle and clatter of the wagon had ceased and instead was heard the crunching of crisp snow on frozen ground.

The road wound through densely wooded inclines, over rocky bare stretches without a semblance of cultivation or a sign of human dwelling. From time to time an owl would flit across their path. Their progress was accompanied by the sound of rushing waters, the heavy breathing of the laboring horses and the occasional creak of a breaking twig.

Helène had noticed that John’s rifle was lying across the opening at the rear of the wagon and saw that he himself had fastened his cartridge belt over his fur coat. The other men also had their rifles ready and their pistols in their belts. Papiu, she saw, had been sent forward, as a scout. With trepidation she asked Morton if he expected an attack.

John smiled and reassured her. At the same time, he told her, it was best to be prepared for any emergency. The wires had all been cut from Padina and the South, and as they were traveling on the only road leading to the Aluta Valley, they must be on the alert.

At that moment, a short sharp call rang out in the distance and the horses were halted. John rushed hurriedly away. Helène was left in anxious expectation, but he returned after a few minutes’ absence and explained that the delay was due to a tree which had fallen across the road, and which had now been removed. If she wished, she and the Princess could now leave the wagon and walk.

The Princess was too tired, but Helène was delighted at the suggestion. She clambered out of the vehicle and joined Morton.

The moon had now reached the high heavens and spread its gentle light silvering the entire snow-covered landscape. Looking back on the road they were traveling she saw the deep furrows made by the wheels of the wagon edged with glinting crystals. The rare mountain air sent the blood tingling through her veins. She experienced a sense of renewed strength and her supple and strong limbs marched to the musical rhythm of her thoughts. A delightful feeling of comradeship with this man by whose side she was walking pervaded her. She felt content, quite happily content that it should be so. How strange it was that she should be so perfectly at ease with one whom she had known but three days!

As for John his heart beat time to her steps. He was ever ready to help her over a tree-stump or a stone. He chatted ceaselessly of his hunting expeditions in America, of his enjoyment of the present adventure, of the beauty of the Carpathian landscape. And all the time Helène noted his eyes were everywhere, taking in everything, noting the least untoward sound. A capital companion and a chivalrous protector, surely, was this stranger from America! Unconsciously, his bearing transmitted its spirit to her. The noble blood in her asserted itself and she walked more erectly and felt a new desire steal into her heart, to help and be of service to others. Thus did they climb together the rocky ascent, each thinking of the other and both happy in their thoughts.

The moonlight which had grown paler and more mysterious now gradually gave way to the first hazy drab of the dawn. They had reached the more rugged parts of the mountains where the ribbed cliffs lay exposed, uncovered by snow. Sparse brown patches of grass and withered ferns showed on the small open spaces. A bleak wind which had risen and was sweeping over the unfriendly landscape made the air bitingly cold. John threw occasional glances at the girl by his side and noted with pain her pale, haggard face, the eyes bright from the exercise, the parted lips almost blue with the cold. But he also saw that she was happy. What a splendid, noble-hearted creature, he thought, was this! And then the longing arose in him again to tell her of what he felt—to speak to her of his heart’s desires; but he restrained himself, although it cost him a great effort to do so. Helène, all unconscious of the emotions she had excited in Morton, would look at him, from time to time, silently thank him with a smile and a grateful glance, gladly accepting the helping arm he proffered. Her little hand rested there with easy confidence, the while her silvery laughter rang out in the clear air when the obstacle had been overcome or avoided. And all the way John kept thinking: “I have found the pearl of the land—I have found her and am taking her home—home to comfort and love. Do you love me, my queen? Shall I win you in the end?”

At that moment, a low exclamation of warning came from Mihai who was leading the tired horses. John and Helène looked anxiously before them and saw the advance guard holding up his rifle and waving his hand. Donald also was motioning to Morton to come forward. Urging Helène gently into the wagon, John seized his rifle and bounded forward. He found the men crouching behind a rock and learned that Papiu had gone on to investigate.

The girls, in the meantime, sat huddled close together in the wagon, wondering what had happened. They listened intently, but could hear nothing but a sound like the loud cracking as of a whip, which was repeated several times and then ceased altogether. The Princess was trembling from fear. She begged her companion to let her go out, but Helène kept her back.

In a few minutes Morton appeared at the opening of the wagon and nodded to them smilingly. He was holding a compass and a map in his hands. He informed them that they were about to take a branch road and that there was nothing to fear.

Morton seized the leader of the horses by the hand while the men pulled at the wheels. In a short pace of time the wagon was turned round and the party retraced the road they had traversed.

Soon they entered the branch road and found it to be but a woodsman’s run. It was thickly carpeted with pine needles and wound its narrow way through a dense growth of hemlock, as far as the eye could see. They drove for some time in silence, crossing a few shallow streams and arrived at last at the foot of a rocky height which rose sheer. Here they came to a halt, and Morton informed Helène and the Princess that they were to stop here for rest and refreshment.

Baskets were quickly unpacked and a substantial repast was spread out before the weary travelers. The girls ate in anxious silence while Morton explained to them that the men had gone merely to clear the road. They could hear, from where they were sitting, the sound of wood being sawn and the occasional breaking of branches. After what seemed to the girls an endless time, the men returned and Morton announced that they would shortly continue their journey—but this time on foot. The men knew of a foot-path over the mountains along which it would be more prudent to travel than on the highway, and a tramp of nine or ten kilometers would bring them to the main road along the Aluta and across the divide into Transylvania. Morton explained all this cheerfully and said they must travel with light baggage—the most necessary things only.

The girls gladly assented and in a short time they had made their preparations for the journey. Mihai, who had left a short time before, now returned and mounting the wagon, drove off following the woodsmen’s road. As soon as he was out of hearing Papiu rose and in response to a nod from Morton, struck out to the right, carefully skirting the ledge. Donald followed with the girls behind him and John brought up the rear. In this Indian-file fashion they advanced through the timber, slipping occasionally over the thick carpet of pine needles, but making good progress and always mounting higher and higher.

Helène, whom the events of the morning had filled with vague doubts and to whom the climb thus far had been quite easy, waited impatiently for a favorable opportunity to question Morton. The halt and the return as well as the men’s disappearance had puzzled her.

The opportunity came when they arrived at a relatively level stretch, a small plateau bordered on their left by the dense timber and gradually losing itself in the opposite direction into the forbidding rocky expanse of the mountain. She waited for Morton to get up to her and then asked him what the sudden change in their route betokened. Had he suspected any danger?

Morton met her honest eyes with a perfectly assumed innocence of gaze in his own and explained quietly that they had encountered a small patrol of a few men on foot, who had ordered them to halt. To avoid being questioned too closely they had started to withdraw when one of the gendarmes had fired. This fire they had returned and had put the patrol to flight. One of the soldiers, unfortunately, had been hit and left behind. Mihai, pretending to be a peasant casually passing by, had gone forward and had bandaged the man’s slight wound. He had left him in a protected spot, with food and water, where he would be easily found by his returning comrades. It was from this soldier that Mihai had received the information which prompted them to turn back and take this new path. Very few people knew of a passage or road crossing the slopes of the dreaded “Caineni”—his own military map did not show it—Papiu and Mihai were well acquainted with the path, and....

“You haven’t killed one of those poor soldiers, have you, Mr. Morton?” exclaimed Helène in awestruck tones.

Morton smiled and assured her that no one had been killed. The shots were intended to frighten them only. Mihai had reported that the soldier who had been wounded would be all right—his mates would be certain to find him. Miss Helène need have no anxiety. All her strength was now needed for the climb that was before them. He begged her to keep up heart and cheer the Princess.

They had now reached the narrow gully from which the spring descended. Helène could not repress a slight shudder as she saw the native guide turn and pointing upward begin the precipitous ascent.

It needed all the strength the girls possessed to follow. Don gave a helping hand to the Princess and John supported Helène’s faltering steps. It was a long, tedious and heart-breaking climb. The Princess, again and again, begged to be allowed to rest, saying that it was impossible for her to continue much longer. But Donald would put his arm around her and almost carry her up bodily. Helène, pale and staggering, found Morton’s ever ready arm to aid her and his quiet cheerful smile to encourage her.

The climb once begun they dared not stop. So up, up they went and after an hour or two the sun became visible through the light haze which an icy wind was dissipating. Before them appeared a horizontal ledge and on this the exhausted girls lay down, panting for breath. Morton decided to remain here for a space so as to allow them to recover themselves. He was deeply distressed to witness their prostrated condition. He ordered the men to unroll and spread the rugs on the ground for the better comfort of the Princess and Helène.

From his blouse he drew the soft, fur-lined boots the girls had worn in the cabin, and displaying them, said with as much cheer as he could muster: “Here, brave ladies—here is comfort for your feet!” With faint glad cries they seized them and managed with a little difficulty to exchange them for the hard leather boots which had sorely rubbed their delicate feet. Soon the color had returned to their pale faces and Morton was rewarded by seeing them embrace each other with tearful smiles. He seized the opportunity to further encourage them by telling them that the worst of the journey was over. “Another ascent of 160 meters,” he said, “and then the easy descent to the smiling plains below. Let me know when you are sufficiently rested and we will start.”

Princess Marie tried to smile through tears which were now freely coursing down her pale cheeks. “You ought not to be burdened by me, sir. I feel I shall be the cause of your being overtaken—I am putting all of you into jeopardy!” Crying, Helène put her arms about the Princess and begged her to be of good courage. All would be well, soon.

Morton waited in silence, knowing that Helène would succeed where he must fail. When he saw that the Princess had somewhat recovered, he said: “Dear lady, I assure you the worst is over. It is my duty and my honor to protect you and lead you both to safety. As soon as Mihai rejoins us we shall make better progress. There, upon that little ridge,” pointing ahead, “we shall rest once more and before long we shall be at the divide. You have done nobly, Princess.”

Helped by Helène, Marie rose, smiling through tears, and finding her limbs would support her, said bravely: “Thank you, Mr. Morton, I shall manage now.”

The men rolled up the rugs, and the party, taking the same order of march as before, resumed the climb.

Patiently and silently the girls trudged along; the path had become almost undistinguishable, but the footing was much firmer and easier. The ascent, however, was steeper.

After great difficulty, Donald and Mihai, half carrying the Princess between them, the party at last succeeded in reaching the ridge Morton had indicated. By this time the Princess could scarcely stand on her legs. She collapsed on the rug spread on the rock. Although suffering acutely, she begged Morton, in a whisper, to forgive her for her weakness. Her strength seemed to have gone from her.

Morton remained cool, though somewhat alarmed. He forced some brandy from his flask between the girl’s lips and wrapped her carefully in his robe. Helène, tired and worn out as she also was, assisted him in his ministrations. He could not help admiring the splendid courage of this girl—the brave daughter of a brave man. When he had satisfied himself that both were resting he stood up and with a light laugh, remarked: “There is not the slightest need for worry now! We have any amount of time—we can wait here for hours, if necessary. Not a soul will dispute our path any more; and Papiu will have no difficulty in guiding us down even after dark.”

He turned and paced the ledge with short steps. The men sat removed, rifles in hand, eagerly scanning the downward slope and the distant valley all about them; utter quiet reigned.

A scarce half hour had thus passed when Helène, looking up, saw that Morton’s face wore an anxious expression. She noted that he was consulting his watch and glancing frequently and impatiently about him with an evidently carefully suppressed concern. She dared not ask any questions, and besides, she was too tired and worn out to summon the necessary energy.

Just then the thrice-repeated call of a partridge followed by a peculiar, long-drawn whistle, broke into the dead silence of the desolate fastness, and from the left, behind some gigantic boulders, Mihai was seen approaching with long swinging stride, bearing on his back two stout poles and what looked like a tent-cover. The brothers exchanged a few whispered words, and Papiu hastened back to Mr. Morton and reported that his orders had been executed. Mihai had not encountered any guards or militia, and he was now awaiting further instructions. They were on the right path and there was no snow to speak of on the divide.

John went forward with Papiu, and receiving from Mihai confirmation of Papiu’s statement, he hurried back to the resting girls, and in a voice of renewed cheer, said: “Mihai’s report is most satisfactory. About a thousand feet from here our path crosses a road, which leads from the state-chaussé toward the western country. He had been over it and found neither patrols nor any signs of the enemy. And here is a conveyance which will mean relief to you, Your Highness.”

The girls turned their eyes to where Morton had pointed and saw to their astonishment that what they had thought were tent and poles had been unfolded and converted into a strongly constructed stretcher—a heavy canvas sheet suspended between two stout bars.

John spread a rug over it, and, folding another for a cushion at the head, led the Princess to it. In this wise they began the last stage of their ascent.

Mihai took the lead, rifle in the crook of an arm, his older brother and Donald bore the crude palankin; and, as before, Helène and Morton brought up the rear.

The sun was now nearing the western slope, the wind had died down, the air had grown colder, but was bracing and refreshing. They reached the crossroad so dreaded by Morton, advanced over it for some hundreds of paces, and then once more Mihai struck off due north—the continuation of the indistinctly marked path that was to lead them to safety.

They followed this difficult road for a considerable distance silently, every man observing carefully the place in which his predecessor had put his foot. In this manner they at last reached a rounded plateau beyond which the eye saw but the unobstructed sky, clear and cloudless, stretching its blue vault as if with a benign promise of freedom.

From time to time Helène had stolen a glance at Morton, who untiring and ever present guided her steps and aided her progress by silent encouragement. She noticed that his face had gradually cleared, the eyes had lost their grim expression, the deep furrow between the brows had vanished, and his step seemed more elastic and confident. Catching one of her looks he smiled and pointing ahead of them, said, “There is the divide—the boundary line!”

Helène’s head swam and her limbs shook. John sprung to her support. Timidly glancing up at him she whispered, “Are you sure? You are not saying that just to cheer me, Mr. Morton, are you?”

“No, Comtesse, I am not. Look at our guide!”

Mihai had stopped upon the crest of the saddlelike bare expanse of smooth rock they had now attained. He had lifted his cap and was standing grinning. He was pointing straight ahead—toward the hazy deep green valley that had unfolded itself to their view.

Morton reluctantly released the girl’s arm and hurried forward. In a voice in which he could not hide his deep emotion he announced to Princess Marie that they were on Transylvanian soil. A quick, happy flush came to the haggard cheeks and glad tears filled the soft eyes. Helène stood nearby, her bosom heaving in happy sympathy and her eyes shining brightly. Reverently she bent and kissed her companion’s cold wrist. To Morton she raised a look of mingled gratitude and admiration, the tribute of a thankful heart that gladly acknowledged noble merit.

The red ball of the sinking sun threw their elongated shadows grotesquely on the rocks gleaming in rosy reflection. The steep parapet of the deep gorge to their left was lit up, showing the fiery glinting narrow ribbon of the river Aluta, winding in a wide sweeping curve beneath them. To their right stretched forth and loomed overpoweringly the commanding peak of snow-capped Negoi against the delicate gloam of the east. And straight before them unrolled hill after hill—slope after slope—the welcome sight of deep evergreen, of rustic brown and sere yellow, the purplish plowed fields and darkening meadows spread out like a checker-board. A needlelike white spire and little bright red-capped dots of houses in the midst told of human life, of comfort and safety.

Mihai had stepped aside from the path so as to allow Papiu and Donald to put down the stretcher and permit the Princess to alight. He was all smiles and bubbling over with happiness.

The girls stood together in close embrace and followed with eager looks the arm of their guide, who was pointing back and downward.

“El Tornu Ros!”—and they beheld the deeply cut “Red Tower Pass,” the connecting link between the turbulent Balkans and the well-ordered country into which at last they had entered, opening before them like a wondrous gate. It seemed to them that they had conquered fate.

Morton, quietly exultant, approached Papiu and shook the man’s rough and soiled hand. “You have made good, and you are all true and brave men. I freely acknowledge your fine devotion, your quick wit and splendid performance. In addition to the agreed amount each of you will receive two thousand florins. I shall never forget your services. Tell your brother what I have said, and I shall write to Father Moskar at the earliest opportunity.”

The brothers looked proud and glad, and beamed sheepishly at each other. The words of the “gospodar” had made them happy—the sum they had gained meant independence to them.

John left the men to talk the good news over among themselves, and approached the two girls, who were now resting against a boulder. Cap in hand, his damp hair straggling over his forehead, he looked down and suddenly found himself shy and awkward. The journey over he was no longer their guide. These ladies were noble women—and one a Princess. His words came stammeringly: “Your Highness—Comtesse Rondell—all danger is past——”

Helène was the first to speak: “Mr. Morton, we cannot tell you how much we feel ourselves beholden to you. I hope that a more fitting occasion will offer itself to express our deep appreciation and gratitude for the service you have rendered us.” Her words sounded strained to his ears; but he smiled and bowed. “The Princess feels herself strong enough to walk,” continued the Comtesse, “we are ready when you are.” Morton bowed without a word and turned to the guides with orders.

They resumed their downward march, and entered the protecting woods of pink-tipped trees. At dusk they reached the highway, broad and smooth in gleaming gray, silently following the guides, who were laughing and chatting with careless ease, as they munched their bread and cheese.

Soon they came to a neatly gravelled path which led to a low, rambling cottage some hundred feet back from the highway. Here they stopped and Papiu announced that their journey’s end had been reached.

It was the house of Toni Brasic, a God-fearing man and the husband of their good sister Amuska. The gracious Gospodinas and Gospodar Morton would be in good hands here and very welcome.

A loud call accompanied by the growling of a sheep dog brought to the door a strapping young woman, whom the brothers greeted with sounding smacks as their beloved niece Rossika, and who was told to hurry and call her mother.

In the cheerfully lighted and warm room the girls sank gratefully into stiff tulip-painted chairs and greedily drank the clear cool water offered them. A roaring fire through the open door of an ovenlike brick stove lit up the place and spread comfort all around. In its warmth the girls brightened and their faces shone with happiness. The comely stout hostess with the leathery weather-beaten face stood looking at them with open mouth and adoration in her eyes. In the next room could be heard Rossika busy with her preparations for the supper, and in a few minutes she rushed in with a shy, smiling mien to inform the “Gospodinas” that their rooms were ready for them. Here they found warm water, clean linen and garments, and soft red “saffian” boots for their tired feet. The girl helped them, blushing and shy at the honor of serving the noble ladies.

Dressed at last in their hostess’s best gowns, which were so ample as to envelop them, they reappeared in the living room, where they were immediately joined by the men, and where a plentiful repast had been spread. The natives sat at one end of the long table, close together, whispering to each other of their adventures and glorifying their deeds.

At the upper end of the table sat the two girls, their faces flushed, their tired, deep-sunken eyes sparkling in wondering happiness. Morton sat opposite them in deep thought.

The Junolike Rossika flitted from chair to chair piling goodies upon their plates, filling their glasses and constantly throwing glances of intense admiration at the girls. How different they were from the girls she knew. They were Princesses or perhaps Queens—beautiful as the pictures of the angels in lace-paper borders in her prayer book.

Supper over, everybody expressed themselves as being too tired to sit up. The girls withdrew to their rooms, and the men retired to the kitchen for a smoke and a talk with their relatives. Morton, however, remained to consult with Don about the program for the next day. Soon, even these were too wearied to stay awake, and retired to their beds.

The low-burning night-lamp was placed in the chimney corner, and the house locked up for the night. Peace and quiet soon reigned in the house where our worn-out travelers had found their well-earned rest.

CHAPTER XIV

MORTON’S sleep was heavy but restless. He had thrown himself down, glad of the chance to rest, with his mind still busied over the day’s happenings, and doubting if he had done right in relying on his host, Toni, to keep a careful watch during the night. He had not “sworn” the man, so that he was uncertain if the fellow would keep his word. He fell asleep with the question and he awoke with it. It had kept his mind working even in his slumbers. He sat up quite wide awake with all his faculties keenly alert. The sonorous breathing of Donald jarred on his ears. In the distance he heard the baying of a hound. Had they been followed? They were but a little way from the border, and a quick raid could undo all that had been done. He determined to satisfy himself that all was right.

Dressing hurriedly he seized his rifle and throwing a rug over his shoulders slipped out of the room quietly, withdrew the heavy bolts of the entrance door and locked it after him. It was a beautiful moonlight night. As he stepped into the open, the faithful house dog came bounding towards him and licked his hand. Morton stroked the animal’s head affectionately as it followed him in the tour he made round the house. As he had suspected, he found no one on the lookout. Toni had, evidently, preferred the comforts of a warm bed to breathing the cold night air.

Well, there was nothing for it but to keep watch himself. He found a wooden bench opposite the garden, and wrapping the rug about him, sat down with his rifle across his knees. The stillness and the glory of the night soothed his tired mind. Now and again he would doze off, but he quickly roused himself. Once again he thought of the strange adventure of the past days. If anyone had told him a month ago that he would be acting the part of a knight-errant he would have laughed in scorn. That he of all men should have done this thing!

He could not help smiling at the situation in which he now found himself. And yet—why not? Would he be deserving the name of a man if he had left these two helpless creatures to their fate? Two—nay, one! And his heart filled with tenderness as he thought of Helène—the beautiful child-woman; so lovely a being, so lovable a girl, so noble a woman. How brave she had been; how splendid in her self-sacrificing devotion to her friend, the Princess! Surely, there was no other like her in this wide world!

What did it mean? Was this love? If it was, then, certainly it had been love at first sight. Strange that he, the practical man of the world, should have so easily succumbed to this mysterious power! What would his father have said to him?

The question was but a natural one, but he did not know that however experienced and worldly-wise a man may be, the heart of him ages less than does the mind. And he had kept his heart pure in spite of the world of business in which his father lived. To the young and pure in heart Love is the one power which must be obeyed; for that is nature’s wonderful way of preserving her own. That is the meaning of woman. Strive as we will in our efforts to escape, unless some ignoble passion such as the craving for gold or power deadens the soul within us, we must serve God; and we can only serve him through Love.

Morton had taken Helène’s photograph out of his pocket and was gazing raptly at the face in the moonlight that shone fully where he was sitting. Should he speak to her in the morning—the last day before they parted? No—he could not take the advantage her helplessness gave him. He must wait until she was free to think and decide—free of the sense of obligation which she might now feel.

Replacing the photograph he rose from the bench, and looking at his watch found that it was still three hours before the dawn. He let himself in the house and tried the chimney seat. But he was restless—he was too far from where the girls were sleeping. It would be better if he lay down in the room adjoining theirs. He found the place empty of any couch or bed, but spreading his rug on the floor he used his coat as a pillow and was soon at peace in what the Easterns call “the outer court of the Seven Heavens”—the deep sleep of tired limbs and a clear conscience.

Helène and the Princess had enjoyed the evening fully. Before retiring to bed they had exchanged glad expressions at this happy issue out of their afflictions. Their hearts were full to overflowing with gratitude towards their deliverer. They realized now fully what Mr. Morton had done for them, and could find no words in which sufficiently to express their feelings. The Princess began to quiz Helène about him, but by that time the two were in bed and the light lowered, and Helène was glad of the darkness. She managed, however, to reply to her friend’s remarks in a voice of cold indifference. She thought him rather curt and domineering she said. The Princess laughed quietly and told Helène to go to sleep and dream of knights of old.

Helène said nothing and pretended to go to sleep. It was long, however, before she did sleep. When she awoke, after what seemed to her but a few minutes later, she heard a cock crowing lustily outside. In the low light of the lamp her watch told her that it would soon be daybreak and time to begin making preparations for continuing their journey. Mr. Morton would be punctual, she was sure. She would get up and dress now.

Throwing aside the voluminous quilts she stepped out of bed, though not without some pain, for her limbs were still sore and aching from the previous day’s exertions, and in a few minutes had clothed herself in the garments of the stout Rossika.

Stepping softly so as not awaken her companion, she left the room, walked into the outer room in which Morton lay, and stood looking through the window. In the darkness behind her Morton, who slept lightly, had heard her soft footsteps. He looked up from where he lay and saw her head and slender neck silhouetted against the lattice-work of the window. He could but faintly distinguish her outline, but, faint as it was, it was enough to cause his heart to leap to his throat and a wave of exquisite emotion to surge over him.

Quickly rising he put on his coat and, before Helène had become aware of his presence, he was by her side.

“Is that you, Comtesse?” he whispered.

“Oh, Mr. Morton, I—I hope I didn’t disturb you. I am so sorry. I was not aware that anyone was up yet——”

“I am afraid I frightened you, Comtesse. I have been around the house and found that our host has been remiss in his duty. Instead of watching he is sound asleep in his bed. Have you had a good rest? I see you are all prepared.”

“Oh, yes, I feel splendidly and I—I am so happy. But, please, Mr. Morton, go back to your sleep. You must be very tired. I’ll go to my room.”

“Don’t go, Comtesse. The day will be breaking soon and we shall have to make ready for our next stage. Besides—I—am glad of this opportunity to be alone with you.”

The mist was clearing and above the dark timber a golden expanse was heralding the coming of the life-giving sun. Small, fleecy clouds of amethystine hues floated above the snow-clad tops of the Divide, now flushing rose. They seemed like flower petals that had been blown across the sky. In the bare autumnal garden the last flowers, slender feathery stalks of cosmos, stood greeting the dawn in colors matching the coming glory and tiny dew-drops reflected the golden sheen as they glinted on leaves and petals trembling in the morning’s breeze.

Helène’s eyes sought the distant enchantment, not daring to look at the man who had now approached her so closely that he almost touched her. She felt her hand being taken in a gentle grasp. Her heart beat fast; she could feel the pulse beat in her throat.

“Comtesse,” and Morton’s voice was very tender, “the few days of our common purpose, the hardships that brought us together, are now ended. To-morrow you will be in Vienna and with your friends. You will, I hope, soon forget the trials you have endured, the days of anxiety in which I have come to know you. To me they will remain ever unforgettable. You have your way to go and I mine—duties await you as they do me. May I hope that we shall meet again?”

Helène knew not what to say. Her hand trembled in his and her head was bent away from his ardent gaze. She felt his eyes though she could not see them.

“Comtesse, may I ask you to think of me as your friend? I shall come back in this part of the world soon, and if I knew the door of your friendship would still be open for me it would make me very happy.”

Helène had raised her head and was now gazing at the ever brightening horizon.

“Mr. Morton—the Princess and I owe you our freedom, our honor and, perhaps, our lives. Not only my friendship but my eternal gratitude is yours.”

She found courage to turn and look at him, but quickly looked away again.

“Comtesse, it is not gratitude I care for. Will you do me a favor—will you make me a promise?”

Helène looked at him with wide, questioning eyes.

“I want you to tell me—that you will take no important step in the near future until I see you again. Promise me that you will call on me if you need help? Will you do this, for me, Comtesse?”

The deep, resonant tones in which he uttered these words swept over her like the music from a fine-stringed instrument. It brought from her responsive chords which found expression in involuntary sighs. She felt a curious pride and realized that she was happy and inexplicably glad to obey when that voice commanded.

“I promise,” she whispered. Then her voice gathering strength she went on: “I do not know why you should value the friendship of an inexperienced girl, but I am proud that you ask for it.”

Reverently Morton bowed over the little hand he had been holding, afraid to trust his eyes to look at her face, and kissing it softly, released it.

“Thank you—and God bless you.”

Gathering up his rug and rifle he hurriedly left the room. Helène remained motionless for a time, then she slowly turned to the window, on her lips a happy smile and in her eyes a new lustre. The first rays of the now risen sun shot through the serrated tops of the forest and found their straight paths into the embrasure of the window, casting a wondrous light on her dreamy face. Her heart felt light as thistledown. She saw the flowers opening—how beautiful they were! Unconsciously her eyes fell upon the hand he had held—she still felt the lingering imprint of his lips on it, and her face took on a color that rivalled the rosy tints of the dawn. The great secret of nature had been imparted to her. She could not speak of it in words, even to herself, for the power of it had overcome her. Instead, her hands mutely unfolded like a flower opening under the morning’s sunlight, and her face shone as if transfigured.

CHAPTER XV

BREAKFAST that morning was, indeed, a serious business. Everybody was ravenously hungry. They knew that it would be some hours before they could partake of the next meal. Even the Princess and Helène did justice to the food which their host had provided with true rustic generosity. Papiu and Mihai, whom Morton had paid according to his promise, were talking over their riches with their relatives. They had also been presented with the rifles and equipment used on the journey. They were discussing Morton in awed tones, as if he were some being of a superior world. And Toni, himself, had occasion to agree with them, for both he and his family had likewise been very liberally dealt with.

The party that gathered around the carriage in which the two gently-bred ladies were seated, waiting for the signal to start was, therefore, a happy if a noisily hilarious one. Chatterings as of magpies and greetings in Roumelian and German came from all sides. Rossika especially was everywhere in evidence; for had not the Gospodinas worn her clothes? She ran about smiling and nodding and advising with heightened color and heavy tread, as if the very lives of the ladies depended on her final ministrations. At last Papiu, his face all wreathed in smiles, ascended the driver’s seat, and amid loud exclamations of thanks and adieus he cracked his whip and the carriage rolled away, followed by Morton and Donald in a low dray.

The drive to the railway station was a pleasant one, though a longer route was taken at Morton’s orders, to avoid a possible meeting with soldiers from the border. During the slow drive, it occurred to both the Princess and Helène that their old friend the canvas-covered wagon had disappeared. They wondered what had become of it. Helène questioned Papiu.

The wagon? Oh, yes—the wagon had been destroyed. Gospodar Morton—what a leader of great wisdom he was!—Gospodar Morton had sent Mihai away in it to deceive the soldiers who had been following them. He was to send the wagon over a ravine after he had set the horses free to roam in the woods.

Had they really been followed by soldiers? Oh, yes! Papiu, by this time, had quite forgotten that he had been ordered to say nothing to the ladies about the matter. Yes, Mihai had seen them—“duke drag” (devil take them). One of the six fellows had escaped their rifles, for he had evidently brought assistance, and the whole crew had been after them. But the wagon’s tracks to the ravine had done the trick. Ha! ha! ha! That Gospodar Morton was some leader!

Helène and the Princess said not a word. This then was the explanation for Morton’s strange behavior at the time. Then there had been fighting and killing! What an escape!

When they alighted at the railway station both the girls were very quiet; but Morton was too busily occupied to notice the change. He monopolized the little telegraph office for so long a time that the operator in charge of the place thought the foreigner must be some government official or one of those newspaper correspondents who were everywhere. By the time the train for Hermanstadt drew in Morton had sent off all his messages. Within the hour they were in Hermanstadt, the first real town they had seen since leaving Padina, a city of early Saxon character and enterprise.

As the train for Vienna was not due for two hours, Morton drove the girls in a droshky and left them in the rehabilitating hands of the head of the best outfitting establishment the town possessed. He then took the occasion to see to his own person, and make some purchases which he knew would be welcomed by the ladies on the long journey before them. When he met them again at the station they hardly knew each other. What a difference clothes make!

Morton had been careful to secure a private compartment for the ladies so that they might obtain the rest of which they were in real need; and when he had seen them comfortably placed in their seats, he joined Donald in an adjoining compartment of the same car.

The long ride was uneventful, except for the usual bustle at the stopping places and the interest which this aroused. It was at one of these that the Princess procured a newspaper. She was eager to learn of what had happened since she had left Padina, and anxiously scanned the columns for news of her country. Suddenly, she uttered a loud exclamation of distress, and Helène, startled, saw her lean back and point to the sheet lying spread in her lap.

“Read this, Helène,” she cried, pointing to the headline: “News from Roumelia.” Helène took the paper and read:

“From Sophia, under date October —, we received the following communication, which evidently escaped the strict censorship. The Divane met on Saturday, October —, and was attended by a majority of the members. The meeting, presided over by Demeter Sturdza, was one of intense excitement throughout. M. Flava, after making an impassioned address, moved a resolution demanding the expulsion of all the remaining officials of the old régime, unless they took the oath of the new constitution. It asked that the members of the royal family be placed under arrest and tried under the laws as administered by the Triumvirate. The resolution also called for plenary authority for himself and his two colleagues, MM. Balescu and Calorasi. It was carried by virtually the unanimous vote of the assembly, and President Sturdza was compelled to sign the warrants presented. Great excitement still prevails in the capital.

“Reports from Padina, so far unconfirmed, state that the Princess Marie-Louise has disappeared with the Comtesse Rondell, her lady-in-waiting. It is said that the disappearance of the two ladies was connected with the arrival of a party of some forty foreigners, who came to Padina ostensibly on a prospecting visit to oil-lands and for the purchase of horses. These people bought a number of blood animals and disbursed fabulous sums of money in other directions. The strangers had left Padina on the very Sunday on which the absence of the Princess was discovered. The borders are being closely guarded, and no one is permitted to leave the country without a passport from the Committee of Safety.

“A reward has been offered for the capture of the Princess, dead or alive. Colonel A——, commanding at Padina, has been arrested, and the Mayor and Chief of Police of the town have been suspended. They are suspected of being implicated in the plot for the abduction of the ladies.

“The Bulgarian government has ordered the mobilization of the Third and Fifth Divisions of the army. The Roumelian garrison along all the borders has been strengthened. All officers suspected of royalist tendencies have been imprisoned. The country is again under martial law.”

Helène turned deathly pale as she came to the last words. She looked at the Princess and found her leaning against the window her head bowed on her arms.

“Oh, my darling,” she cried sobbingly, embracing her friend, “what would have become of you had you remained in Padina? What has become of all our friends?”

“God alone knows,” murmured the Princess. “We should have shared their fates if Mr. Morton had not come to us when he did. I cannot forgive myself.”

They comforted each other and found relief in tears. But they were free—free—free—and their hearts filled with gratitude for the kind fate that had sent Morton to them.

“We owe that to your father, the Count,” said the Princess; “he had the foresight to know and the courage to act. Without him and Mr. Morton we should certainly have perished.”

They were glad they were alone, and when the attendant came to tell them that their sleeping berths were ready, they lay down with thankful prayers in their hearts and on their lips. God had been good to them—the poor, helpless, defenseless girls!

The early forenoon of the succeeding day saw the train glide slowly into the brightly lit and imposing terminal at Vienna. It had scarcely come to a stop when Morton appeared at the door of the compartment with a tall and distinguished gentleman, who was introduced as Mr. Tyler, the American Minister to Germany. He told the ladies that Mr. Tyler would see them to their hotel and look after them. He himself had much to do and with very little time in which to do it. He was leaving for England that very afternoon. He promised to call on them later at the hotel.

With a courtesy that is now, alas, rarer than it once was, Mr. Tyler placed himself at the entire disposal of the Princess and Helène. They soon realized that there were gentlemen in America as well as in Europe. He drove with them to the “Bristol,” where they were already expected. Morton had telegraphed for rooms from Hermanstadt. Here maids were assigned to them, and their every requirement attended to, while Mr. Tyler waited for them in the foyer. He had been requested by Morton to take them around the shops and see that they were amply supplied with everything they might need, so that when they came down to him he was ready for them. He acquitted himself admirably, and the girls enjoyed their shopping to the full, as only girls can. On their return to the hotel, they found a telegram from Brindisi, which had been opened and sent on by Morton, instructing them to carry out the original program laid out for them, and to travel by quickest route to Weimar, where they were expected, and where they would be well taken care of. Helène breathed a sigh of great relief. The telegram must be from her father. Then he was alive, and, therefore, well. God be thanked!

When Morton called to make his adieux, he was an altogether changed man. The Princess, who saw him first, scarcely recognized in the elegantly dressed and formally polite gentleman before her, the rough leader of the men of Padina. Her first impulse was to return his formality with a like show of dignity; but her heart was too full. Approaching him with outstretched hand, she said in a voice drowned with emotion:

“I cannot thank you, Mr. Morton, for all that you have done. I may never forget it. But you will, I know, understand my feelings. I am deeply, heartfully grateful.”

Morton smiled and bowed: “Your Highness, you over-estimate my poor services. I have been honored in your trust. I shall carry with me to my own country the beautiful memory of a noble lady.”

She extended her hand to him, and as he bowed over it and kissed it softly, she said:

“I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing you at Weimar, Mr. Morton. I shall be proud to make you known to my people.”

Morton thanked her and bowed himself out. He was glad that parting was over when he was again in the little salon. It was the other parting which he now awaited that filled him with emotion and fear. He walked to and fro with quick, nervous steps, thinking of what he should say when he saw her. He wished it were over so that he might get away—the sooner he went the sooner he could come back. As he had begun, so he would finish. He had engaged himself in a dangerous enterprise for Helène’s sake, moved to it by a mere face in a picture; but now that he had seen and come to know her very self, his whole being clamored for her love. Nothing should come between her and him, once he was assured of his father’s health. If only he could wait until he had fulfilled his duties to his dear ones at home! Ah, then, he would come back on wings and claim her, if—if—she would have it so. God grant that he had found favor in her eyes!

He was interrupted in his impassioned thinking by the opening of the door. It was the maid who had come to tell him that the Comtesse Rondell would be pleased to see him. With considerable trepidation and many misgivings he entered the apartment. The scent of flowers were wafted sweetly to his nostrils—he recognized it as the scent of the flowers he had sent her a little while ago, and his heart beat again. He saw them in a tall vase on a table near the window, and the sight of them deepened the turmoil within him. It was as if he had met his self-confessed self.

The soft frou-frou of silken skirts on carpet rustled and Helène stood before him in all the glory of her heightened beauty. She was dressed very simply in silver gray, but the rose color in her cheeks gave the contrast and drew his charmed gaze to the shining eyes that looked at him as if they were the windows of her noble spirit.

Morton stood gazing at the vision, spellbound. He drank in the sweetness and the light of it as if these were the one food he craved. With a bewitching smile she moved towards him conveying a pretty greeting with the gesture of her outstretched hand. “Thank you, Mr. Morton, for the lovely flowers. You are too kind. But how changed you are! Yesterday, you were the knight of old in armor, now you look like a gallant of the Ringstrasse.”

The girl was excited and felt an unaccountable shyness before him. She was trying to hide her embarrassment with an attempt at badinage. Morton sensed her feelings and tried to help her by smiling, but he could find no words. Instinctively she saw what was the matter with him, and with womanly quickness she changed the subject.

“Have you heard from papa?”

The important question brought Morton to himself again. He seized it gratefully. “Only the message I transmitted to you advising your early departure for Weimar—nothing more. I have arranged that Mr. Tyler accompany you to Weimar.”

“Ah, yes—I forgot; you are leaving us.” The rose in her cheeks had faded slowly and left the color of the lily behind, imparting a new beauty to the sweetness of the childlike face. Her long dark lashes had drooped and were quivering on the satin of her skin. He dared not look longer or he would forget himself. And time was pressing. He must be gone; but he must say just one word more before he left her.

“Comtesse, I am come to remind you of your promise given me at our last conversation together. You will not forget, will you, to call on me if you need help? I want to remain your friend, if you will permit me. This is my card; it will tell you where you can reach me at any time. Send me word and I will come. And here also is a package from your father. It contains such funds as you will need until Count Rondell joins you at Weimar.”

Helène took the card and package and laid them listlessly on the table on which stood the vase of flowers. An unknown fear had suddenly taken possession of her; she experienced a dread of dangers yet to come, and knew not how to account for it. Her father—what of him? Would she ever see him again? And this gentleman—would she ever meet him again? Morton’s voice came to her as if from a long way off.

“Dear lady, I have nothing more to say, except that I must tell you that my meeting you has been a great pleasure to me. I am leaving to return to my own people whom I have not seen in two years, and who are anxiously waiting for me. But I leave with the determination fixed to come back. May I hope—that you will be glad to see me when——”

He hesitated, not daring to say more. Helène had kept her eyes lowered, and at the pause she raised them to his face. What she saw there caused her to step back involuntarily and to speak quickly in low but impressive tones:

“Mr. Morton, I shall pray that you find your dear ones at home all well. When next you come to Europe you will find no heartier welcome than we shall extend to you at Weimar—papa, the Princess and myself.” Then looking him bravely full in the face, she added: “And I promise you that if ever I am in need of a friend, I shall turn to you.”

Morton drew nearer to her, breathing in the faint odor of roses which exhaled from her. He took the hand she had unconsciously stretched towards him, and bending over it touched it softly with his cold lips.

“Thank you. Good-bye, dear lady, till we meet again.”

“Au revoir, Mr. Morton.”

She allowed her hand to remain in his, and with the other drew a little rosebud from among its sisters on her breast and offered it to him.

“This,” she said, smiling saucily, “is for our Bayard—le preux chevalier sans peur et sans reproche.”

Morton took the flower reverently—“I shall keep it in memory of the honor you have conferred on me,” he said. “Au revoir, Comtesse—May God bless you and guard you.”

He bowed once more and kissed her hand again. Then letting it gently slip from his hold he turned to the door.

“Auf wiedersehen, Mr. Morton—and my deepest gratitude goes with you.”

He hesitated for a moment, and then quickly walked out of the room.

As he descended the stairs sweet strains of music reached him from the band playing in the dining-room. They came to him as a fitting accompaniment to her parting words, lingering in his memory. When Mr. Tyler met his friend in the foyer he saw a face transfigured in a new light and wearing a smile of ineffable happiness.

Tyler was a man of the world and drew his own conclusions. Ah—the old, old story! Well, he thought, good luck to you, my boy; but aloud he remarked to Morton that they had but very little time in which to catch the Ostend Express.

End of Book One

BOOK II

CHAPTER XVI

THE express for Ostend was punctual to the minute, and John ensconced himself in the luxurious seat of his compartment, glad to be alone with his thoughts, alone for the first time in many weeks. As he took a mental survey of what had happened in the past three weeks, it seemed to him as if he had lately lost his identity. Instead of John Randolph Morton, he had been some soldier of fortune. It was indeed time he came back to himself, for the latest advice from home had been very disquieting. His father had been badly shaken in an elevator accident and, although no bones were broken, yet coming on a previous illness, his condition might, any day, be serious.

He blamed himself for his absence, thinking that the accident, perhaps, might not have occurred had he gone with his father on that trip to the western mines. Then he remembered that it would have been impossible for him to get to New York from Brindisi until three days after the accident, and felt relieved.

Brindisi? Ah, yes— Where was the Count? He was afraid the old man was no better or he would have sent word. “I shall not see you again, my son,” he had said on parting. Were the words to be prophetic? If he should die, what would become of Helène? Who would take care of her? Who will take care of her? He repeated the question so often that he suddenly found the clicking of the train’s wheels over the rail-joints keeping time to them. Who will take care of her? Who will take care of her? It was as if they were reminding him of the greater duty he had left unfulfilled—the duty he owed to his own heart’s promptings.

Why had he not taken her with him? She would have been so tenderly cared for by his mother and by sister Ruth. And he had left her—with no friends to protect her, with no one near to whom she could turn in her loneliness or distress!

And what if her father died? Who would tell her the sad news? How would she be able to bear up should she hear of it in the cold words of a telegram? Thank heaven, he had Tyler to help him. He would provide for that, at any rate.

Should he write to her from London and offer her his heart and hand? He began thinking of the possible outcome of such an action on his part. If he did write, was there not the danger that she might refuse him without her father’s consent? And suppose he heard in the meantime that Count Rondell was dead, how could he dare to plead his own cause at a time of such distress? Surely her heart and mind would be closed to him, then! What a quandary he was in!

Thinking thus, he lost himself in a tangle of his own weaving. It seemed as if he were beset by worry and anxiety from all sides. Look which way he would, he found illness, trouble and portending disaster there. Of what value to him his wealth and education in this present predicament? He was up against it, as he put it to himself.

What had Tyler, his father’s old friend and experienced man of the world, what had he said to him? “Never forget, my boy, that not one of us can escape the rules of life as the world lays them down. The very restraint of the conditions is salutary, aye, even for the freedom of choice we occasionally must exercise. Our rights would cease to be rights were it not at the price of the corresponding duties. If a man thinks he can cheat life—evade the rules—he’ll find he is only cheating himself.”

Duties? Ah, yes, Tyler was right. His duty must come first—and he owed that to his father and to his anxious mother. If the Comtesse Helène could not bear up before that test—why—he must lose her. He rose excitedly and raised the window. The night air rushing in cooled his hot head. He stood for some moments breathing in deep gulps of it as if it were allaying a great thirst, staring stonily into the darkness.

By God, no! He would never lose her. The window closed with a crash and he threw himself once more on the cushions. Never, for an instant, would he doubt her. It was up to him—everything was up to him. He must be a man—or he was not deserving of her. And she, oh, she was worth the winning! Thus determined, he slept heavily and awoke the next morning to the refreshing sounds of the Bavarian country life.

All journeys have an end and in time Morton arrived at the Hotel Cecil in London. Here he found his mail awaiting him. A cable from home confirmed the one he had received in Vienna. They were glad he was soon to sail. His father’s condition remained unchanged. The telegram from Brindisi from the doctor was a shock. It read: “Our friend died on November twelfth, conscious to the last, of acute uremia and heart failure. Body in vault. Property all sealed, your agent in possession. Wire or write further instructions. Detailed letter mailed you Mont Cenis mail, reach you seventeenth.”

Morton held the flimsy paper in his hand scarcely believing what he had read. It had come at last. He expected it and yet it shocked him deeply. Well, he must be up and doing quickly.

The wire from Donald told him that the ladies were leaving for Weimar that day. Mr. Tyler was with them and everything had been satisfactorily arranged; he had received no news from Brindisi.

He also opened a note from his friend Stillman which said that he would call on him at nine that evening.

Morton looked at the clock; he had just forty minutes before Stillman was due.

It was absolutely necessary that some person should convey the sad tidings to the poor girl. Tyler was the man, of course; there was time to wire him asking him to wait for a letter. He rang for a messenger and sent off the following telegram: “Please wait at Weimar for my letter mailed you via Oriental Express. What we anticipated has happened. Rondell is dead. Say nothing to the Comtesse Helène until you receive my letter.”

Morton was putting the finishing touches to a hasty toilet when his friend Stillman was announced.

“Hello, Jack!”

“How do, Harry!”

The two exchanged cordial and prolonged handshakes.

“Well, upon my soul, Jack, old man, you’ve not changed nearly as much as I expected. You look perfectly civilized. Where have you been and why are you leaving us so quickly? We surely will have a couple of days together, eh? How’s the governor and Mrs. Morton? What do you hear from Ruth?”

“My dear Harry, you are asking for my biography. I came here from Egypt and I must leave to-morrow for home because father has had a serious accident in a mine elevator. Mother and Ruth report being well. Are you satisfied, now? I suppose you are still on deck at the Embassy? But you look fine—quite like a Britisher. Still the same old Harry, though, eh?”

“The same, I guess. Same job, too,—a bit closer to the chief, perhaps, and a bit of raise in the salary. But, say, I’m awful glad to see you. Have you dined?”

“No, I was hoping you would be free so that we could go out together. I wanted to see you about presenting some reports I have made to the British Colonial Office. I haven’t much time, as I tell you, and, perhaps, I may not be able to manage it this time. But you’ll come and eat with me first. How will the Red Room below suit you? You see, I’m not in evening clothes and I know you fellows of the Diplomatic Corps are sticklers on that score. Will you take a chance with me?”

“Who wouldn’t with John R. Morton, my dear boy. You’re above clothes. The ‘Red Room’ is all right; but why not come up to my club, the Hoarders? They serve a bully good dinner there and you may meet some of our fellows. I expect the Chief may drop in after ten and, I am sure, he wouldn’t want to miss you while you’re in town. How does that strike you?”

“It suits me down to the ground.”

“Then come right along, old man.”

As they were passing the clerk’s desk, Morton turned to his friend and excusing himself for a moment, left with the clerk the address of the club where he could be found in case a message came for him.

“Lady, eh, Jack?”

“No such luck. Speaking of ladies, Harry, how do you manage to escape all the beautiful English girls—not to mention the beauties from our own land? I should think they’d be glad to bag a Secretary of the American Legation.”

“A prophet, my boy, is not without honor save in his own country. Our girls take no stock in Secretaries of the Legation; and as for the English girls they’ve enough Secretaries to choose from of their own. We’re all of us only cogs in a big wheel.”

They stepped out of the hansom and entered the splendid home of the Hoarders. John enjoyed the novelty of the place—its refined atmosphere appealed to him. The dinner was excellent and excellently served. It was his first real taste of civilization in two years. The two friends chatted and gossiped over old times and new. John was treated to a good deal of politics and not a few instances of the Chief’s peculiarities. Evidently, it was not all beer and skittles at the Legation. He was not much interested really, though he gave Stillman the politest attention and sympathy. But he could not put out of his mind the many matters which just then were weighing heavily on him. The very brilliancy of the room with its coruscating crystals and heavy crimson and gold draperies served but to accentuate the difference between his own present situation and that of the dear girl he had left alone and friendless. He would write that letter to Tyler immediately he got back to the hotel.

They were about to retire to the lounging room when a servant came up to Stillman and handed him a note on a salver. Stillman read it with a puzzled expression on his face.

“I say, Jack, what does this mean? There are several newspaper fellows in the hall who want to interview you. They learned at the hotel that you were here and have come in a body? I didn’t know you were a celebrity of that kind. What’s the game?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I suppose I’d better see them and find out. Can they come up to the reading-room?”

Stillman turned to the waiting servant and told him to bring the gentlemen into the reading-room—the small one, he added.

When they entered the room they found awaiting them four gentlemen of various ages who introduced themselves as representatives of the Associated Press, the Times, the New York Herald and the Sphere, respectively. Their spokesman, a Mr. Worcester, begged permission to explain their seeming intrusion. Morton nodded his willingness to listen.

“Mr. Morton,” he began briskly, “we have been advised of the arrival in Vienna of Her Royal Highness Princess Marie-Louise of Roumelia and her Lady-in-Waiting, the Comtesse Helène Rondell. We have been given to understand that you escorted the ladies over the border, or, in other words, that you rescued them from the castle in which they had been confined. Are we correct in our information?”

John was both astonished and chagrined. Who on earth had spread the news? It never occurred to him that any publicity would follow his adventure. Confound these newspaper fellows! However, he knew the class well from past experience and also that it would be better if he told them the facts himself rather than leave them to their imaginations. Assuming a friendly and frank manner, he smiled and said:

“Why, gentlemen, I shall be very glad to tell you all I know. Pray, be seated. Harry, will you be good enough to order some drinks and cigars for the gentlemen?”

He was gaining time and doing some quick and hard thinking as well. “Now, Mr. Worcester, go ahead with your questions so that I may know what you want me to tell you.”

“Would it not be better, Mr. Morton, if you told us the story in your own way?” Evidently, Mr. Worcester was no tyro at the game. “We shall ask questions and, perhaps, more than you care to answer, after we have had your story?”

The waiter came in with the refreshments and by the time glasses were filled and cigars lit, John was ready for them.

“There is not much to tell,” he remarked in a tone of admirably assumed regret. “So, I think, you’d get more out of me if you put your questions first.”

“As you wish, Mr. Morton. Reuter’s report the arrival of the two ladies at the Bristol in Vienna. They came to the city accompanied by you and your man. The report says further that they were left in charge of Mr. Gordon S. Tyler, the American Minister to Germany. Mr. Tyler denies any knowledge as to how the ladies got out of Roumelia, nor does he give any other information except that he is escorting them to their friends in Germany. He refused permission to have the ladies interviewed. We had heard, of course, all kinds of rumors from Sophia and Belgrade, but nothing in which we could place any confidence. The papers have been full of the escape during the past few days, but gave no details. That is what we are here for now.”

John had made up his mind. He would tell the story or some simple, plausible tale that would satisfy the papers so that they would leave the rest alone.

“Well, gentlemen, if you will have it, here it is—all I know. My friend, Count Rondell, shortly after I arrived in Italy on my return from Egypt, asked me to assist him in getting his daughter to him. He gave me full instructions, provided me with the necessary guides and equipment and led me to a place close to the Roumelian border where we remained in hiding. When all was ready, one stormy night, we entered a small town,—you will pardon me if I do not give its name—and took the ladies away in a closed carriage. The ladies had been prepared for our arrival, so that there was little or no delay. We managed to elude the officials and guards and, after crossing the border, arrived at a railway station where we took the train for Vienna. The rest you seem to know.”

“Were you acquainted with the ladies before you undertook to assist Count Rondell?”

“Not at all. I am sure my fame never reached the Princess’s ears. I had neither time nor opportunity to see much of them on the journey and I question if they know even my name. To them I was simply the man in charge of the expedition.”

John sipped his brandy and soda and puffed calmly at his cigar as he looked his interlocutor steadily in his face.

“Of course,” he added, smiling, “I am happy and proud to have succeeded. It was certainly exciting driving over those hills. But Count Rondell had seen to everything and there wasn’t a hitch. Will you have another glass, gentlemen?”

“May I inquire what you are going to do now?”

“Oh, I am sailing for home on the Umbria from Liverpool on Saturday morning. I haven’t seen my people for two years. What I shall do when I get there is hard to say.”

“May I be permitted to ask a question?” The voice came from a young, red-haired dapper little fellow with an upturned nose on which were placed thick eye-glasses.

“Certainly, Mr. Witherspoon.”

“You must have driven at a break-neck speed. Were the ladies frightened?”

John smiled at the inanity of the question. “I was hardly in a position to know. As you say, we rode fast and I sat with the driver, so there was not much opportunity for conversation. The only occasion for talk was when we took the train for Vienna.”

“How did the Princess appear to you, Mr. Morton?” Mr. Witherspoon was insistent.

“The Princess appears to be a very noble and serious-minded young woman. Perhaps I am wrong in using the word woman—she looked so young.”

“The Almanach de Gotha gives her age as nineteen.”

“Well, the Almanach de Gotha ought to know—the poor thing does not look it.”

“Were the ladies surprised to find that their rescuer was no other than the son of the richest living American?”

John rose in all his dignity. The pup was getting unbearable with his impertinent questions. But he kept himself well in restraint.

“I think, Mr. Witherspoon, you heard me say that the ladies knew nothing about me. There was no occasion when it was at all necessary for them to know who or what I was. As I have already said, they knew me only as Count Rondell’s deputy—they obeyed his instructions as I did. I think, gentlemen, that will be all.”

The reporters rose quickly and withdrew as quickly.

It was late when Morton got back to his hotel and he was very tired. He would write his letter to Tyler to-morrow, and by that time he would most likely hear from the Brindisi doctor, and then he would know better what to say.

Early next morning he received a telegram from Tyler, who expressed his willingness to remain over in Weimar and act on John’s letter when it should reach him. Somewhat later in the day the French mail brought him the anxiously expected letter from Brindisi. It was more of a physician’s report than a letter, and was written in a dry, professional style. Count Rondell had rallied a little two days after landing. He constantly inquired for letters which he was expecting. On the fourth day, he received a letter which made him very happy. He was much better that day. Then he began to fail again. His heart became so weak that it was deemed advisable to call in a specialist from Rome. This was done, but he proved of no help. For two days the Count remained in a comatose condition. On Tuesday morning, he rallied somewhat. When the message from Hermanstadt arrived he had it read to him. The news seemed to make him very happy and he murmured words of prayer. He dozed off in the afternoon, awoke in the evening and dictated a few sentences which the nurse wrote down. Soon after he sank slowly and expired towards midnight. The report went on to say that Mr. Morton’s agent was in possession of all the papers and personal property of the deceased gentleman as well as such letters he had written or dictated while in Brindisi. Mr. Morton’s agent had discharged liberally all the costs, for which the writer begged to thank him herewith.

Another letter, one from Morton’s agent, confirmed the doctor’s report. He now had all the information for which he had been waiting. Sitting down immediately, he wrote his letter to Tyler at Weimar:

“My dear Mr. Tyler:

“I have your wire advising that you will await in Weimar the arrival of this letter. Thank you for this most heartily.

“I enclose herewith letter of Dr. —— of Brindisi which gives the details of Count Rondell’s death. I have wired my agents in Rome to forward promptly all letters and papers left by Count R. to you and to hold other personal property at the order of yourself or the Countess.

“As, perhaps, you are aware, my dear Mr. Tyler, my interest in Comtesse Helène is very deep and sincere. I want you to be the person to tell her of her sad loss. You will know how to soften the blow. She will need all her courage and the help of a good friend in this hour of her sorrow.

“I would give a great deal were it possible for me to be there to protect and comfort her; but my duty calls me home. I have received another cable confirming the earlier one and I fear I must be prepared for the worst.

“Please advise the Comtesse in all things; you will know best what and how. It would be best if the money left by her father were to be deposited in an ordinary checking account to her order. The Comtesse is a minor and you must avoid a guardianship. She is a foreign subject and it would lead to complications and red tape. She will do what you suggest, I am confident. Don’t allow her to act on her own initiative, and urge her to keep her affairs to herself. The German laws are tedious—but you know all about that!

“I shall be back in Europe right after New Year, I think, and will then take occasion to thank you in person for your splendid friendship. Father will, I hope, perhaps be also able to thank you for having done this for his son.

“Once more assuring you of my deepest appreciation and hoping to see you soon, I am,

“Yours very sincerely,

“Morton.”

The letter written, John felt greatly relieved. But he had other tasks before him—one, the most difficult of all—his letter to Helène herself. She had never, for one moment, been out of his thoughts since he left her in Vienna. He dared not put it off any longer, especially now when she would need the heartfelt sympathy of a dear friend.

“My dear Comtesse Rondell:

“My friend, Mr. Tyler, whom I trust you will permit to be your friend also, has, no doubt, told you of your loss and of the calm and happy last hours of your beloved father.

“He will also have let you know that my dispatch telling your father that you were well and safe in Transylvania had reached him when perfectly conscious. His mind had been freed from worry about your welfare. He died with a smile upon his lips, whispering a blessing.

“In this sad hour of your bereavement, I, a friend of but recent date, should perhaps not presume to dwell upon it. But I remember that I was probably the last man to whom your father spoke freely; and it is the honor he did me by his confidence that moves me to write to you now.

“I dared not tell you, but we both knew, even before our arrival in Italy, that the days remaining to him were few, and that he despaired of seeing you again. He made me promise to look after you, his most beloved in this world. He was afraid you would be left friendless. You know now, perhaps, that I am happy and proud to have this privilege.

“My own dear father is in serious condition and I fear that before long, I, too, shall lose a parent. The information I have received in another cable makes it imperative for me to sail to-morrow for America. But for this duty which I owe to my mother and father—nothing would have prevented me from returning to Weimar and telling you the sad tidings myself. Mr. Tyler, for whom I beg your full confidence, is a most honorable and experienced gentleman. His official position puts him where he may well be able to lighten the terrible burden which has now fallen upon your young life.

“It may be presumptuous on my part, but I would remind you again of our last interview in Vienna. I beg of you not to take any important step in your life until I can present myself once more before you.

“May God bless you, and soften the heavy blow that has come to you now. May He in His great goodness and wisdom guide your thoughts and give you the strength you need.

“Rest assured, dear lady, that I shall be ever ready to devote myself, if you and the kind fates permit, to your happiness. With my highest regard and my most fervent hope that you will still permit me to be your sincere friend and servant, I am, in deepest sympathy and devotion,

“Yours most sincerely,

“John Randolph Morton.”

He enclosed this letter in one he had written to Don, because he wished Helène to read it after Tyler had seen her. He then drove to the Post-office and despatched the letters himself.

The rest of the afternoon he spent in making various calls on officials and agents, and by midnight he was on the train rushing to Liverpool where early the next morning he boarded the steamer which was to carry him home—home at last!

CHAPTER XVII

THE following Sunday Morton, standing on the upper deck of the good ship Umbria, saw in the distance the serrated outline of his country’s real metropolis. Up the bay, past the gaunt and gray structures looming above the sands of Coney Island, through the leaden murk and mist of the late autumn day, his eyes roved and lingered, glorying inwardly at the pride and pomp of New York. He took in deep draughts of the air. It was good to be back again, and his heart lifted.

He was met at the pier by a representative from the office who told him that his father’s condition was still unchanged. He had received word to tell Mr. Morton that he was to take the train for Cleveland without delay.

At daybreak, the following morning, he was once again in Cleveland, the city of his childhood, the place of his home. The coachman, an ancient servitor of the Mortons, greeted him with welcoming smiles and glad words. Even the horses knew him and neighed as he stroked their manes. The drive through the deserted streets, so familiar to him, brought back to his mind so many memories that he could scarce see the houses for the moisture in his eyes. The tinkling of the silver harness, the hoof-beats of the spirited animals were music to his ears. Ah, at last, there was the tall iron gate that led to home! With a bound he was through it and running swiftly up the pebbled approach he almost fell into the waiting, outstretched arms of his mother and sister.

“Home at last, John,” cried the mother, kissing and hugging him while Ruth had her hands on his arms.

“Yes, dear mother, home at last. But how is father?”

Bravely restraining her tears she told him:

“Father is very weak, but cheerful. The doctors are non-committal, but won’t you go up to him, dear? He was sleeping at little while ago, but I think he’s awake now. And, ah, he does so want to see you.”

Then followed more embracing. The handsome mother held her boy at arm’s length, bathing him with the lovelight that streamed from her eyes. “Oh, but you’re so altered—so brown and big—and—and—just the same dear boy.” Her voice broke in sobs.

“Of course, I’m just the same, dear mother. Would you have me different? And here’s our little Ruthie. Little? Why bless me, Ruthie, but you’ve grown to be quite a lady! Yes, and a mighty good-looking one at that! I suppose I shall have to behave myself now, eh?” He kissed her affectionately, his arms about her shoulders.

“Oh, Jack, I’m so glad you’re home again. You’ll stay with us now, always, won’t you? We did miss you awfully. You do look nice, John. I like your mustache, but you’ve quite a serious look in your eyes. He looks just like you, mamma, really he does, although not so handsome, of course. But you’ll pass in a crowd.”

John laughed and gave her another hug.

“All right, old girl, I don’t mind; so long as I look like mother I guess I’ll do.”

The nurse preceded him up the stairs to the bedroom. Propped up in bed lay a thin, gray-haired man, looking pale and wan, but with eyes bright and with a look in them anticipatory of pleasure.

“Father, dear father,” John whispered brokenly as he bent lovingly over the smiling and happy face.

“Ah, dear boy, welcome home. Stand back, John, and let me get a good look at you. My, but you do look fit! I am glad to see you again, my lad, though I’m sorry you find me in this scrape.” The sick man’s eyes twinkled and a humorous smile bent the pale lips. “Well, well, so you are ready to settle down with the old folks, eh? No more exploring and adventure? By George, you’re some man, John, some man. You make me want to ask her name. Never mind, lad, you needn’t tell me right now. My—but it’s good to have you home again.”

“Dear dad, I am so glad to be home again. You are looking fine and not a bit changed. Get well again, dad, because I want you to teach me how to be of use to you. I want you to be proud of me.”

“Proud of you, John? Why, I always have been and still am proud of you. There isn’t a finer fellow in Ohio. You’ll make good; I’m dead sure of that. All right, nurse, I’ll be good. John, I’m afraid we’ll have to obey Miss Persing. She says that six in the morning is too early for children of my age to be up. I’ve got to sleep for a couple of hours longer. No, you go back to mother and Ruth. I guess they’re dying to hear all you have to tell them. Hello, mother; good morning, my dear.” Mrs. Morton and Ruth had that moment appeared in the doorway. His wife went to the bedside and kissed her husband tenderly while Ruth stroked his hand.

“What’s the orders, nurse?” Mr. Morton asked as he looked at her over his wife’s shoulder.

“You would better be resting, Mr. Morton. The doctor will be here at half past eight and he’ll scold me if he finds you feverish.”

“All right, Miss Persing, I’ll be good.”

The family withdrew leaving the old man, weak and pale but with a face wreathed in happy smiles. His head sought the pillow gratefully and soon he was sleeping like a child.

It was now that John heard the full details of the accident to his father. He had been suffering all summer, diabetes the doctors had said. When they came to New York from Newport, he was much improved and felt himself well enough to go out to Utah to look over his pet mine, the Calumet Minnie. It was there the accident occurred. Nobody knew just how it happened. The elevator had been inspected only the week before. In the cage with him were the manager, Carson, the superintendent, two engineers and a foreman. At the hundred and fifty foot level something went wrong—the safety clutch didn’t work—and the cage dropped some eighty feet. Carson was killed, the foreman also, and the rest badly hurt. His father’s weakened state before the accident complicated things and the doctor considered the case serious. Later in the seclusion of her own room, his mother broke down utterly before him. She knew his father would never get better, she said, and she feared the worst. John tried all in his power to comfort her, but he succeeded only in bringing pathetic smiles to her face and hopeful looks in her eyes as she looked at him. He understood what was passing in her thoughts and swore inwardly that he would never fail her.

Then came the anxious days of hope and fear, when the elder Morton’s strength failed to respond to the doctors’ treatment. To John these days were inexpressibly distressful. Gloom settled on the old mansion which had seen the happiest times for both parents and children. John did all he could to brighten the home, and spent many hours with his father in intimate talk of his ambitions and aims in life. It was in these confidences that he learned to know his father and, in knowing him, to honor and admire him.

Dan Morton prided himself on the great fortune he had made, because in making it he had never wronged another and he had brought the treasures of the earth to enrich his fellow-men’s lives. That was the secret spring of his success and power; and he knew how to use that power because he was most keenly aware of the responsibility which its use entailed.

The younger son of a Connecticut banker, who had made considerable money in his native state, Dan Morton, quite early in life, had become impatient of the narrow New England environment. He decided to go West. With the legacy left him by his father, he followed the then drift towards the great undeveloped country beyond the Mississippi. Mines, ranches and the building of railroads claimed his enthusiastic attention. The astonishing development of the Middle West gave his investments a solid foundation and furnished opportunities for realizing greatly increased values. During the second half of the decade following the Civil War, Dan Morton had become a power in the financial world of America. Great sections of the Pacific Slope and the country of the Oregon trail were largely opened up by the aid given by him and his associates. It was in this way that he helped to promote the country’s wonderful growth.

He had married a beautiful girl, the daughter of an old Southern family and had settled in Cleveland where he built a fine mansion. In spite of his increasing wealth, his tastes remained simple and his manners unassuming. Neither he nor his wife took any active part in what is known as “Society,” though they maintained a beautiful country house overlooking the Hudson.

When his son was born, he was called after his grandfather, John Morton. As the boy grew up he became his father’s pride and hope. Dan Morton looked on him as the reincarnation of himself, the child who would grow up to be a man to carry on the work he had begun. When the young man was ready to enter college, he developed a rather unexpected taste for study and research—most un-Morton like, as his mother would say. His father decided not to discourage the youth, but hoped that in time he would turn from these strange gods and worship the gods of his fathers. Indeed, he even encouraged him, possibly because he realized that opposition might but confirm him in his inclinations. But so wise a man as was Dan Morton knew also that an earnest search for truth and a true desire for knowledge are in themselves ennobling and must result in useful work. That John should apparently be engaged in profitless labor, never for a moment touched his almost religious conviction, that his son would return to the Morton fold and hold the belief that life meant working for a reward and that it was the reward that gave meaning to life.

During the years John spent at the various colleges, he attended at home and abroad, acquiring learning if not wisdom, his father kept on piling up riches, and patiently waiting for the young man to exhaust himself of his dreamy desires and to come back to earth, as he put it. But he always spoke of him with great pride, and if anyone referred to his son’s aimlessness, he would say: “John won’t play second fiddle to anybody—not even to me. And when I’m ready to quit, John will take my place—a better man than his old dad was.”

This was the man that John came to know as he had never known him before during their quiet chats in the sick-room. It was to this man, so practical in his every thought that it seemed as if there could not possibly be a chord in his being that would vibrate to romance, it was to this man that John unbosomed himself of his secret. He told him in detail of all that had happened, descanted, as only a lover can, of the beauty of the girl and wound up by saying: “I intend, dad, to make that girl my wife—if—if she will have me.”

“My boy, I am proud of you,” said his father. “You showed yourself a man. If she won’t have you, she’s no judge of what a man is—and the future generations of Mortons won’t be the losers. But if she is all you describe her to be, she knows a hawk from a hernshaw.”

John laughed at his father’s way of stating the case; but the words made him very happy. As time passed and but scant and unsatisfying news came from either Tyler or Don, he became very restless. He had received one letter from Helène which he treasured; but it contained what he took as merely a courteous acknowledgment of her gratitude. He took several flying trips to New York at his father’s request, but always returned distrait and unhappy. He wrote several heartfelt letters to the Comtesse, but received no replies.

Christmas came and with it a severe winter. It was a quiet and subdued Yule-tide for the Mortons. Old Dan Morton was failing fast. The shadow of the coming tragedy had fallen on the house. Before the New Year had arrived, the elder Morton lay dead in the stilled solemn room. The man who had been such a power in the world had no longer any power. Henceforth the forces of nature which he had conquered would deal with him in their own silent, resistless and inevitable fashion.

John took his heartbroken mother and sister South, away from the place where they had known joy and experienced sorrow. They recovered somewhat their interest in life amid the richer scenes and more vivid life of the sun-bathed lands. It was here that he spoke, for the first time, to his mother of his feelings for a girl he had met in Europe. She said very little, because she knew it would be of no use; and she also knew that she could trust his taste. She saw that it was very near to his heart, and urged him to go back. If, she said, he felt convinced that the girl was, indeed, necessary to his happiness, he must lose no time in winning her. He had not told her everything and declined to give the girl’s name or station in life. She was good and beautiful, he said, and he was sure his mother would welcome her and love her. In that case, his mother urged, his first duty was to himself. He must go at once.

It was not his mother’s words, however, but a cable from McCormick that decided him. Donald had cabled that the Comtesse Helène had left the Ducal Palace secretly five days ago leaving no trace behind. She had been hunted for high and low and even detectives had been employed. Would Mr. Morton cable further instructions.

John lost no time in instructing Don to continue the search and advised him that he was sailing for Europe by the first boat. To his mother he gave an envelope with Helène’s handwriting on it, at the same time begging her, if a letter came from Europe for him addressed in the same hand, to notify him by cable of its receipt.

While New York matrons who had their daughters’ welfares to think of were busy planning a season’s siege of the bachelor millionaire’s heart, the unconscious object of their thoughts was sailing away from them—back to a land he longed to see because somewhere in it lived one for whom his whole being yearned, and without whom life would not be worth living for him.

CHAPTER XVIII

AFTER her trying experiences in that drive from Roumelia, Helène welcomed the harbor of refuge afforded her by the castle at Weimar. A small and pretty suite of rooms had been assigned to her in the older east wing, where her mistress, the Princess Marie-Louise, was also provided for. Her attendance at the Court was to begin after she had been presented to the Dowager Duchess Clementine. A maid had been assigned to her, and in her new surroundings she forgot for a while her troubles, though she could not overcome the waves of depression which continually assailed her when she thought of her father.

The maid, Josephine, a pert, little Parisian person, proved to be an adept at her business; which is to say, that, in addition to a capacity for ministering to a lady’s toilet, she was a most valuable and insistent gossip and a consummate flatterer. During her ministrations she told Helène that she was prettier and had hair more beautiful than any other lady of the Court. The hair, especially, seemed to possess most remarkable qualities. By its quality, she judged the gracious Comtesse to be a lady of fine mind and of a strong constitution; by its lustre, that the lady’s heart was pure as gold; by its tendency to waviness, that its owner would have a long life and be wealthy and happy, and that her future husband would be great and powerful and love her always.

Helène listened patiently with a smile. She knew the tribe and knew also that it would be her comfort and peace of mind if she said nothing but appeared interested. Besides, the girl was really shrewd and very amusing. Without her chatter, life in the castle would have been like that of a nunnery. For the atmosphere of the place was heavy with ceremonies and formalities. Helène’s free spirit soon felt the restraint keenly. She learned that it was not proper to speak except in subdued tones, and then only of insipid matters. Laughter was rarely indulged in, for the Mistress of the Ceremonies ruled with an iron hand. Her first, brief interview with this handsome and stately dame was an experience she had no desire to renew. She felt that she had been in a gigantic, upholstered refrigerator after she had been permitted to retire from that august presence.

Helène sat in her pretty boudoir thinking of her father. Mr. Tyler had called the day before to tell her that he had received a wire from Brindisi advising that a letter was on the way. She was expecting him. Oh, if only her dear father were with her—how different things would be! She pictured his meeting with the fat Dowager and almost laughed aloud. How exquisitely polite he would be and yet how finely independent! She could almost see the twinkle in his eyes at the air these princelets gave themselves. She hoped it would not be long before he would come and take her away from these Arctic regions to a quiet and sunny retreat where they could be alone together in freedom and happiness. When would he come? Her eyes fell on a little side-table on which stood a Dresden vase with a cluster of roses in it. Ah, and Mr. Morton, would she ever meet him again? They were the roses he had sent her, full-blown and withering now, the flowers hanging on wilted stalks in spite of the care Josephine had bestowed on them.

It was late in the afternoon and the fading light of the short autumn day spread a gloom through the room. She rose and switched on the electric lights of the candelabra, and turning to put the blinds down, she almost ran into the outstretched arms of a slender prim woman rustling towards her in silk. Helène gave a glad cry.

“Anna! dear Anna, where do you come from?”

“Ach, mein Liebchen, but it is good to see you,” and the elderly woman embraced and kissed her over and over again, the tears running down her face. “Forgive me, Comtesse,” she begged, releasing the girl, “but I could not help it. I wanted to see you again.”

“Oh, Anna, I am so glad you are here, so glad. Now that I have my dear nurse again, all will be well.”

“Why, my little lamb, what is the matter? Are you sick or lonely or unhappy? Of course, everything will be well. I am going to stay with you, my little golden mistress. I only just heard of the Princess’s arrival, and did not lose a minute getting here. Certainly all will be well now.”

Helène looked at the dear face of her second mother, and felt so comforted that she believed a Providence had sent the good woman to her. How good it was to be loved and to have some one near you in whom you could trust and to whom you could tell the doubts that were racking your heart!

“But how do you happen to be in Weimar, Anna?”

The question was sufficient to open the sluices of the nurse’s reservoir of talk; she talked so rapidly that she barely gave herself time to catch her breath. She was married now—to Anton Schreiber—Anton had been chief valet to His Highness, the old Duke. They lived now in Altenburg, in a beautiful cottage with a lovely garden. Oh, and they were happy and comfortably off, what with her savings and Anton’s. She had come to Weimar to visit her niece, Josephine. Why the very Josephine who attended on her sweet lambkin! Of course! And, oh, how her darling had grown! How beautiful and grand she looked! And what lovely hair! How long was it since she had seen her? Yes—three years. Dear, dear, how time does fly! And what had she been doing? And what brought her to Weimar?

Helène waited patiently, smiling delightedly all the time. However, the good lady’s breath gave out, at last, and Helène had the opportunity to open up her heart’s woes. She was so unhappy in the castle, she explained.

“My dear,” replied the nurse promptly, “take no notice of the people—they’re not worth it. And we’ll begin at once.” She rose up quickly and ringing for Josephine said to her, “Tell the man to serve dinner here for two. I am dining with the Comtesse.—There,” she turned to Helène, “we’ll make ourselves at home, and do as we like.”

Helène was astonished to find how easily it could be done. She spent one of the happiest evenings in her life with this nurse, waited on and served by the lackey who looked to her the reflection of the fearful formality of the dining-room below. The hours passed so pleasantly that she knew not they were passing, and was surprised to find that it was time to retire for the night.

Even then Anna would not be gainsaid; she must put her darling to bed and see that she was snug and comfortable.

“You are so like your sainted mother,” Anna would say over and over again, as she helped her to undress. And Helène would cry only to be soothed again by gentle caresses and soft murmuring words. It was just like the days of her childhood when Anna would send her to sleep with plaintive songs and tales of “Red Riding Hood,” and “Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp.” And when at last she fell asleep—she slept without a dream, the peaceful, happy sleep of a child.

The next morning, early, Anna was at the bedside to see to Helène’s wants. She insisted on dividing Josephine’s duties and taking it upon herself to dress her “baby,” as she called her.

“Isn’t she the loveliest child you ever saw?” she asked of Josephine. Josephine agreed laughingly.

“Ah, there isn’t a beauty like this in any other part of the Schloss. Won’t those dry old maids be jealous! They’ve no chance for a husband with our little girl, have they, Josephine?”

“No, indeed,” asserted that demoiselle. “They’re sour enough to frighten any man away—the cats!”

Helène was overcome with her blushes at the irresponsible twittering of the two women, and begged them to spare her feelings. But she couldn’t close their mouths—they had not had such an opportunity in which to indulge themselves in many a day. Josephine went so far even as to hint of a beau, at which Anna bridled up. Beau, indeed! Her darling had no thought of beaux. How could she, at her age—only nineteen—the dear, sweet lamb!

Helène really was relieved when the time came for the two to retire. She was impatient, too, for Mr. Tyler to come. It was an anxious moment for her when his card was brought up. He came in quietly, a gentle, sad smile on his distinguished face. She could not restrain herself, and made a quick movement towards him, her eyes streaming the question that her open lips could not utter. With grave courtesy he took both her hands very affectionately in his and led her to a seat. And then he told her the sad news—told it with all the kindliness and tenderness of his finely sympathetic heart. The truth could not be hidden, but he softened its harshness as only a practised diplomatist like he could do. And yet the truth was bitter. His heart went out to the poor orphaned girl for whom he had now come to feel a father’s affection. It was very painful to see her suffering. At first she could not believe what she heard, and stood gazing with wide eyes unable to move. But under Mr. Tyler’s gentle words, she broke down utterly and sobbed as if her heart had burst. Fortunately, Anna came in, and carried her darling to her bedroom.

Mr. Tyler told Anna to tell the Comtesse that he would look after everything, and would call later in the day, when he expected to bring with him Count Rondell’s papers and last letters. He would remain in Weimar a few days longer, and would hold himself at the Comtesse’s orders. “And give this letter,” he added, “to the Comtesse. It is from a friend. She will be glad to receive it.”

It was, indeed, a Providence that had sent her nurse to her at this juncture; for Count Rondell’s death had left Helène practically alone in the world. It is not well to linger over such agonies as the poor girl endured. They are the common lot of our humanity. Happy are they whom they leave unbroken in spirit—it is those they strike down who are to be pitied. Helène was of the sterner stuff, and she was helped by her nurse. Nothing softens sorrow as love does—and of love Anna’s motherly bosom was filled abundantly. Herself childless, she had it all to give to this child of her adoption—and she gave it freely, with a large measure.

The Princess, also, when she heard the sad tidings, came to her full of affectionate sympathy; but, alas, what could she do to help her friend! She was an exile now—a nobody. She would see that the presentation was put off.

“Oh, my dear,” she cried, with tears in her eyes, “If we only had some wise and powerful friend! We are both of us dependent on the charity of strangers.”

A friend’s troubles act as a salve to our own troubles, as fire extinguishes fire, and in her loyalty to the Princess, Helène realized that she was not alone in her sorrow. The two girls thus helped each other in their hour of need.

Mr. Tyler kept his word and came, courteously kind and sympathetic as always. He had seen to everything. He brought with him a considerable sum of money—her father’s possession—and he proposed to deposit that in the local bank in the Comtesse’s name. There were a few formalities to be gone through in that matter, and he had brought Herr Blume of the Laenderbank to witness her signature to some documents.

Mr. Tyler reassured her of his devotion and begged her to keep her courage—for her father’s sake.

“You owe it to him, Comtesse,” he said, “as his daughter. Here in this package you will find his letters. They will tell you everything you ought to know.”

She took the package reverently.

“I do not know how to thank you, dear sir, for all you have done. I shall never forget it.”

Mr. Tyler smiled, and with the liberty of his years, bent over and kissed her hair. “Fear not, be of good heart, and all will be well. Good-by, and God bless you.”

For some minutes she sat alone, staring straight before her with unseeing eyes, her fingers playing nervously with the package on her knees. Then slowly she broke the seals and listlessly removed the contents of a small box.

She found in it her father’s watch, some rings, a small locket containing a miniature of her mother, a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon and inscribed, “To my daughter—to be retained, but not read,” and three envelopes, two of which were sealed and addressed to her.

The sight of the trinkets moved her deeply, especially the wedding ring. She took them into her bedroom and sat down near the window. Taking one of the envelopes, dated October —, she broke the seal and read. It seemed to her as if she were holding a communion with the spirit of her father—as if she were listening to a message from the grave:

“My most beloved child,” it began:

“The mission I had undertaken has failed; my journey ended in nothing. It has left me so enfeebled that I am not able to move with any freedom from pain. The doctor tells me I am very ill, and I realize that I am a doomed man.

“How long a time is still left me I know not; but I must write to you while I still have the strength. If this letter should reach you, you will know that I have not been vouchsafed the blessing of coming to you myself.

“And in this there is no cause for either tears or mourning. I ran a good race and have reached the goal. My one great grief is born of the knowledge of the pain my going will give you, my dearest child. You are so young to be left friendless in this world!

“But I have arranged with my dear friend, Baron Robert de Haas, to undertake your guardianship. He is in possession of my will. You know him and like him. He is a man of noble mind and large heart and he will take my place worthily. I cannot leave you riches, my darling, but I comfort myself with the thought that you will not regret that fact. What I have is yours, and, with Baron de Haas’s help, it will be sufficient to keep you independent and free from want. For the rest you will, I know, bravely work out your destiny in your own way.

“And now, dear one of my heart, a few last words from your father. A woman was created by God to be the mate of a man—a good man. If, as I fervently pray, such a man should enter your life and win your love, think of your gracious mother to whose influence I owe so much. A man deserving of your love should be honorable in the absolute sense of that word—a gentleman, not in title, but in thought and deed. He must be such that you will always be proud of him and proud to be the mother of his children, if God so give it. You will recognize him by these signs: that he is a good son to his parents, loyal to his country and God and proud of his honor. And if I have judged my child aright, you will deserve him. In body and in mind, you are your mother over again, and the earth knew not her like in beauty of form and nobility of spirit.

“Forgive me for seeming to preach— Your happiness is so close to my heart. You have been the reward of my life, my pride and my joy. May you find peace and love all your life. I am holding you in my arms as I write these last words:

“Mein Liebchen—Good-bye, until we meet again in God’s own good time.

“Your Father.”

A postscript, dated the same month and written at Suez, followed:

“I have forgotten my illness in my anxiety about you. Word has just reached me that de Haas is no more, and I know not now to whom to turn. With this news came terrible tidings of the happenings in our poor, stricken Roumelia. I am so far from you and cannot help you. God alone must help—and He will.

“I think it was God’s Providence that sent me Mr. John Morton, a young American. He agreed, last night, to take my place and go to Roumelia and rescue you from the clutches of those rebels. He is to bring you and Princess Marie-Louise to Weimar. If he succeeds, and I am confident he will, let him guide you in your next step. He is a gentleman, and he can help you. You may rely on his word and, if I am a judge of human nature, he will not fail you.

“It is useless to say much—and needless to say more.

“If I could have come myself, I would not have sent a substitute.

“May God take you under His protection.”

Helène’s face was bathed in tears. It was with trembling hands that she opened the second letter. The handwriting was feebler and the lines very uneven. Evidently, her father had written it under great mental stress.

“Brindisi, November 6, 189—

“My Darling Child:

“Mr. Morton left two days ago for Roumelia with my prayers. I have heard no news of what is happening there and I fear the worst.

“My strength is failing fast and the doctor sent me from Rome by my American friend has been very frank with me. I have but a few days more in which to live.

“As I am still able to think clearly and write, I must make full use of the time left me. I omitted to tell you in my previous letter something which I think you ought to know. When I first spoke to Mr. Morton of going to Roumelia, I spoke on behalf of the Princess. He refused absolutely to undertake the journey or to mix in any way with the political affairs of the country. Indeed, he was indignant with me for what he considered my presumption in asking him to engage himself in an enterprise of such danger and risk. His first duty was to his parents and he was called to them. I was not surprised at his attitude, but I had no alternative.

“It was during my pleading that I accidentally uncovered a portrait of yourself, and, to my utter astonishment, he suddenly changed his mind and accepted the task. I tell you this because I think you should know it. The man is a noble fellow. I feel that in my heart. If he should succeed in his mission and you are once more free, do not hesitate to accept his friendship. If I knew that you would do this I should die the happier for knowing it.

“I can say no more, but pray and hope.

“God bless you and protect you, dearest.”

The third unsealed envelope contained a simple note written in a strange, feminine hand, in French.

“Brindisi, November 14, 189—

“I am Paola Rimoni, nurse and attendant to his Excellency Count Rondell-Barton who has requested me to write down his last words, as follows:

“A telegram from Monsieur Morton has just arrived announcing that his party has safely crossed the border. The man has justified my faith in him. May God reward and bless him.

“I send my daughter my blessing and my dearest love. I die happy knowing that she is safe.

“My gratitude to Monsieur Morton, my homage to Her Highness, my last kiss and blessing to my beloved child. Roumelia forever!”

Below was scrawled in letters that were barely decipherable—“Rondell.”

Helène was too overcome to move from where she sat. Through the window came the pale light of the waning day tinged with the red of the sinking sun. The room was filling with deep shadows. She saw nothing. Darkness seemed to have fallen on her. Slipping to her knees she laid her aching head upon the seat and prayed inwardly, the while the scalding tears fell down her cheeks. It was thus that the faithful Anna found her an hour later.

The first great sorrow of youth is the inheritance of tears that have fallen before. It is the burden of existence for an erring humanity. It means and must ever mean that the blood which has flowed from others’ hearts is the blood which will flow from our own. One generation must depart to make room for a generation to come; and the burden of sorrow we have received from those who have gone before us we shall pass on to those who come after us. Happy are they who can weep in their sorrow, for tears are a blood-letting of the spirit.

When she opened her eyes in the morning they fell on the Dresden vase now bereft of its flowers—the petals lay scattered on the table and carpet, and only dried stalks showed where a few days ago glowed the red damask of roses. Was this to be an omen of her own life? She shivered at the question. Rising quickly she gathered the petals with loving care, and taking the dried stems from the vase placed both in a drawer of her dressing-table. She knew now that her heart lay with the faded leaves.

She remembered the letter Mr. Tyler had left with Anna. It was a message from the man whom her father had blessed with his dying words. So he was going—sailing over the ocean to that far country where was his home. Would he, too, lose his father? How cruel life was? He had signed himself, “in deepest sympathy and devotion.” The words were like balm to her sore heart. No—she was not alone in the gray world! And the sunlight of the morning was repeated in her smile.

In the company of her faithful nurse, Helène traveled the short distance to Sigmaringen, the home town of her mother’s family, to attend her father’s funeral. Mr. and Mrs. Tyler were present, and their presence helped her not a little to bear the trial. On her return she found Donald waiting for her at the railway station. Her heart gave a bound when she saw his lanky figure and hard yet kindly face. The sight of him comforted her greatly, and she was glad to accept his escort to the Schloss.

The next day she was compelled to undergo the trial of an interview with the Mistress of the Ceremonies, Baroness Radau. It was necessary that she should be coached in the duties incumbent on a lady of the Court of Saxe-Weimar. While expressing sympathy for her in her bereavement, the majestic dame admonished her to repress her grief. It was not proper to show undue emotion. She must read the lives of the forty-nine dukes of the blessed realm and become acquainted with the works of Goethe and Schiller, who were the glory of Weimar. It would also be very necessary for her to know the proper way to bow and the precedence of rank; and, above all, she must never forget that next to God came Duke Ernest Victor the Seventeenth.

On account of her mourning, the color of her presentation dress was to be a subdued gray, under a special dispensation. It would be of the regulation style. Perfumes were permitted, but only of a particular kind. Her Highness did not favor any but that of lilac. Her hair must be plainly arranged and drawn tight and smooth across the brow. She might wear pearls.

The day of the ordeal of the Presentation came at last. She went to it with the greatest trepidation and returned from it almost prostrated from the strain of waiting her turn. She had been permitted to touch the gloved hand of the voluminous Dowager and the hands of the reigning Duke’s consort and her own Princess. Poor little Marie-Louise looked like a martyr waiting to be led to the stake as she stood on a slightly lower dais than that on which the Dowager sat, dressed in stiff silk weighted with gold embroidery. When Helène approached her, she cast big sad eyes on her friend like those of a doe flying from the hunters.

Having been presented, Helène was now permitted the freedom of the Court. Her duties were simple but weariedly monotonous. They amounted to a regulated routine of formality and enforced idleness. She was permitted to appear in white or gray at the gatherings, but at the Chapel, which she attended twice a week, she was allowed to wear black. She was deprived of Josephine’s services and given in her stead a soured old maid, who was far more experienced and would be able to instruct her in the punctilios of the Court. Anna was no longer in Weimar; she had gone back to her little cottage and her beloved Anton.

But there was one pleasant interlude in the dreary round of her week’s life, and it came to her on her way to and from Chapel. On these occasions she would find McCormick waiting for her at the castle gate to learn of her health and to know if he could be of any service to her. Sometimes, after service was over, she would invite him to accompany her in her promenade round the Square within sight of the Schloss. On those occasions she would lead him to talk of his master, a subject on which Don was ever ready to descant. She would listen to him with downcast eyes, but with secret delight. These talks added fuel to the flame in her heart and warmed her lonely spirit.

Winter came, and with it the snow, which buried the little Thuringian castle in its white mantle. The monotony of her life palled more and more on her since she was now deprived of her walks. Occasionally a letter from Mr. Tyler and Anna would come as a ray of sunshine.

One never-to-be-forgotten day she received a box which, when she opened it, she found filled her chamber with the delicious scent of flowers. They were orchids of the purest white, sent by Morton. “Heartiest good wishes to you on your birthday. May you see many, many more in health and happiness.” The words were inscribed on his card. She had not realized that this was the last day in November, and that she was now twenty. That morning at the levée she attracted the curious glances of the women by the lovely orchids she wore at her breast. Not a few whispered malicious insinuations to each other.

Helène had but few opportunities of meeting her friend, the Princess. When she did she found her very unhappy. The poor girl had been made to feel her equivocal position at the Court, where she was treated as though she had come there uninvited. She had no means of her own, and this compelled her to be dependent on the good-will of people who, though royal in blood, were very mean in spirit, especially where money was concerned. There is no king so pompous as the kinglet, and as a consequence he attracts to him the effete and the provincial in mind—men who will cringe and fawn and flatter, and women whose only enjoyment is in gossip and slander. It was from the latter especially that the Princess suffered—and Helène also.

With the coming of December came preparations for the Christmas festivities. The Court was all agog, Helène excited with the rest. She had a better opportunity to know the “noble ladies” now. In mixing with them she occasionally caught whispers about “Americans,” and people who sacrificed their pride of descent on the altar of money. And she would notice that they cast side glances at her as they spoke. She did not altogether comprehend the meaning of their attitude, but she realized vaguely that she had become a persona non grata with these high-born tatlers, and, as a consequence, her unhappiness increased. She thought of her bank account. Perhaps these women had found out about it! Surely, it had been her father’s money that Mr. Tyler had brought her! The half question brought a doubt. Had Mr. Morton sent it? How absurd! And yet—yet—he was so generous. She would speak with the Princess about it.

The two girls talked it over and even went into calculations, in their simple way, as to the cost of the expedition Morton had undertaken. They were forced to the conclusion that Morton must have borne that himself; nay, that it was to his generosity they owed the very clothes they wore. Now they understood the dark references to “Americans” and money. Helène determined to find out the truth by writing to Mr. Tyler.

The reply she received did not clear the matter. Mr. Tyler thought she was making a mountain out of a mole-hill. She had far better leave well alone. So far as he knew, the moneys he had brought her came from her father. It could not be otherwise since they were drawn out of the Banca Nationale, where they had been deposited in Count Rondell’s name. He expected Mr. Morton’s arrival early next month, and no doubt he would call on her. He advised her to forget the matter until then.

Helène was torn by doubt, and humiliated in her pride. She did not know what to do nor where to turn.

CHAPTER XIX

CHRISTMAS morning came and with it came another box of flowers—glorious roses, this time, of a deep red and of a scent breathing sympathy to the lonely girl. Enclosed was a card bearing the one word, “Greetings.” She pressed the lovely flowers to her face as if kissing the hand that had sent them. The contact with the velvet petals soothed her troubled spirits. When she met Donald that day she asked after his master. Don shook his head—he had nothing to tell her.

“Why are you still in Weimar, McCormick?” she said.

McCormick grinned. “Weimar is all right, Miss,” he said, “and I’ve no home to go to. Besides, orders are orders, Miss, and I’ve got to stay here in case you might need me. Say the word, Miss, and I’ll be ready.”

She thanked him with a pathetic little smile. The roses and Don’s words were enough for one day. She re-entered the castle thinking that her Christmas had been a very happy one.

The next day the Princess came into her room looking greatly distressed and holding a periodical in her hand, which she held out to Helène.

“Here,” she said, “is the explanation of the malicious gossip.” It was a copy of an English society paper, three weeks old, which an English friend had sent the Princess. It contained a scurrilous article dealing with Morton and his adventure with the two ladies in Roumelia. As Helène read her heart seemed to turn to a stone—a feeling of nausea overcame her.

After stating the fact of their escape from Roumelia, the article went on to say that Morton, the hero of the adventure, had received but scant courtesy from the two ladies. They treated him with cold indifference, scarcely deigning to hold any conversation with him. As for Count Rondell-Barton, who was supposed to have planned and financed the expedition, he could not have been very active in the matter, since so far from being on the Roumelian border, he never came closer to it than Brindisi. When, however, the proud ladies arrived in Vienna and learned from the American Minister to Germany who and what their rescuer, Mr. Morton, was, their whole bearing and attitude towards that gentleman changed entirely. They became as friendly then as they had been cool before. The millionaire was quite a different person from the stranger who had risked his life for them. What a tale Mr. Morton would have to tell when he went back to America; and what would he think of Europe’s nobility!

And now, as she had finished the vile writing, she was filled with indignation.

“Who inspired this disgraceful composition?” she asked her friend. The Princess shook her head.

“I spoke to Count Radau about it and he said that no one would pay any attention to what this paper printed. It had a bad reputation in England and, no doubt, lived on purveying this kind of stuff to readers who like it. He advised me to forget it.”

“But it’s such a tissue of lies and misrepresentations,” cried Helène in her anger.

“I know; but that’s the way these vile creatures live—by debasing their talents.”

“Oh, it is too terrible. I shall be ashamed to show my face anywhere now.”

“We cannot help ourselves, dear Helène; we must bear up in the hope that the good taste of the Court will leave us free from gossip.” The Princess spoke lightly, but in her heart she was deeply chagrined and distressed.

As for Helène, she could not put the thing out of her mind. It was as if she had been soiled with the mud of the streets. She never, for one moment, believed that Mr. Morton had had anything to do with it. Some enemy of her father’s must have inspired it, she thought. What a cruel thing to do! What degradation of mind to sell itself to such a service!

It was with a breast filled with indignation and pride that Helène attended the gathering in the small reception-room, that afternoon, to take her part in the Christmas-tree ceremony. She stood a little way from the rest as they waited the arrival of “their highnesses.” There was much chattering going on and not a little simpering and giggling among the less reserved women who had evidently come to enjoy themselves. She could not help noticing one particular gentleman who passed as a wit among these light-headed ones and was the centre of a bevy of dames all seemingly delighted at some of his witticisms. And then she heard an ample young countess remark that the Hebe from the Balkans was not interested in cutting them out—she was too much taken up with Mr. Moneybags from America.

Helène turned white and grasped the balustrade of the nearby stairway. She could scarcely stand on her legs and her bosom heaved from her labored breathing.

An elderly lady, a Madame de Martis, had also heard the words and saw the girl’s condition. Quickly stepping up to her, she whispered: “Compose yourself, my dear child, and come with me to the dining-room.”

Helène clutched at the lady’s arm and gave her a pathetic smile.

“Oh, Madame, they have no hearts.” Then recovering herself, she added: “But cost it what it may, I will tell them what I feel. I have borne it so long that I can hold out no longer.”

Her recovered anger brought the color back to her face and gave her strength. Advancing rapidly towards the group, the members of which were gazing at her in supercilious surprise, she stood before them boldly erect and with her eyes shining—a thing of ineffable beauty.

“You will listen to what I have to say,” she cried in clear, ringing tones, and the whole assembly turned spellbound at such colossal temerity. “I know I am transgressing all the laws of this Court, but you may do your pleasure after I have finished.”

Several gentlemen came forward to beg her to be composed, but she waved them away with a fine gesture.

“I shall have my say. The Princess and I came here to a place of refuge—we are alone in the world with no man to help us. The common laws of hospitality demand that we be treated, at least, with some show of courtesy, but you have thought fit to ignore them. You have not only made me realize my dependence, but you have insulted my honor and questioned my motives. And now that you have learned from a vile paper the base insinuations of a base mind, you have accepted them as the truth, to afford you a little amusement in the dull circle of your lives.”

Madame de Martis had taken one of the girl’s arms and was hysterically appealing to her to leave the room with her.

“Pardon me, Madame, it is too late now. I have begun and I will finish what I have to say to these distinguished members of the Court.” Her voice had grown stronger; the expression on her face became as if a holy light had transfigured it. The women were terrified and the men admiringly interested; but neither moved a foot; they stood as if under a hypnotic influence.

“The gentleman to whom we owe our freedom is not here to speak for himself. If he were, you would not be so free with your insinuations. He did what I doubt any man here would have had the courage to do—he helped a dying man and two friendless girls. Without that help we should never be alive to-day, and I am proud to acknowledge the debt I owe him. You, gentlemen of Thuringia will, I am sure, appreciate my sentiments. And as for the lying gossip of that paper which you ladies of the Court have so eagerly accepted, you are welcome to make of it what you will.”

She turned proudly and marched majestically out of the room. But the door once closed, she staggered blindly up the stairs and fell fainting on her bed.

The spell over the assembled courtiers was broken. There succeeded a noise of talk such as that reception room had never heard since the castle was built. From all sides resounded indignant protestations, disclaimers and denials. Here and there came expressions of commiseration and even avowed desires for apologies. When, finally, the Baroness Radau’s voice could be heard, they quieted down. The Baroness would confer with the Dowager Duchess and the Comtesse Helène’s conduct adjudged. In the meantime, the ladies and gentlemen would do well to await Her Highness’s arrival.

When Helène recovered consciousness, she lay thinking dully of what had occurred. There was, no doubt, in her mind about the consequence of her act. She made up her mind not to wait for the royal verdict and its inevitable punishment. Anywhere was better than to be in this heartless place. She would rather live with servants and working people than with these so-called high-born men and women. She had money—thank God for that! She would use it whether it was rightly hers or no. She would go to Anna, her nurse, who was the only one who really loved her. Anna was good and wise. She would help her and guide her. She would know what was best to do.

Thus firmly resolved, she bathed her hot, tear-stained face and retiring for the night, cried herself to sleep.

The next morning she rose, rested and greatly refreshed. After partaking of a hearty breakfast, she left the castle and took a “droschky” to the Laenderbank. The ordeal she had feared proved a very simple affair after all. Her request for money was immediately attended to and she left with several thousand marks snugly tucked away in her pocketbook.

Her absence from the castle had not been noted. Once in her room again, she set about collecting the articles she held as her treasures, including the faded rose leaves and orchids, and packed them carefully in a box. Opening the door softly, she beckoned to a passing lackey and asked him to send Josephine to her.

Josephine came in haste. She had not seen her dear Comtesse for days and wondered what she had been called for. Helène told her she was going on a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Tyler in Berlin, who had invited her to spend New Year with them. At once the maid became excited and busied herself most energetically in packing the Comtesse’s trunk and valise. The proceeding took but a short time—Helène’s wardrobe was not extensive. A carriage was ordered to be at a side door and a lackey helped to load it. Before leaving Helène left a note for the Princess in which she begged her friend’s forgiveness for the step she was taking.

At the railway station her courage oozed out of her. She was afraid she had been followed and terrified at the thought of the Baroness Radau’s cold eyes. Her eyes filled with tears as she glanced helplessly around her. But a guardian angel in the shape of a dignified railway official, seeing her evident distress, approached her with a bow and begged the “Gnädiges Fräulein” to permit him to take charge of her baggage. She could hardly keep from hugging him, so great was her relief. The uniformed giant soon had her settled comfortably in a first class compartment with her baggage safely on board the train. “The train will leave in twenty minutes for Altenberg, gnädiges Fräulein,” he informed her, well pleased with the change she had left with him. Ah, at last, the train was moving. At last, she was safe, and laying her aching head against the upholstered back of the compartment, she closed her eyes and dozed happily to the rhythmic jolting of the wheels, which were carrying her away from the gilded prison and its cruel jailers.

At Altenberg the patriarchal conductor came to her assistance. The sweet face of the girl with its plaintive expression had touched him. He ordered a porter to see to her baggage and procured a carriage for her. She looked at him, for a moment, as he held out a hand, then she nodded and smiled and left him feeling fully recompensed, with the smile.

Anna lived at Garten-strasse No. 60 in this the smallest of capitals of Duke-ridden Thuringia. The way to it lay through the Main Street and by little snow-covered garden plots to the still outskirts. The neat cottage stood behind a brick wall in which was a prettily wrought iron gate.

A pull at the bell-handle was succeeded by the shrill barking of a diminutive dog between the bars of the gate, and the appearance of Anna in a bibbed apron.

“Ach, my baby!” she almost screamed, and gathered the girl to her warm bosom. “So you did come, after all. Oh, I’m so glad, so glad.”

“What a lovely little home you have,” cried Helène as she looked around the room into which Anna had ushered her and which was so inviting in its furnishing and reposeful effects.

“Yes, it is nice, is it not,” assented Anna with pride in her face. “But, my dear, you are tired from the journey and will enjoy a little luncheon, won’t you? Of course. I’ll have it ready very soon; but come to your own room first. You see I have it all ready for you. Ach, won’t Anton feel honored when he sees you here!”

It was not until after luncheon, when the two were seated together in “the best room,” that Helène found her opportunity to tell Anna of the real reason which had brought her to Altenberg. The nurse listened quietly at first, but towards the end of the narrative she became so excited that she kept jumping from her seat, pressing her hands together out of sheer indignation, and ended by embracing and petting her “child” with all the sympathetic words her full heart enabled her to murmur.

“Oh, the mean, nasty cats,” she cried. “I knew from the first that you would never be happy in a place like that. I told Josephine so. You did quite right in leaving as you did. You will stop here, which is your proper place now; and you can stay as long as you wish. We shall have the loveliest time, and the house and everything is yours. The idea, their not letting you go in mourning for your dear papa! Why, I never heard such a thing! It’s wicked, positively wicked. We’ll see to a proper dress for you at once. We have a very good dressmaker here who will fix you up elegantly. Oh, the cats, the vipers!”

Anna would have gone on much longer if Helène would have listened. But she laughingly smothered the dear lady in an embrace and begged her to forget it now as she herself had done. She would be glad to find her home here for the present and was grateful to Anna for her loving kindness.

Thus, at last, did Helène find a resting place for her tired head. Here she could be alone with her thoughts, study a little and arrive at some definite plans for the future. Perhaps, her troubles were now over and things would take a change for the better. For the winter, at least, she would accept Anna’s kind hospitality.

Soon the spring would come—ah, the spring! She would not plan so far ahead. She would leave it in God’s own merciful hands. The lines from the English poet came into her mind. She smiled happily as she murmured the hope-giving words:

Oh, Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Spring with its budding of trees and flowers and growing of green grass; with the coming of the hope-giving sun and blue skies, and all the thousand beauties that make the heart glad, then surely would come to her a new strength and a kinder life. Perhaps—perhaps—but she dared not think of that. If God so willed it spring might bring him also, and then—ah, then, let come what may. It would, indeed, be a new life!

CHAPTER XX

HELÈNE’S life in the home of the Schreibers begun so happily continued as happily for many weeks. She communicated with no one in Weimar because she wished to forget, so far as she could, the wretched time she had passed there. She had not told the Princess where she was going and, in her haste, she had forgotten to inform Donald McCormick. It was better so, she thought, at any rate for the winter. She would be happier alone with these humble and kind people.

The people of Altenberg knew her as Miss Barton. Frau Schreiber had taken care to explain to them that Helène was the daughter of a lady in whose service she had been; and was staying with them for the winter, for a rest.

Life, in a little place like Altenberg, especially to one accustomed to the atmosphere of a refined home and the association with people of culture, is at best a more or less dull round of daily duties. One must be born in such a place to accept contentedly its simple offerings of friendly intercourse and common interests. For a time, the novelty of its picturesque streets, its quaintly pretty houses, its museum and historical landmarks, satisfied Helène’s appetite for variety. She enjoyed the “sights” as a tourist who might be visiting the place. But familiarity, if it did not breed contempt, did certainly destroy the novelty, and what once was enjoyed as variety now palled because of the monotony. The variety itself had become a sameness. Even the different neighbors of the Schreibers took on a ridiculous seeming of likeness to each other; and Anna herself, good and kind as she undoubtedly was, became like the rest. Good people are seldom interesting, and kindness alone does not always mean that their thoughts are in sympathy with our own.

So that pretty Altenberg and its simple folk began in time to pall on Helène. Anna noticed the change, and put it down to the absence of congenial society. She determined to supply the want. The well-meant remedy but aggravated the disease. The good woman took every opportunity to be with Helène, and it was not long before the girl was almost afraid to see her approaching on her kindly mission bent.

As often as the weather permitted, Helène would go for long walks. She could the better “think things over,” as Anna would say, when alone in the open air. She realized that wise as the step had been she had taken in coming to Altenberg, it was just as wise now that she should leave it as soon as the winter was over. She must not be a burden on anyone. She must go away and find something to do—some occupation by which she could earn, at least, a living. For she had made up her mind that she would use no more of that money Mr. Tyler had placed to her credit in the bank. She was not at all satisfied that it was her father’s money. The six thousand marks she had drawn out on leaving Weimar she would keep. She had calculated, at least to her own satisfaction, that this was about the sum which her father might have possessed. By what process of reasoning she arrived at that conclusion only a knowledge of Helène’s honest and unworldly nature could explain. But the conviction was fixed and with it also the determination to provide for her own future by the work of her own hands.

The days grew longer; the cool airs began to whisper the promise of spring. With the approach of the season Helène’s spirits returned. Her body, too, threw off the lassitude which the winter’s confinement had brought on. Her cheeks showed a little of their old-time rose-color; her eyes grew bright. Youth was reasserting itself at nature’s silent call.

One afternoon late in February, on her return from a visit to an ancient church, she was surprised to see Herr Kauffner approaching her dressed in holiday attire. She knew him as a prosperous tanner, and a friend of the Schreibers, and although he was a member of the town council it was not usual for him to be walking out on a week day dressed in his Sunday clothes. Her surprise was not lessened when, on doffing his hat, he stopped and begged permission to accompany her home. There was an impressive formality about the request which made her feel very uncomfortable, but she could scarcely refuse.

Herr Kauffner was a heavily built man with a temperament that scorned circumlocution. He wasted little time and less words in coming to his point.

“I am happy, Fräulein Barton,” he began with a self-satisfied air, “to have this opportunity of speaking with you alone.” He cast an ardent, admiring glance on what he could see of her face. “Indeed, Fräulein, I have been wishing for it ever since I had the good fortune to make your acquaintance.”

Helène quickened her step—they were nearing the main street.

“I am one of the richest men in the Faubourg,” he went on, and this time with a distinct note of pride in his tones. “I am a good-natured fellow, in the prime of life and sound as a thaler.”

Helène turned pale and increased her pace as she kept looking about her anxiously in the hope she would see some person she knew.

“But—I am a lonely man. I ask your permission to visit Herr and Frau Schreiber more frequently as a suitor for your heart and hand. May I so consider myself?”

Helène was utterly at her wit’s end what to answer. Her rapid steps had brought her to the turning of the street in which the Schreibers lived. She paused for breath for a moment and looked at Herr Kauffner with such surprise and frightened eyes that he stepped back a pace.

“I thank you for the honor you have paid me, Herr Kauffner,” she was able to say, “but it cannot be. Permit me to go home now alone.”

And without giving him time to answer, she almost ran down the street into the house. Once in the hall she did not pause, but walked quickly up the stairs, clinging to the balustrade for support and threw herself into a chair in her own room, overcome from exhaustion and fear. She had not dared to announce her return to Anna, as she usually did after her walks; she was afraid Anna might question her on seeing her distress.

For many minutes she sat trying to still the beating of her heart. The rush of blood to her head had made her dizzy. After a time she was able to get on her feet and bathe her face in cold water.

Then the humor of the situation took her, and she smiled. Poor man—he meant well. She had been rude to leave him so abruptly. What would Anna say? How could she tell her?

Just then she heard a noise of some one entering the next room and the sound of the closing of the door. Then came loud voices in dispute. Anna and her husband were talking about something that had evidently made them angry. The voices came nearer and she heard Anna say distinctly:

“You are very unreasonable. You ought to be proud to have her here.”

“Yes, that’s what you say; but I’m not. You keep on telling me of the honor your ‘gracious and noble Comtesse’ is doing us by being here. But I don’t see it. After slaving all these years to be my own master, do you think I’m going to be a servant again? And yet that’s just what I’m being driven to. Since she came I am compelled to eat my meals where I won’t be in the way of your ‘precious lamb.’ I am not allowed to talk loudly; I can’t have my friends visit me and enjoy a bottle of wine; I must be always dressed up and keep on my best behavior—and in my own house, too. I never heard of such a thing. I can’t smoke my pipe except in a back room, and as for my wife, why I see so little of you now that I might just as well never be married.”

“Anton, you must not shout like that.”

“Not shout! Why not? Isn’t this my house? I don’t care who hears me. I’d just as soon tell her if she were here. Before she came I was as happy and proud as a duke. Here we’ve been working all these years—for what? For our home. And now that we’ve got it—where is it? Not in this place. When I want my wife, you are fussing with the ‘gracious Comtesse’; when I ask you to come for a walk, you tell me ‘Lady Helène needs me’; when I want to talk with her, you tell me I don’t know how to talk to a noble lady. What do you think I am—a stone, a fool, or a man? I’m sick of it all. I want our old life back again—I want my wife—my home.”

“Anton, you are beside yourself. Don’t you know the poor girl has no one except us to help her?”

“Well, let her do as other girls do—let her marry a decent fellow and have her own home. I don’t mind her visiting us—but I don’t keep a hotel!”

When Helène had realized that it was she who was the cause of their quarrel, her weakness became such that she lost the power of movement, and collapsed in the chair. She tried to cry out in an effort to make them aware of her presence in the house, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth—she could but sit helpless and listen.

She heard Anna weeping and saying bitter words to her husband. How he must have resented her coming that he, a man usually so mild and gentle, should have been roused to such anger. She heard a violent slamming of a door followed by the sound of quick, heavy treads down the stairs, and then, a deadly silence.

So this was to be the end! An adverse fate must be pursuing her. Wherever she went unhappiness followed. Even those who would befriend her suffered because of her.

“Oh, I wish I was dead—dead, and with dear papa,” she murmured brokenly, for she was too wretched to cry.

She must go and go at once. Anna must not suffer because of her. She had come between her and her good husband who loved her. Anton Schreiber was right. His wife and his home were his, and she had no right here.

But where should she go? Ah, that was a hard question to answer. She would not go back to Weimar, and she knew nobody anywhere else. If only Donald were here—he would surely help her. She must go to some big city where no one would know her and where she could easily hide herself. But if she went with Anna’s knowledge, that dear woman would suspect she had overheard the quarrel. She must leave without her knowing it.

Her mind made up she stepped quietly down the stairs and out of the house to the rear where the Schreibers’ little maid-of-all-work had her room. The girl adored the Fräulein Barton and would do anything she asked. Helène bound her to secrecy. She was going to Munich on a visit, she told her, and didn’t want Frau Schreiber to know. Could she get anyone who would take her trunk to the station? The girl smiled. Of course she could. The butcher’s boy would do it for her any time. When? She’d bring him that evening at eight o’clock. He could bring the trunk downstairs to the laundry and in the morning he’d come round with his cart and take it away. Her Hermann would do it for a thaler—not for him, but for the porter at the station. That settled it.

Helène returned to the front door and entering noisily called out for “Mamma Anna” as she usually did to announce her arrival.

“Where are you, ‘Mamma Anna,’” she called up the stairs.

“I’m resting in my room,” came the reply.

“Well, I’m going to write some letters. Call me when supper is ready.”

“I will, dear Comtesse.”

Once in her room Helène commenced packing her belonging quietly, but rapidly. It took but a little time and the trunk locked, she carefully moved it, inch by inch, until she had succeeded in placing it at the head of the back staircase where the maid’s Hermann would be sure to find it.

At the supper table, Helène told Anna of her encounter with Herr Kauffner. She treated the matter lightly and in a way that would not offend Anna. But, to Helène’s surprise, Anna was most indignant with the man.

“The idea!” she exclaimed. “I’ll tell that gentleman something that’ll keep him away. That man marry my darling—why it’s preposterous!”

“Let’s forget all about it, Anna dear. Shall I play you some of your favorite songs?”

And without waiting for her assent she sat down at the piano. But Anna was not to be restrained. She loved to have Helène play for her, but her indignation took a long time cooling, and Helène could hear her muttering as she busied herself clearing the table: “Preposterous! The idea! I never heard such impudence!”

Anton Schreiber came in all smiles for Helène, but she felt too ashamed to look at him. She stopped playing and was about to rise and leave the room, when he begged her to go on. She pleaded weariness, however, and, excusing herself, retired to her room. The two, she thought, would be better left alone; it would give them an opportunity to become reconciled with each other.

In her bedroom she was again a prey to anxiety. What would she do in Munich? To whom could she go there? She thought of Morton and wondered where he was. He believed her to be still at Weimar, for she had written him but once since they had parted—a simple acknowledgment of his birthday-gift. She had promised to let him know if ever she was in need of a friend, and surely she was in such need now! Should she write to him? Torn by anxiety and pride she knew not which way to decide. After much reflection she concluded there could be no harm in letting him know that she had left the castle. Taking pen and paper she began; but it was only after several attempts and with many misgivings of heart that she finally decided to send the following:

“Dear Mr. Morton:

“I have left the home offered me by the Duchess of Saxe-Weimar. I was too unhappy there. I tried most earnestly to become reconciled to my surroundings, but the dull routine of the empty life of the Court, the heartlessness of its people, were more than I could bear.

“I have now decided to try to find my own proper place in the world—to get some occupation in which I can be happy and, at least, be free to live my own life. I have not forgotten my promise to you not to take a serious step without consulting you, but I am sure you will agree that I have acted for the best.

“The letters of my father which Mr. Tyler gave me only deepen the feelings of gratitude your kindness aroused in me. I know everything now and I must ever honor the man who proved himself so noble a friend. If I do not ask your advice now before deciding it is because I know too well what you would do—and I cannot again burden you with my sorrows.

“Please forgive me if I seem proud. I ask only for time, in which to plant my feet on firm ground and, perhaps, find some peace.

“I have taken some of the money Mr. Tyler gave me, so that I shall not be in want. What other poorer girls can do I can.

“I shall write you again in the autumn when my year of mourning for my dear father is over. Until then, think of me as kindly as you can and believe that I am obeying an inner voice which commands me.

“Believe me, Dear Mr. Morton,

“Very gratefully yours,

“Helène Rondell-Barton.”

The letter took a long time writing and had cost Helène many a heartache and not a few tears. She had been filled with doubts even while writing it. It was so easy to shift her burden, and this man would have accepted it gladly. But how would she seem in his eyes in that case? How could she accept such a service from one who had already served her so abundantly? What right had she thus to call on him? No—the letter was best. She felt more at ease with herself, more determined in spirit, more resolute of purpose, stronger in will, now that it was written.

Early the next morning she packed her few remaining possessions in a small valise and, after leaving a short note for Anna, crept out of the house and made her way to the railway station where she mailed the letter to Morton. She waited until the butcher’s boy had brought her trunk and took a second-class ticket for Hanover, where in due time she arrived.

An official at the railway station of whom she inquired after a hotel recommended the “Hanover.” Here she obtained a comfortable room and after satisfying her hunger she sat down by its window in the dark to think out a plan of action for the following day.

She sat for a long time looking out on to the brilliantly lit avenue with its display of the city’s night life and wondered what place she could fill in it. It was a new world to her—a bewildering world—even a terrifying world. She must now mix in it—play her part in it unprepared and unaided. Her heart sank at the thought. And this was what was meant by life! This was what thousands of girls had to face! Well, she would face it, too, and do her best. If others could succeed, why not she? And if she failed—but she would not think of that. She would not, must not fail. She would begin by going to an employment agency and offer herself for a position as governess. She knew French, German and English—these were not common accomplishments and, surely, they were wanted and would be paid for!

But what a change from her life in Roumelia! Ah, beloved Roumelia! She pictured the Rosen’s home in Padina—the last real home she had known. It brought Morton back to her mind. Involuntarily, she closed her eyes to the lights without, so that she could be alone with her image. Had he meant all that was implied in his last words? Or had he but used similar words to her that he had spoken to other girls he knew? No, no, no, she could not believe that. He was not that kind of a man. Her father had said of him that he was true and noble, and her father, a wise man and of great experience, knew men well. It was wrong in her to doubt him.

“I must leave the rest,” she whispered softly, “in God’s good hands. Until, then, good-bye, my knight.”

Thus, greatly encouraged and with a mind calmed and at rest, she lay down and slept the happy sleep of those who feel they are loved.

CHAPTER XXI

TRUE to her resolve, Helène called the next morning at the “Agentur für Gouvernanten,” the address of which she found in a directory at the hotel. The experience was a disappointing one. The official gave her a form to fill out for her name, address, accomplishments and references. The registration fee was six marks, payable in advance.

As she had no references to give, since she did not wish any of her friends to know where she was, she filled in the form without the references.

Helène began to realize that finding a situation might take a much longer time than she had expected. She, therefore, decided to leave the expensive hotel and take a room at a modest pension. She was soon accommodated and spent her days mainly in reading and answering the advertisements in the daily papers and the “Teacher’s Journal.” On two occasions she received replies requesting her to call, but nothing came of her visits—she could give no references. She persevered, however, convinced that something would turn up some day.

The days lengthened and the snow had disappeared altogether from the streets. In the park, where she loved to take her walks on sunny afternoons, the keepers were busy cleaning up the grass plots and planting flowers. The trees were beginning to burst into foliage; the leaf buds of the lindens were swelling; the birches began to show their pretty little pussy-tails and the sparrows and starlings were twittering their first spring songs. The faces of the people she met took on expectant and hopeful expressions.

One beautiful, sunny morning she received a letter from a Frau Professor Heimbach, asking her to call in response to her application for a governess for her two children. The Frau Professor lived on the second floor in Hegel Strasse.

Helène had no doubt she had at last succeeded in getting what she had been hoping for. She was so overjoyed that, for the first time in months, she sang while eating her breakfast. She arrayed herself in her best clothes and set out looking the very incarnation of the lovely spring weather.

Hegel Strasse looked like the very place in which a Frau Professor might live. It was in a very respectable neighborhood and the house itself a faded remnant of a one-time dignified and imposing structure.

With a beating heart Helène ascended the unadorned, cold stairway and pulled the bell-knob below the brass-plate which indicated that Professor Albert V. Heimbach, Ph.D., lived within. She could hear in the distance the shrill tinkling sound of the bell. After what seemed to her an eternity the door opened and an unkempt maid with a red upturned nose appeared. To Helène’s request to see the Frau Professor, the servant made no reply, but looked her over very carefully from head to feet. The inspection appeared to be satisfactory, for the girl nodded and beckoned to Helène to come in.

At the end of the narrow entresol and sharply outlined against the bright light which came from a distant room, Helène saw a tall, slender woman approaching.

“What is it you wish, Madame?” she inquired of Helène.

Helène explained that she had come in response to the Frau Professor’s advertisement for a governess.

“Come into the room, and be seated.”

In the increased light of the sitting-room Helène faced a tired and somewhat faded woman, still young, but of a most meagre appearance, and painfully flat-chested, with pale bluish eyes and thin bloodless lips. The close fitting bodice of her dress accentuated the length of a thin neck which stuck up from her shoulders and seemed as if it were a stalk bearing the small head above it. She spoke in cold, knife-edgy tones.

“Have you had any experience as a governess of children, Fräulein?”

“No—Frau Professor—but....”

“Pardon me, Fräulein—answer only my question, if you will be good enough. Have you any references from your pastor, or the Council of your district?”

“No, gnädige Frau Professor.”

“Do you feel yourself competent to teach my two children the subjects of the North German School curriculum?”

“I think I am quite competent. I am fond of children and....”

“Pardon me, I did not ask you for that information. Have you ever taught children?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Where?”

“At Gratz—I assisted the Sisters of the Holy Heart.”

“What are your accomplishments?”

“I speak French very well—also English. I play the piano, draw and paint a little and can embroider and sew.”

The Frau Professor’s face seemed as if it might have been touched by a faint interest—it almost smiled. Painting and embroidering were evidently desirable qualities. She had kept her feet crossed during the examination but she now separated them and displayed a pair of shabby shoes sadly down at heel. Leaning forward she examined the very young applicant carefully but not unkindly.

The door leading to an adjoining room, just at that moment, slowly opened, and after a few moments Helène saw a curly-headed, blue-eyed little girl stretch its head into the room. The mother turned quickly and called out: “Close the door, Emilie—you must not be inquisitive.” The child disappeared instantly. Helène felt sorry to see her go—her heart had gone out to the dear little thing.

The interruption seemed to have acted on the Frau Professor as a reminder of her position. She leaned back and folding her arms gazed for a long time at Helène’s face and clothes with a dreamy look in her eyes. Finally, she seemed to make up her mind and began to speak, at first hesitatingly and then more firmly:

“Fräulein, will you let me tell you something—something which I believe you will thank me for hereafter? You are looking for a position as governess in a family. By your own admission you have had no experience in such work and cannot furnish testimonials.”

Helène turned pale and then reddened.

“I want to be perfectly frank with you,” resumed the thin lady; “I admit that your accomplishments, your appearance and your manners are greatly in your favor; but you are seeking for employment in the wrong direction, Fräulein.”

“Oh, Frau Professor,” cried Helène eagerly, “I can learn; and I am so anxious to please. I would love to teach your children, and I am sure they would like me. I shall try to make them like me. Won’t you just give me a trial, please?”

The Frau Professor’s brow clouded and her face turned a brick-red color. With an effort she seemed to be suppressing her feelings. Then, laying a hand on Helène’s gloved ones, she bent over and in a softened voice said:

“My child, you cannot and should not expect that from me. Ten years ago when I married I was a blooming, fresh girl like you are, though, perhaps, not quite so attractive. Look at me now. See what those ten years have done for me.”

She stood up and stretched out her arms. It was a pathetic gesture.

“My husband is a kind and good man. He has his work to do and his studies. But the romance of his life—so far, at least as I can affect it, has gone out of him. Look at me and you will see what the drudgery of household duties, the care of children, the worry of making both ends meet, have made of me. My youth has departed from me, and with it have gone all the joy I have known and all the beauty I ever possessed.

“Do you expect that I should bring a beautiful young being like you into my home? Why, my dear, your presence would be a daily reminder to me, and to my husband, of my helplessness and futility. I could not compete with you. And there is not a woman in Hanover who would dare risk it. I am not doubting you. I am sure you are good and pure. But we are all fighting to keep the little flame of our husband’s admiration still burning in his heart for us. It is so small that it would die, oh, so easily if ... ah, my dear Fräulein, it is impossible.

“Take my advice and marry some good young man. Or, if you must find an occupation, look for it where women do not rule. Forgive me for my plain speaking; I do not mean to pain you. Were I a great lady with a magnificent household and many servants, I would engage you without a moment’s hesitation. As it is, it is out of the question. I ask your pardon, Fräulein Barton, and wish you a good morning and good luck.”

Helène knew not how she found herself in the street, but the sunshine seemed as if it had been washed from the sky suddenly as by a soiled rag. She walked mechanically, her heart numb, her brain dulled, without knowing where she was going. She had but one conscious feeling—to hide herself, to be alone. At the corner of the street she hailed a ’bus and shrank into its remotest corner. She allowed it to pass her pension; she would go into the park and sit there and think over what she should do. There at least she would not be molested. The trees and birds and children would not chide her.

In a quiet circular spot edged with boxwood she found a seat on a bench in a sunny corner where the tender green of the shrubbery spoke of a reawakened life. The sparrows hopped about her for the cake crumbs she threw them. It was too early in the season for the nurse maids and their perambulators and only occasionally a park gardener would pass along the walk wheeling his barrow of turf or soil and leaving behind him the fresh scent of earth.

Helène sat in a pathetic mood, too depressed to think. Her encounter with the world had stunned her, and she found herself utterly at a loss how to renew the attack. Suddenly, she heard the crunching sound of quick, firm foot-treads on gravel. Turning her head in the direction of the sound she saw a tall, fine-looking woman coming straight towards her. As she approached nearer, Helène noticed that she was young and neatly dressed in a smart tailor-made costume which set off to advantage a splendid, though rather stout figure. She recalled now that she had seen this young woman in the rooms of the Arts and Crafts Exhibition, and had admired her freedom and grace of movement, so unlike that of the other women. Evidently she was a foreigner.

In passing, the lady gave Helène a smile of recognition; then stopping suddenly, as if on a second thought, she turned back and went up to where Helène was sitting.

“Do you mind my sitting here?” she asked with a smile.

Helène was so surprised at being spoken to by her that she could only nod her assent. She passed her gloved hand quickly over her face to wipe away the tears that had fallen unbidden.

“Don’t mind me, Fräulein. I know how you feel. I’ve been in trouble myself.”

Helène looked up and met two kindly brown eyes looking in sympathetic admiration into hers. The face, with its healthy coloring and expression of good nature, drew her in spite of herself. She could not resist its strong appeal. Smiling bravely, she said:

“I am in trouble; but I feel ashamed of my weakness in giving way. Thank you for your sympathy.” And rising, she made as if to go.

But the other put a restraining hand on her arm.

“Please, don’t let me drive you away. I’m a stranger here. Won’t you sit awhile for a chat. I think I saw you at the Art Exhibit. My name is Margaret Fisher. I am an American and am here on business. Don’t be frightened, I can assure you I’m a perfectly proper person. I may be able to help you, if you will let me, Fräulein.”

“You are very good,” replied Helène, reseating herself. “I, too, am a stranger here. This is my first visit to Hanover. My name is Helène—Helène Barton.”

“Helène—what a pretty name! Then you are not a native, though you talk like one. Well, I’m not looking for information, thank goodness. Are you staying long here, Miss Barton?”

“For a few weeks only. Both my parents were German born, but I know no one in this city.”

“Then you are alone and an orphan, just like myself. Well, we should be friends, then.” She drew a tiny watch from her belt. “It’s past twelve; won’t you come and take lunch with me? I should enjoy having you.”

“Thank you. I shall be delighted. Do you live near?”

“I’m staying at the Metropole. I suppose you live in a pension. Much better; but I’m only a transient—here to-day, gone to-morrow.”

“Yes, I live at a pension; but I often go out for my lunch.”

“Good, then we’ll go to the Park restaurant. It’s nice and quiet there, and we can have a good talk. You needn’t be afraid to come. I’m big enough to chaperon you.”

Helène laughed happily. It was so comforting to hear her friendly, soft, confident voice.

“You certainly look as if you could take care of yourself, Miss Fisher.” The two laughed as they walked towards the restaurant.

The good luncheon which Miss Fisher ordered proved an excellent solvent for Helène’s state of mind, and Miss Fisher herself knew well how to break down any barriers of restraint that might still remain. It was evident that she wanted to help this young and beautiful girl in distress, and when a woman of Margaret Fisher’s temperament makes up her mind, there is nothing that will stop her.

It was not long, therefore, before Helène had unbosomed herself of all her anxieties and told her new-found friend of the difficulties which she had encountered in her efforts to find some occupation. Miss Fisher looked at her admiringly with tender, motherly eyes.

“Poor dear!” she exclaimed, “I know all about it. I’ve been through it myself. My father was a German—his people lived near Hanover, which is one of the reasons why I am here. My business brought me to Europe and I took the opportunity to look them up. I am the head of a high-class dressmaking and millinery establishment in New York, Madame Lucile’s, and I came on a buying trip. I’m going back next week—as soon as the new models are ready for me.”

“It must be splendid to be so capable as you are,” Helène remarked with a sigh of regret.

“Ah, but you don’t get there, my dear Miss Barton, without a great deal of heart-breaking work. It’s not so easy as it looks.” Miss Fisher’s face clouded a little as if recalling an unpleasant past, but her face resumed its bright and alert expression almost before the shadow had left it. She looked at Helène’s beautiful countenance for a long time and then suddenly she said:

“Won’t you let me help you? You are too young and too pretty to fight this battle alone. It will make me happy, if you will. I have lots of money—my firm pays all the expenses.”

“You are more than kind, dear Miss Fisher. Thank you. I know you mean well; but I’ve some money of my own. I’m not so helpless as all that.”

Helène spoke with her gentle and distinguished courtesy, smiling charmingly at the same time.

“My dear—let me call you Helène, won’t you?—thank you. You see I’m much older than you are, both in years and experience of life. We’ll drop the subject for the while; but let’s stick together so long as I’m in Hanover, shall we?”

“I shall be only too pleased. You are so encouraging and so—strong. You make me feel very hopeful.”

“That’s all right. We’ll just go about and see the sights. Maybe we’ll think something out before my week is up.”

They spent the afternoon together, and Helène promised her new friend to call on her that evening at her hotel to look over the purchases she had made.

The evening provided a rare experience for Helène. Miss Fisher showed her a collection of wonderful laces, ribbons, trimmings, jets and ornaments which had been acquired for the New York market. What impressed Helène more, however, was the quick decisive manner with which Miss Fisher explained everything; the nimble hands which displayed the articles to their best advantage; the ready words which fell from her lips in praise of their qualities. Helène had never imagined a woman could be so capable, and at the same time so jolly and witty.

Miss Fisher, in her turn, had not failed to observe in her shrewd way, how quickly Helène assimilated the information, and how alert the girl’s mind showed itself, in spite of its natural reserve. The remarks, too, she let fall evinced a taste and judgment quite rare. She insisted on taking Helène to her pension in a cab, and promising to look in on her in her exile, as she put it, left her in a happier state of mind than she had known in many a day.

Miss Fisher returned to her hotel in a very thoughtful mood. She knew enough of life to guess that her young acquaintance was a gently nurtured girl of a refined family, unhappily thrown upon her own scant resources, and in danger of being wrecked on the rocks. Her beauty, her gentle ways and voice, the pure, simple mind she had shown, all had made an indelible impression on her and had won her completely. She made up her mind to befriend her.

The next morning Helène was surprised to realize how eagerly she was looking forward to Miss Fisher’s coming. The short acquaintance, so unusually begun, had so quickly ripened under the benign influence of the American girl’s way of doing and saying things that Helène was quite conquered. It was all so novel and yet so humbly pleasant that she wished it would go on always.

This was the first of a number of meetings between the two. Miss Fisher sounded Helène, and soon became convinced she was really in earnest. She did not probe too deeply into the girl’s family history—only just enough to find that her judgment had been correct. She learned that Helène could speak English—and what a charming English it was, too! She was sure Madame Lucile would be delighted with her. She would be a real acquisition to the business, she felt convinced of it.

“See here, my dear,” she said suddenly on one of their walks, “why not come with me to New York? You tell me you have neither friends nor relatives and not even an admirer—so there’s nothing to keep you here. Come with me, and I’ll see that you get a position. New York is a beautiful city with more opportunities for a girl than any other place in the world. You needn’t be afraid; I’ll look after you. We can have a little apartment together and live the jolliest of lives. You are a born artist, as I saw from your drawings and sketches. I am sure you’ll get a good position with the people I’m with. Will you come? Say the word, and we’ll fix it up.”

Helène’s big blue eyes opened wide in astonishment at her friend’s words.

“Do you really mean it? Can I really do the things you say?”

“Of course you can,” and she put her arms around Helène and kissed her. “We’ll be a couple of the happiest girls in Manhattan. And no man shall come between us, either, miss—do you hear? Oh, I’m so happy.” And Miss Fisher forgot her dignity and jumped again. “I can just see Madame Lucile’s expression when she sees you. I’ll tell her I’ve brought the cleverest designer of hats in Europe—the peer of modistes! And won’t Miss Foucher, the head trimmer, stare! Hooray.”

It did not take Miss Fisher long to make all the necessary arrangements for the voyage. She had Helène’s berth engaged, a steamer trunk at her lodgings and a quantity of necessary purchases made in less time than it would have taken Helène even to think about them. The money she spent seemed enormous to Helène.

“Never mind, my dear. These things cost far more in New York, where you’ll want them—and you’re saving money by buying them here. It’s dollars in New York—not marks. Just you leave it to me.”

Helène looked on aghast and could make no answer. Miss Fisher had told her she was “some shopper,” and she had certainly not exaggerated. The way she made the clerks skip about sent the cold shivers down Helène’s spine. By dusk every article had been arranged for, and there was now nothing to do but wait until the next morning’s train, which would take them to Bremen.

As this was to be the last evening before sailing, Miss Fisher proposed a “blow-out.” They’d have dinner together and go to the opera. With Miss Fisher, to propose was to act. The dinner was most enjoyable, and the opera, “Romeo and Julietta,” neither of them had ever heard, so that they had, as Miss Fisher put it afterwards, “the time of their life.”

As they parted for the night, they decided to pay a visit to the park in the morning and have luncheon in the restaurant there, for old time’s sake, before taking the train.

The day opened cold and blustering. But Margaret saw in it a good omen. “Leave in rain and arrive in sunshine,” she quoted from some hidden recess in the treasury of her knowledge. But it didn’t prevent them shivering in the park.

“Wait until we get to New York. That’s the place for sunshine, if you like. And not only sunshine, my dear Helène, but a sunny life.”

To Helène, Bremen was a most bewildering place. If it had not been for Margaret she would never have known where to go or what to do first. But Margaret knew everything. She saw that the tickets were correct, saw to the tickets for the dock at Bremerhaven, had their baggage carefully labeled and checked and wound up at the big steamer as fresh as when they had left Hanover. Immediately they boarded the vessel Margaret saw to the stateroom, found out which side of the ship was the sunny side and had their deck chairs marked and placed there. She saw the chief steward and arranged with him for good seats at the dining table; she found the stewardess who was assigned to their cabin and came to a satisfactory understanding with her also.

“You see, my dear Helène,” she explained to the now utterly bewildered girl, “we’re going to live on this boat for eight days. We’d better be comfortable while we are here. We might be good sailors, and then we might not. You never know. So it’s best to be on the safe side. If either of us get seasick now, that stewardess will look after us.”

The great foghorn sent out a roaring sound that seemed to Helène loud enough for the whole world to hear. Clumsily, at first, the big ship moved, and then, as she gathered headway, steamed out into the gray expanse of the seeming boundless sea. Helène gazed with bated breath and beating heart at the fast receding land. There was no turning back now. She had indeed burned her bridges. How would she fare in this new land to which she was sailing?

A strong arm slipped round her waist and a warm hand clasped hers in a firm, motherly grip. Margaret had seen the expression on the poor girl’s face and had come to give her comfort.

“Have no fear, dear, all will be well.”

Helène let her head fall on her friend’s ample breast and looked up to the soft brown eyes that were so kind in their meaning.

“You are a great comfort, dear friend. I shall always love you, Margaret.”

The voyage was calm and uneventful. The weather was fine all the way and they enjoyed the eight days on the Atlantic as though they were two school-girls out on a vacation. On the morning of the eighth day the good ship steamed majestically up the Bay and landed the girls on the Jersey shore, from whence Helène had a river view of New York.

But the impressiveness of that sight was nothing to her to the noise and rush of the city itself when she found herself being carried rapidly on the street railroad. A feeling of terrible depression came over her. It was all so dirty, so uncouth, so raw. From all sides came clanging of bells, shrieking of whistles, raucous cries. A wretched drizzle was falling from a leaden mist of sky. The people hustled and jostled each other, hot and steaming from under waterproofs and umbrellas. They seemed an endless stream of humanity coming apparently from nowhere and going anywhere and everywhere.

But to Margaret it was glorious. She sniffed the raw, damp air and her cheeks glowed.

“Oh, but it’s good to be back! My proverb didn’t hold out! We landed on a wet day after all. Well, never mind. It’ll rain sunshine to-morrow. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no, Margaret. I think it’s wonderful.” What traffic! What life! Her voice was drowned in the thunder of trains rushing over their heads. They were traveling along the avenue towards Margaret’s rooms. Helène marvelled how the people could bear up under such dreadful noises. Surely their senses must get dulled and deadened in time! They crossed Broadway at the risk of their lives, as it seemed to her, but Margaret had Helène by the hand and laughed aloud. Soon they entered a quiet square in the center of which was a little park shut in by iron railings. Margaret explained that this was Gramercy Park where she lived.

Ascending the brown stone steps of a house near the entrance to the square, Margaret pressed the bell button. The door had barely opened when a loud, glad exclamation greeted the two girls.

“Oh, Miss Fisher, I am so glad to see you.”

“Hello, Jane! How are you? How’s Mrs. Kane? Well? Ah, that’s good. Tell her I’ve brought a friend who is going to stay with me. My room’s ready, I suppose? Good. Well, we’re going upstairs, but we’ll be down for lunch. I’ll be glad to see Mrs. Kane if she can come up.”

Then turning to Helène she smiled:

“Come along up, Helène. Our things won’t be here for some time; but we’ll get along somehow.”

Soon they were joined by the landlady, a pleasant-faced, middle-aged little woman with a gentle voice and manner. She greeted Margaret affectionately and shook hands with Helène on being introduced to her.

“My friend will stay with me, Mrs. Kane, if you don’t mind, until you can find her a room. Have you one free?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher, but it’s only the hall bedroom on this floor. Will it do?”

“Of course it will. Fix it up for her, there’s a dear.”

The landlady left, casting admiring glances at Helène.

“Helen, dear—it’s to be Helen now, no French edgings here, you know. Are you happy?”

Helène for answer went up to Margaret and putting her arms around her neck laid her head on the tall girl’s breast.

“You are too good to me, Margaret.”

Margaret was deeply moved.

“Who could help being good to you, my dear,” she said, stroking Helène’s hair.

When night came and Helène laid her tired head on the soft pillow of her bed in the little hall-room, she breathed a prayer of deep gratitude. Mr. Morton was right. His country was God’s own country. Then into her heart crept a feeling of sweet gladness. Perhaps—she would meet him again—her knight, sans peur et sans reproche. And, smiling, she slept.

CHAPTER XXII

JOHN MORTON walked the windy deck of the ship as though he were tramping all the way to Europe. He counted the throbbings of the great engine and the turns of the screws, so anxious and impatient was he. The hours were like days and the days like weeks.

Two months had passed since he had placed Helène in Mr. Tyler’s care, and those two months had left their marks on him. They had changed him from an adventurous, happy young fellow into a sober, thoughtful man. But while his brow had become lined his heart still preserved its faith and hope. He had made up his mind that he would seek out Helène and marry her at once, if she would have him. During his enforced absence in America he experienced so overwhelming a desire that he could scarce restrain himself from throwing everything up to satisfy his heart’s cravings for a mere sight of her lovely face. In his thoughts she stood out, by day and by night, as a thing for reverence and worship.

Surely, by this time Don would have traced her; and he pictured to himself the very place he would meet her, how he would greet her, the lovely face as it would look in response to his pleadings.

In Liverpool, disquieting telegrams and letters awaited him. No trace of the Comtesse. The Princess wrote to say that she knew nothing of Helène’s whereabouts. She had left a short note on leaving Weimar, but it contained no reference to where she was going. She had drawn some money out of the bank, and that was all she could learn there. Her maid knew nothing definite.

Mr. Tyler had written in like manner. The police of Dresden, Munich, Berlin and Vienna had been communicated with, but with no results. Detectives had been employed to no purpose. Helène seemed to have disappeared from off the face of the earth.

“The idiots!” muttered John in anger, “they couldn’t find the Great Pyramid in a ten-acre lot.”

At Weimar he spent hours going over everything with Donald; but what that faithful servitor reported served only to deepen the mystery. One thing, however, was clear—Helène had left in a very unhappy state of mind.

He wrote an urgent note to the Princess requesting an interview. The interview was a painful one to both. The Princess broke down and bemoaned her bitter fate—her inability to protect her friend. She told him the whole story of the scene in the reception-room and its cause.

Faugh! The thing was nauseating to John. What a Court! What people these princelets were! He guessed instinctively that it was Witherspoon who was responsible for the article. He would settle with that fellow another time. He left the Princess feeling no great respect for her courage, and more resolved than ever to leave no stone unturned.

And now he began a systematic hunt, on his own account, throughout almost all Europe. Advertisements were printed in the principal newspapers. Police records and hotel registers examined, detectives employed. Blue-eyed girls who read Helène’s description in the advertisements dreamed thrilling romances and envied the maid who, no doubt, was the heiress to some enormously rich uncle. Girls with gray eyes thought them blue and weaved tales of a Prince Charming coming to set them free. Old maids sighed and old men smiled. But, with all the interest that was excited, and despite the lavish expenditure of money, the real Helène remained undiscovered.

Weeks went by and Morton became very anxious. He grew nervous and restless. As he walked the streets he would examine every young woman he passed with quick, furtive glances in the vain hope that one of them might be Helène.

He consulted with Mr. Tyler frequently and that wise man told him not to worry. The girl herself, he felt sure, would write to him. John clung desperately to this suggestion. He began calculating the time it would take a letter to get back to him from America should she have written him there. Judge Lowell had his instructions and would cable him immediately on its receipt. The thought calmed him greatly and he thanked Tyler. He would wait in Weimar until the end of February, by which time he reckoned a letter might arrive in Cleveland.

Tyler’s judgment was justified. On the twenty-seventh Morton received a cable from his lawyer informing him that a letter from Germany had been received and asking for instructions. He promptly cabled back to open the letter and wire him the whereabouts of the writer.

The answer came: “Party left for place not given. Intends to remain hidden for some time. Is well. Promises to write in good time. Copy mailed. My advice not to worry. Family all well.”

There was nothing to do now but to wait. His fears, it is true, were allayed, but how long would it he before he would hear from her again? And what should he do meanwhile? On referring his perplexity to Tyler, that sensible man suggested that he should take a trip around Germany and look up his old haunts. He decided to do this.

As there was now nothing which should keep McCormick in Weimar, he sent him home, there to await further orders. He himself went to Bonn, his Alma Mater, and from there to Munich, where he renewed his acquaintance with an assistant professor of philosophy, whom he found happily married. This last visit did him great good. The peaceful home of his old tutor, where he stayed a few days, acted beneficially on his nerves and gave him a taste of genuine happiness which lasted him for many days.

But his restlessness returned. He could not reconcile himself to patient waiting. His thoughts of Helène, who was never entirely out of his mind, were charged with anxiety about her welfare. She was so inexperienced, so young, so beautiful that he felt she would never be able to fight her way alone. He knew how cruel the world could be to one of her sensitive nature.

Obeying an irresistible impulse he suddenly took a train for Vienna. It was there he had last seen Helène. He stayed at the Bristol and idled his time wandering aimlessly round the city pleasing himself with the memories the place recalled. The son of Dan Morton the pioneer was no longer the hard-headed man of business. He had become nature’s child—the young male longing for his mate. His mother was right; there was more of the idealistic Randolphs than of the practical Mortons in him. At the same time, his training made him chafe because he could not accomplish what he had set his mind on so determinedly. Then the humor of the situation struck him and he laughed aloud. It was a saving grace of a laugh; for it brought back his common sense.

That evening, for the first time in many a day, he dressed and went to the opera. He listened to “Romeo and Julietta,” played by the splendid company of the Imperial Court. He had an entrancing time. Juliet was Helène and he Romeo. If only some kind-hearted fairy could have whispered to him that the same strains which were moving him to so exquisite a response would, later, stir her heart strings in like wise! But fairies have been banished from our sophisticated world. Only children see them and hold communion with them now.

From Vienna Morton went to Berlin and spent a few days with the Tylers. They were glad to see him looking so well and seeming more contented. “Youth is a wonderful gift,” thought the old diplomatist, while his wife could not resist saying to her husband: “What a pity the girl is so silly.”

At last the long-looked-for letter arrived. John read and reread it a dozen times, devouring every word and examining each single sentence for some hint for which his heart asked. He saw nothing to make him anxious, but he realized now that he must respect her resolutions. He gave up all further inquiries and search and returned to New York, quietly resolved and happily content to wait her own sweet pleasure. The fates would be kind to him, he was sure.

When Morton returned to America, he found that his mother and sister had gone South. He was not sorry they were away, since it left him free to give his entire thoughts and energies to the business—work, downright hard work was the best medicine for a mind distracted as his was. With Morton-like enthusiasm he plunged into the maelstrom of the many interests of his vast estates. He was at the office from morning until, often, late in the evening, consulting, directing, financing and operating. He took to the game like a duck to water, and found a new interest in its many-sided activities, and a new enjoyment in meeting the men who were playing the game either with him or against him. He was a king ruling a mighty empire, the safety and integrity of which depended largely on his wise judgment and decisive action. The experience ripened him.

It was during this period that a letter came from Mr. Tyler informing him that the Comtesse’s maid, Josephine, had heard from her aunt, Anna Schreiber, in Altenberg, giving important news concerning her mistress. It appeared that Helène, after leaving the Weimar Court, had stayed with her old nurse for some weeks in the quiet little suburb. Helène had exacted a promise from her nurse not to disclose her whereabouts; but now that she had suddenly left her, Anna had written to her niece to know if the Comtesse had returned to Weimar. Tyler had immediately gone to Altenberg to find out further details. He learned from Mrs. Schreiber that Helène had left a note stating that she was going to Munich; but on inquiry at the railway station he was told that no ticket for Munich had been sold on the day Helène had left. He concluded by assuring Morton that he would let him know if he learned anything of importance.

The receipt of this letter from Tyler threw John back into his old state of anxiety and restlessness. He absented himself from the office and spent the time alone in his study brooding over what he should do.

His business associates could not understand him. They had begun to admire the young man, and had thought him a chip of the old block. He had taken the reins with masterly hands and had proved himself a worthy successor to the old man. But this sudden change puzzled them.

With the approach of Easter Mrs. Morton and Ruth returned and John joined them in a quiet hotel on the avenue. The first breath of spring brought him the news that Helène had been in Hanover, but had left quite suddenly, no one knew where. Mr. Tyler, who sent the information, wound up his letter by advising John to give up troubling himself about the girl. “It is evident,” he wrote, “that she doesn’t want you to find her. Give up this useless hunt and sit down calmly and wait until she fulfills her promise to write to you.”

John smiled sadly as he read the well-meant advice. It was all very easy to write those words, but to act on them was not quite so simple. However, he made up his mind.

That evening he dined at his club and utterly surprised his friends by his liveliness and change of manner. They didn’t recognize the Morton who chatted to them in this free and easy way and told amusing stories with the rest. It was his first plunge into a sea of dissipation in which he swam as the mood seized him, which it not unfrequently did. In a short time, he was eagerly welcomed as “a sport” by those who considered themselves of that select order of beings. He went in for horses and fine carriages; gave sumptuous dinners, attended race meetings, and became the envy of the idle and the admiration of the foolish. Well might his business friends wonder what had come over John R. Morton!

His mother and sister were among the first to notice the alteration in him. It distressed them deeply. The two held a council of war and came to the conclusion that John needed a change. Mrs. Morton suggested a trip to Japan or papa’s hobby to convert the home on the Hudson into a Versailles, or a yacht.

But Ruth, with the wisdom that comes early to American maids, pursed her pretty lips and turned up her impudent little nose at her mother’s ideas.

“No, dear mamma, none of those things will do,” she said decidedly. “John is in love. If he isn’t, he ought to be. What we must do is to get him married.”

Mrs. Morton opened her eyes wide at her daughter’s plain-spoken words. The precocity of the chicken was amusing and yet, it seemed to her, on second thought, that it hit the bull’s eye. The suggestion appealed to her strongly, and the woman in the mother could not resist the prospect of the peculiar pleasure of match-making. Besides, it was time John married. He was the head of the house.

Thus was formed the conspiracy in which two loving women sought to undo all that the object of their affection had been living for. Against such a combination, the strongest man must of necessity be helpless.

The coming of the spring, therefore, found the Mortons opening up their country residence on the Hudson. Officially John was the master, but actually he was a guest with the rest who were invited. The place was ruled by Ruth through her mother.

Every evening when John came from business he would find the house and its magnificent gardens and terraces taken possession of by friends who had been invited for a week or the week-end. Mostly these were young women—friends of Ruth whom she had known in college or had met at different seasons. He was introduced to them all. Some he found interesting, others amusing and others excellent companions at riding, golfing or sailing. Before he had realized it he began to look forward to these afternoons and evenings on the river. The lovely spring weather, too, acted on him like a tonic. He threw off his moroseness and entered into the spirit of the healthy gay life with all the gusto of youth.

Occasionally, he would ask his sister the meaning of all this gayety and entertaining, but that young woman would look at him innocently with round eyes and would answer that she was just giving her friends a good time and having one herself. If he wouldn’t bring his friends, she had to bring hers. And Ruth would leave him not a little puzzled and also not at all displeased that things were as they were.

But if Ruth and her mother had expected that John would fall a victim to the fascinations of one of the many charming girls they had so cleverly placed in his way, they were doomed to bitter disappointment. He took things as he found them and enjoyed himself to the full. But it never went further. The pretty faces and alluring graces only served to remind him more poignantly of “the girl he had left behind him.” Helène’s sweet face, Helène’s blue eyes, Helène’s soft voice, were always in his mind, and if he ever was roused to a tender feeling for one of Ruth’s friends, the vision of Helène would rise up and he would sigh and turn away.

As the season advanced his mother and Ruth realized that their scheme, like many others of “mice and men,” had failed. It vexed Mrs. Morton and she took occasion to vent her feelings to her son.

“John, what’s the matter with you?” she asked, “why are you avoiding the girls who come here?”

John smiled and at once saw the meaning of the house-parties.

“Dear mother, I’m not avoiding them. I’ve had a delightful time, thanks to you and Ruth.”

“But don’t you think, dear, it’s time you settled down?”

“Oh, there’s still time for that. I’m only thirty-three.”

“Your father was married long before he was that age. He used to say that it was to his early marriage that he owed his success.”

“Ah, my dear mother, but you forget he was very lucky. There are not many girls like you in the world.”

His mother smiled and shook her head.

“It’s very nice of you to say that, John, but you know it’s no answer to my question. I am really serious. I want you to get married. I want to see you happy and the father of children. My old arms ache to hold a grandchild.”

The good lady’s eyes filled with tears. John was moved.

“Dear mother, you’re the best mother in the world. I’ll tell you the truth. I have not married because the woman I love is lost to me. I met her in Europe, as I told you, and she has disappeared. I’ve done all I could do to find her, but without success. I am waiting in the hope that I may meet her again.”

“Who is she, John?”

“The most beautiful and the noblest girl in the world.”

Mrs. Morton smiled plaintively and nodded slowly several times.

“Of course, my dear, but who is she? The girl you told me about when you came back?”

“Yes; but please don’t press me for further particulars. When I find her I will tell you. I hope with all my heart she will have me. I know you will love her. All I ask of you, dear mother, is to give me time.”

The good lady was greatly moved by this display of her son’s feelings. It was evident that this love which possessed him was a very serious one. John saw her anxiety and putting his arms round her shoulders, he said:

“Mother, dear, you will love her, too, I know. She is just about Ruth’s age and the loveliest girl God ever created. Won’t you, please, have faith in me? You will not be disappointed. If I can wait, surely, you can. Now, dear, just dry your eyes and believe that I know what is best for my happiness.”

She had to let the matter rest there. She told Ruth it was useless for them to go on with their plans, because John had plans of his own. An unfortunate remark to make to Ruth since it acted like a match to the dry tinder of her curiosity. Who was she? What was she? Where was she? Where had he met her? Where was she now? Would she meet her?

To all these questions Mrs. Morton could, of course, give no answer. John had not told her. They must wait his time. He did not himself know where she was. He was hoping to find her.

Ah, then it was a real romance! How fascinatingly interesting! And Ruth, afraid to question her brother herself, gave free rein to her imagination. Nothing but a princess would satisfy her ideas of what her brother deserved. She must be the daughter of one of the Balkan kings, and the lady had to wait until she was called to the throne. She hoped, however, John wouldn’t get mixed up in those wars there. Still, John would know how to handle matters when once they were put up to him. She didn’t mind what happened so long as he would be happy. And, after all, it was fine to have a brother who didn’t run after girls and who gave his sister good times. Thus did Ruth reconcile herself to the inevitable, like the practical philosopher she was.

The summer found the Mortons at Newport. John would come up for week-ends from the city and suffer the boredom of the clubs. The men he met appealed to him not at all; and a man can be no more alone than when with his fellow-men if he declines to live their lives. If, occasionally, he drifted with the rest, he did not drift far. His good sense, his self-esteem and inborn dignity of character prevented him from losing himself in vulgar pleasures or in seeking a cheap notoriety.

The understanding he arrived at with his mother had this one good effect—it recalled him to his better self. He gave up his horses and avoided the “set” he had come to know during his temporary lapse. He went back to his business doubly determined to give it his earnest thought and energies, and the dollars kept rolling in. He became a recognized power in the world of finance and people began to say of him that “he beats the old man.”

But in the quiet of his own room, he would sit of an evening alone engaged in what he smilingly said to himself were “Hellenic studies.” Helène’s photograph—the same he had received from Count Rondell’s hand on that memorable interview on the steamer—was never moved from his study table. The sweet face looked out at him with all the power of its insistent beauty. Why had he not carried her off at Vienna and married her there and then? What a fool he had been!

Now, all he could do was to wait. She had said in her letter that she would write him again a year hence. He read the letter again. No; it said, “when autumn comes.” Ah, well—autumn was not so far off. But oh, if he could but see her for just one minute! He wondered if there was any truth in his friend, Professor Guermot’s theory about thought transference. If only he could send her a telepathic message to say to her: “Helène, Helène, I love you. I am waiting for you, dearest, with my heart in my hand. Time is flying, and I want you—I want you.” Surely, she was somewhere in this wide world where his impassioned thoughts might reach her! Was she happy? Was she well? Perhaps she was in distress and in need! Damn money! Damn fame! If it hadn’t been for that disgusting newspaper everything would have been so different. Fate must have loaded the dice against him, as though she had said to him: “Heads I win, tails you lose.”

CHAPTER XXIII

MARGARET FISHER, the buxom chaperon of Helène Barton, soon settled down to her life in New York as she had planned it with her friend in Hanover. The day following their landing she was again in the spacious rooms of the Modiste establishment known as “Lucile’s,” and, as of old, one of its moving spirits.

As she had predicted, she found it no difficult matter to interest Madame Lucile (a canny Scotchwoman from Glasgow by way of Dublin and London and a two years’ sojourn in “Paree”) in her young protegée. Madame no sooner set her shrewd eyes on Helène than she became at once interested. She realized at a glance the business possibilities in a girl of her refined manners, winning ways and pretty foreign speech. These qualities were certain to subdue the most petulant and exacting of her clients. And when she found that the girl also possessed both an excellent taste in colors and an unusual gift for design, she knew that a treasure had been brought to her.

Helène was installed in a little room at the rear devoted to the assembling of the ornaments for the finishing of those exclusive hats so coveted by the ladies of New York, and it was not long before she became indispensable to this department. Under her deft fingers and with her enthusiastic good taste and happy inspirations, lean old maids would be transformed into blushing “buds,” and faded society leaders of many seasons would reappear as enterprising and yet dignified dames. She knew instinctively when to apply velvet and where to mass flimsy, foamy billows. She knew how to bend the brim of a hat so as to bring out the good feature of a face; she would select just the very sprig of flowers and give just the right droop of plume; and she did it all with such grace, good-will and a winning smile, accentuating her actions with words spoken in so exquisite an accent, that there was no resisting her. Margaret’s prediction came true; the second month brought Helène an increase in her salary, and she became the happy recipient of a hundred dollars a month.

Helène (Madame had rebaptized her with the professional Heloise, Helen not being, in her opinion, sufficiently “French”), Madame Lucile determined, was too valuable to lose. Rather than any rival concern on the avenue should entice her from her she would double the girl’s salary. But, of course, this was only breathed to herself in the secrecy of her private office.

The two girls became closer friends than ever and grew more and more attached to each other. Margaret, in particular, seemed to have found in the younger and more cultured Helène an object for the satisfaction of her maternal instincts. No effort was too great, no care too exacting, if only her little friend was made the happier by it. She timed her lunch hour to coincide with Helène’s; she accompanied her on her shopping expeditions; she would take her away from her designing and bring her home for rest. Rather than Helène should go home alone, she would wait an hour for her. At the Trust Company it was Margaret who opened the bank account in her friend’s name and deposited every Monday the little surplus of wealth. She selected the style of her dresses and the material; she fussed over them, sewed them, fitted and trimmed them. She never tired of admiring the little feet, the pretty hands and the wonderful hair. The dressing of this hair for select occasions was one of Margaret’s chief delights. If her “darling” had a cold or a slight headache, she would nurse and pet her, and be the happier in doing it.

And Helène would accept this devotion laughingly, knowing that it was given in love, and would return that love with sweet and gentle affection. She was very happy both in her work, which was pleasant and interesting, and in their rooms, which were cozy and “homey.”

At the boarding-house Margaret Fisher was a general favorite. Her ready good-humor, her quick wit and her unaffected, if somewhat slangy, speech, always found a ready acceptance and a responsive laugh. She was ever ready with her help and sympathy, willing to listen and equal to a gossip.

Helène—the beautiful, reserved, lily-like maiden—was worshipped by all. From the scullery-maid with the Kerry accent to Mrs. Kane, the kindly autocrat of this little commonwealth, all bowed to her in delighted homage. The women admired her without a taint of jealousy; the two men who lived there reverenced her from afar. She seemed to them like some rare lily that had been transplanted into a city yard.

One of the men was a librarian at one of the city colleges—a ripe, old scholar; the other, a young Baltimorean, of a retiring manner, was struggling as an obscure civil engineer. They considered themselves fortunate to sit at the table and would gaze in awe on the charming young foreigner—perfectly content to behold her across the six feet of tablecloth. If either ventured on a nearer acquaintance, he would find that Miss Fisher had interposed her ample form between them.

Helène had not imparted to her protectress much more of her early life than had transpired at their meeting in Hanover and on the voyage across the ocean. Margaret, in the confidential atmosphere engendered by the close companionship, found the need of telling her friend all about herself. It was a simple tale, but the pathos of it drew a sympathetic response from her listener.

Margaret’s father, an educated German of good family, had come to America during the Civil War. He had been compelled to leave the Fatherland because of his activity in politics of a somewhat republican tendency. In New York he became the city editor of one of the more influential of the German newspapers. It was during this period that he met and married a German girl whose elder brother kept a small jewelry and watch-repairing shop on the East Side. He was a kind-hearted old bachelor and had been Margaret’s earliest admirer and playmate.

It was to this uncle’s home above the store that she and her mother went when her father died. A year after her father’s death, when she was fifteen, Margaret went to work at a dressmaker’s in the neighborhood. They managed to get along very comfortably together. Her uncle was kindness itself and a genius at his trade. There was no style of watch or clock he could not fix up and make keep correct time. He was an expert at chronometer work and was regularly consulted by captains of ships and even by the Navy Yard.

Six years ago, Margaret’s mother died, leaving her alone with her uncle. The old man had aged and grown quite feeble then. He longed to go back to Germany. So strong was this homesickness for his beloved Harz Mountains that the doctor thought it best to urge him to go. He went, promising to come back soon, but he never returned. He died among the pine-clad hills of his birthplace. The little property he left fell to Margaret and became the foundation for the now greatly discussed bank account.

About three years after her mother’s death she met a young man—a decent, quiet fellow, an assistant in a drug-store. She liked him. He dressed well and was very attentive and kind to her. A year later she consented to become engaged to him. They were to be married as soon as his employer had fulfilled his promise to raise his salary and give him a percentage of the business.

She was sure she did not love him; but she was in no doubt that he needed some good, capable girl to look after him. He was rather weak and vacillating; but he was good-looking and any girl would be rather proud to go out with him. Margaret put it that way, because it really expressed her mind. She didn’t see what else men were good for any way, except to be mothered and to walk out with. It was nice for them to take you out, and it felt good to have a man lean on you and come to you for advice and the help that a woman could give him.

Well, things went on very happily for some months and then she noticed that he came less frequently to the house. He would send notes instead, excusing himself for one reason or another. One evening, when she had stayed later than usual at the store to finish some dresses for the Easter season, she went into Krugler’s restaurant, at the corner of Second Avenue, for her supper, and sat down near a slight partition or screen of plants. She had scarcely begun her meal when she heard a familiar voice from the other side of the screen. Peering through the leaves of the palm she saw her Bert seated at a table with a young woman. He had his back to her, but she could hear quite distinctly what he was saying. He was talking in the most endearing words, exactly as he had talked to her. Then she heard the girl remind him of the young lady—the serious girl with the money in bank—she had seen him with. Wasn’t he engaged to be married to her? He passionately protested. It was not true, he said. He only loved her—the girl he was with now. The other couldn’t compare with her. The other was all right, but she had no heart—she was always preaching and talking about getting on. Margaret waited to hear no more. She had heard too much as it was. The next day she returned him the little gifts he had made her, including the engagement ring, and when he called she declined to see him. Since then she did not care to know any man. Of course, Bert was no loss. She knew that now, but she had liked him once. Oh, yes, men were all right in their way; but a girl was far better off not to bother herself about them. She’d get along just as well.

Helène kept a discreet silence as to her own opinions on that subject. She was afraid to trust herself with Margaret, least she might betray her own heart, and Margaret never again broached the subject.

In their promenades together in the city what struck Helène most was the people. Apparently all belonged to the same class. All were so happy, so satisfied and so well dressed. Each seemed to be going about his own business without interference from others and yet everybody was so orderly. It was all so different from what she had been accustomed to in her own country. No poverty, no soldiers, no armed policemen, no officious park keepers, no bowing and scraping before empty authority. Everybody was free to do as he liked and yet everybody seemed pleased to be decent and well-behaved. Even the children were unafraid.

In the park where she and Margaret found such enjoyment in walking or sitting, the children would come up and look their frank admiration at Helène, their eyes bright and their faces wreathed in smiles. To Margaret the little ones crept instinctively. She had such an inviting, motherly look about her that they knew no introduction was necessary for them to be taken into her embracing arms. It did Helène’s heart good to watch Margaret’s keen delight on these occasions.

Helène could have had no wiser guide than this friend proved to be. Margaret Fisher was a genuine native of New York, bred in its peculiar ways of life, which were at once the outcome of sharp competition and bonhomie. She seemed to have the wisdom of the serpent and the innocence of the dove. Her inexhaustible supply of wit, her humorous way of seeing things, her happy, healthy nature, gave everybody who came under her influence a sense of the reasonableness and fitness of things. “You can’t help being in a good humor when Miss Fisher is around,” Mrs. Kane truly said.

In the daily companionship of such a teacher Helène ripened in experience. Without acquiring the slang spoken everywhere about her, she obtained a command of English which was at once smooth and polished, though she never lost her quaintly pretty accent. Her own instinct guided her and her refinement of nature compelled from others a response which avoided the vulgar. People felt they must be different with Helène, so that they chose their words in speaking to her. They felt they must be on their best behavior with her.

Spring grew into summer, the more than benevolent summer of New York. The girls in Madame Lucile’s employ blossomed in colors and gowns befitting the season; but Helène made no change in her own dress. She retained her sombre black despite Margaret’s pleadings and Madame’s hints. And with it all she bloomed like a rare flower amid the commoner plants. Margaret would put on an air of chagrin and talk of the anxiety Helène was to her; but none the less she was exceedingly proud of her protegée. To her friends she would in mock despair say: “What chance has any girl with Helène, I should like to know?”

On their occasional visits to Art Exhibitions or the Museum, the old librarian was proud to act as cicerone. He had become the envy of the rest in the boarding-house, and especially of the young engineer, because of this privilege extended to him. He had even acted as their host on two occasions when they had accepted his invitation to partake of a table d’hôte dinner at a French restaurant.

The Baltimorean listened to the recital of the enjoyment and waited patiently for his turn. He proved a good waiter. On the eve of the Fourth of July, he ventured to ask the two girls to go with him to the beach. Robert McCreedy could hardly believe his ears when his invitation was accepted. He made a careful estimate and concluded that a week’s income would about meet the occasion, and prayed that the day would be fine.

The day broke cloudless with a pitiless sun blazing down. McCreedy was happy. He did not know that the effect of the sweltering heat of the past few days on Helène had more to do with Margaret’s acceptance of the invitation than anything else. He thought that his patience had at last been rewarded; that the implacable duenna had thought it well to permit him a nearer access to the object of his devotions.

To Helène, tired and overcome by the oppressive heat, the day proved a boon and was also an experience of a novel kind. The ride to the Battery; the ferry trip to South Brooklyn; the open, swaying cars of the steam railway to the beach; the beauty of the Long Island landscape; the cool breezes of the rolling ocean—all were new to her and afforded such interest and refreshment that she forgot her weariness of brain and body and gave herself up to the enjoyment with the abandon of a girl. Everywhere were men, women and children on pleasure bent. Everybody seemed happy. She had already learned many a lesson from this wonderful democracy, but none appealed to her so strongly as did this celebration. A great humanity had assembled, as if at the call of some mysterious voice, and here they were laughing, playing, singing, care-free and happy, without a sign or a sound of discord—all members of a national family, as it were. This, indeed, was a new world—new in a sense that her people in Roumelia could never understand. It was a revelation of the human heart, an insight into the meaning of life which was denied to those who have not known true liberty and have not been permitted the free play of their finer natures.

The day came to a close but too quickly for Robert McCreedy. He had spent his wealth gladly and had known a happiness he had never known before. When Margaret, after consulting her watch, announced it was time to go home, he looked his disappointment so openly that Margaret was compelled to laugh.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McCreedy,” she said, “but we must really get back.”

McCreedy knew, from her tone of voice, that there was no appeal. He must content himself with the favor that had been granted him. In the seclusion of his room, later, he relived his happy day. He would see her again to-morrow. Sufficient for the day was this joy thereof. After all, the ice had been broken and some day he might get the opportunity to take her out alone—without that dragon of her friend. Poor fellow! What dreams he permitted himself! In the hour or two before retiring he had become so rich that he was sailing in his own yacht with Helène, happy and radiant, by his side on the deck. And when he slept he dreamed of a magnificent home with splendid salons through which Helène “walked in beauty like the night,” and he by her side.

Margaret had long suspected McCreedy’s state of heart, and had taken care to keep him from Helène as much as possible during the day. As she sat now, with Helène, in their sitting-room, she looked at the girl for a sign of resentment at her manoeuvres. But she saw nothing but the evidences of the happy time she had had.

“What do you think of Mr. McCreedy?” she asked suddenly.

“He’s very nice. He was so kind and attentive, wasn’t he? I hope he didn’t spend more than he could afford.” Margaret smiled. Her lessons in economy had borne fruit in Helène’s mind.

“Oh, I guess he wouldn’t do that.”

“No, perhaps not.”

Helène spoke the last words listlessly. The reference to money sent her mind reflecting on her own life. She was so anxious to save as much money as she could spare. If Mr. Morton should come, she would then be in a position to pay him back all that he had spent on her. And autumn would soon be here, when she must fulfill her promise to write to him. What would he say when he saw her again? Ah—but would he come? Cleveland—eight hundred miles away—did people ever travel that long distance to come to New York? And if he came, he surely would approve!

“Why, honey, you’re not listening to me. I declare you’ve been in a trance for the last five minutes.” Margaret assumed an offended air. Helène started and blushed.

“Now come, what were you thinking of? I have an idea there’s a Count or a Prince buzzing in your little head.”

“Indeed, there is neither Count nor Prince. I was thinking of my old home. I daren’t think of men with a man-hater like you near me.”

“Well, I won’t press you, my dear. But I’m not a man-hater,” and Margaret’s voice softened. “I sometimes think it would do me good to have a man to fuss about and look after. Men are such helpless things. They wobble from one pretty girl to another, and I believe they can’t help it. What they want is some woman to mother them. I really think I would want to mother a man just as I want to take care of babies, and as I love to take care of you, dearie!”

Helène looked at her friend. Poor, lonely Margaret, she thought, God had made her to be a mother. The revelation into her friend’s soul was too sacred to speak about. With instinctive courtesy she changed her tone covering what she had seen with a veil of light words:

“I’m sure, Margy dear, there are men who are not what you call ‘wobblers.’ I haven’t known many, but I’m convinced there are loyal and true men. My father was one.”

“I have no answer to that, Helen. I believe it. But as there are not many girls like you, there cannot be many men like your father was. Well, dear, it’s getting late and we ought to be in bed. To-morrow will be another ‘scorcher,’ and we have the new models to go over. And this weather doesn’t improve the dispositions of the women who want to wear corsets two sizes too small for them—like Madame Lucile does.”

Helène laughed. “Now you are not just to her. I don’t think she does that.”

“Don’t you, sweetheart? Well, never mind, I know better. A woman would be anything rather than fat. Why, even I am sometimes afraid to eat.”

“Oh, Margy, how can you! You are not a bit stout, only big and strong. Everybody admires you, and Madame is always praising your fine figure.”

“You’re an angel, my dear, and wouldn’t hurt the feelings of a tax-collector. Give me a kiss, my dear, and good night.”

“Good night, Margy, and thank you for the happy day.”

It was in such intimate talks that Margaret, the strong, protecting tree to the slender vine, Helène, proved her friendship. In breeding and education the two girls were poles apart, but the native virtues and sterling character in each drew them together in an abiding love. A daughter of the people and a child of an ancient nobility thus met on the ground of their common humanity. With the passing of the days, Helène found new interest in her work and became more accustomed to the new life. Margaret, seeing Helène’s happiness, was happy herself. Sunshine without and contentment within, with not a cloud on the horizon of their lives!

Petty incidents like these may seem unworthy of record; but life is made up of such small happenings. Most of us come into this world and flit more or less swiftly and pleasantly through the playground of our childhood and youth as though it were but the antechamber to some richly furnished parlor. When we enter the longed-for parlor, we find in it labor and sorrow in plenty. We eat, sleep, dream, enjoy ourselves a little and then one day we awaken to the sad reality that we are no longer young. Some kind friend will remark: “Why, your hair is growing gray!” Another will sympathize and say: “Ah, we are not as young as we used to be.” He uses the polite plural, but we know he has a very definite singular in mind. And then comes the day when the roomy arm-chair is inviting, and the favorite ballad which once whispered gladness, now only recalls times long, long past. Then it is that the chatter of youth is a forgotten language; that the faces of women show only the rouge on cheek and lip and not the glorious eye; when an invitation to the dance compels us to the confession, “I am too old to dance,” and to the thought, “did she really want me for a partner?” when our conversation slips into the question, “do you remember?” when the past is our present and the future a dread. Ah, if youth knew the fulfillment of the promises of life, would he or she be gay? It is in our memory that we live, and memory is but the storehouse of little incidents. They are the little colored stones, which form the mosaic background of life. The figures may vary, the genre may change, but the background is always the same.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE halcyon days of that summer were filled with work and innocent enjoyment for Helène and Margaret. The girls were so happy that the gods themselves must have become envious, for they sent one of their number to destroy their happiness.

On days when the heat was oppressive, the girls left their work at an earlier hour than usual and would then walk along Fifth Avenue. At that hour the streams of people from shops and business places mingled with the current of those on pleasure bent. In crossing the thoroughfare, Helène and Margaret got stalled. Helène, undecided whether to advance or return, became confused and before she realized it a pair of spirited horses in an open landau was almost on top of her. Margaret seeing the danger, rushed up and pushed her into safety. In doing so, however, she herself was caught by the pole of the carriage, and thrown down and trampled on by one of the horses.

A crowd gathered immediately and Margaret, now unconscious, was carried to the sidewalk. Helène, deathly pale and speechless with horror, held the bleeding head of her beloved comrade in her lap. A policeman who had promptly arrived on the scene rushed to ring for an ambulance, when a richly dressed lady of commanding appearance offered to drive the young woman to the nearest hospital. She was the occupant of the carriage which had been the cause of the accident. Willing bystanders, assisted by the officer of the law, lifted the lifeless form into the landau into which Helène was invited by the owner.

At the hospital Helène was not allowed to go into the ward, but was requested to await the doctor’s report in the waiting-room. Almost beside herself with anxiety, she sat in a stupor and could scarcely answer the usual questions put to her by the doctor in charge.

The lady in whose carriage she had come, sat mutely near the window nervously tapping the sill, staring absently into the court without. Some questions were put to her also, but she, too, was too overcome to answer coherently.

In a few minutes, a terribly long time to Helène, the nurse returned and whispered that her friend was resting in bed and that a cursory examination had revealed no serious injuries. The head physician would be in shortly and would make a more thorough examination. She could wait until then, Helène was told. The other lady was given the same information.

The strain of her pent-up feelings relieved by the nurse’s report, Helène broke into sobs. She thanked God in her heart that her dear Margaret would not die as she had feared.

“Pardon me, miss,” came a sympathetic voice, “can I be of any help to you?”

Helène looked up and recognized the dignified lady in whose carriage she had been driven to the hospital.

“I am glad to learn that your friend is not seriously hurt. I am Mrs. Van Dusen. It was my carriage that was the cause of the unfortunate accident to your friend. Won’t you let me help you?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Van Dusen, but I am scarcely able to think. If my friend, Miss Fisher, is not very badly injured I should like to take her home. It was my fault....”

Helène broke down, the tears choking her voice.

The unusual beauty, the sweet, refined voice and manner of the young woman impressed the lady. She sat down near Helène and said in kindly tones:

“You must not distress yourself, my dear. Your friend will be well taken care of here. I will see to that. I am deeply grieved the accident occurred. I saw you and your friend step right in front of the horses and called out to the coachman; but it was too late. I want to do all I can to help Miss Fisher. Has she any relatives or friends who ought to be notified? My son is outside and he will gladly take any message.”

“She has no friend other than myself. For her sake I shall be glad to accept any assistance you can give me. It was in saving me that she got hurt herself. Oh, my poor lovely Margaret....”

“There, there, my dear, it is not so bad after all. Compose yourself. Here comes the nurse.”

The nurse informed Helène that Miss Fisher was conscious and the doctor would allow her to see her friend for a minute—but she must not be excited.

Helène rose eagerly and walked rapidly into the ward. Behind a screen, on a narrow cot, Margaret lay white and helpless. Her head was heavily bandaged so that only her eyes showed. On seeing Helène, she smiled wistfully into the face that was bending over her.

“Hello, darling! I’m all right—only a little bruised. I’ll be out in no time. Wasn’t it lucky? But who’s going to look after you while I’m here, little one?”

The nurse approached and whispered to Helène: “Just say a few kind words for the present. You can come another time.”

“Oh, Margaret, I’m so happy to see you. Don’t worry about me, dearest. I’ll come and look you up as often as I can.”

Margaret looked back her content; she was too ill to speak.

The nurse touched Helène on the arm. It was time to leave. Kissing the pale lips, she retired slowly, looking back at the wan face until the door had been closed on her.

In the waiting-room she found a tall young man by the side of Mrs. Van Dusen.

“This is my son,” said the lady to Helène, “he will take any message, Miss—eh——”

“My name is Miss Barton. Thank you, there is no message I wish sent. I shall wait here for the physician’s report. I will tell Madame Lucile, myself, later.”

The tall, carefully groomed and good-looking young man approached, hat in hand:

“Permit me, Miss Barton, to go to her for you. I have a carriage waiting.”

“Thank you; but it will be better if I see the lady. Madame Lucile is our employer.”

“Here is my card, Miss Barton,” said Mrs. Van Dusen. “Let me know if I can be of any service. I shall inquire regularly at this hospital and my son will see the superintendent and arrange that special attention be given Miss Fisher. I am deeply grieved at the accident and hope sincerely that Miss Fisher will not suffer. Good-bye, Miss Barton. Are you coming, Howard?”

The young man came up to Helène and said in a kind voice:

“Pardon me for suggesting it, Miss Barton, but you ought to consult a lawyer on this matter.”

“Howard, what do you mean?” exclaimed his mother angrily. “What should Miss Barton consult a lawyer about?”

“Well, mother, Miss Barton’s friend may suffer in other ways than from the injuries she has received.”

“Well, of course, I am not going to shirk any responsibility. The young lady has my card. Come.”

“Don’t forget, Miss Barton, to let my mother know. May I have your address?”

“Thank you, Mr. Van Dusen, there is no necessity for that. Good afternoon, madam.”

Mother and son had no sooner left than the nurse came in bringing the physician in charge. Dr. Loomis relieved the girl’s mind by telling her that her Miss Fisher was in no danger. She would remain for the present in the ward until she had recovered sufficiently from the shock. No bones had been broken, but the bruise on the head was rather severe. Every care would be given her friend. “Don’t be anxious, my dear young lady,” he said, “we shall get her quite well again. Good-bye!”

The nurse informed Helène that she could visit her friend every day and that Mrs. Van Dusen, who was a patroness of the hospital, had left word that the patient should be most carefully attended to. Helène thanked the woman.

From the hospital she hurried to Madame Lucile’s home and was greatly relieved that the lady took the news as she did. Madame promised to look after everything. Helène, for the first time since she had been in America, went home alone.

And now began the trying and anxious time. Every day Helène called at the hospital, but was not permitted access to the sick-room. Margaret had an attack of brain fever and could recognize no one. She would leave for Madame Lucile’s in tears. There she worked for two to drown her anxiety. But the lonely evenings and tearful nights followed and they had to be borne by herself alone.

Mrs. Van Dusen had called on Madame Lucile and had offered to defray the expenses; but Helène firmly refused to accept the offer. Margaret and she could afford to pay them themselves.

Whenever Helène visited the hospital, she would find Mr. Van Dusen waiting, ready with a courteous request to be of service, and repeated the offer his mother had made to Madame Lucile. But Helène declined both. On one occasion he asked permission to call on Miss Barton. This she also declined. When Margaret recovered from the fever, he sent her flowers almost daily. Twice Helène received a large box of beautiful lilies at the boarding-house with his card. She wrote him a polite note of thanks in which she told him that she would take the flowers to Margaret.

At the end of three weeks, Margaret was declared to be out of all danger. Her wounds had healed and the bandages had been removed. On the left temple showed a livid scar, but the nurse assured Helène that this would disappear in time. In a week Margaret would be allowed to go home; but the doctor advised a rest at the seashore or in the mountains before returning to work.

Mrs. Van Dusen claimed the right to provide for this rest, at least, and begged Margaret to accept the hospitality of her country place in the Kittatinnies, which was only an hour’s ride from New York, and where the mountain air was cool and invigorating. “I have been so unhappy, Miss Fisher,” she said, “about the accident, and you’ve let me do nothing.”

Margaret compromised by agreeing to stay at a farm-house near Mrs. Van Dusen’s place and to use that good lady’s carriage. But she insisted on paying for her board. Mrs. Van Dusen was only too glad that she had been able to prevail over Margaret’s independent spirit to that extent. Her visits to the hospital had made her acquainted with the girl’s fine nature, both in the courage she had evinced in pain, and in the devotion she showed to Helène. Mrs. Van Dusen could not help but look up to so grand and yet so finely democratic a character.

In the younger girl, with the gentle, well-bred bearing which, as she readily saw, but veiled the reticence of inborn dignity, she had found a rare personality. A girl entirely aloof from her surroundings and who was yet self-supporting and happy in the small circle of her life. Mrs. Van Dusen, the society leader and proud wife of one of the wealthy men of New York, could not fail to see that this simple, dignified girl was her equal in everything but worldly gifts. She tried hard to pierce the armor of modesty and unselfishness in which the girl clothed herself; but its very inoffensiveness proved it to be a stronger protection than anything else could have been.

Her son, Howard, had confessed to her that the younger of the two girls had made a deep impression on him, but, he ruefully added, “I’ve not made much headway with her.”

To Helène, the American custom which permitted a young man and girl to meet and converse freely and alone, was one which she either did not understand or did not approve. Van Dusen’s escort to the boarding-house was rather suffered than accepted. Upon arriving at the home, she would bid him good-bye, and take no notice of his hints for an invitation to call. His floral gifts she invariably transferred to Margaret. He had to admit frankly that he had not made a very favorable impression. His mother wisely said nothing.

At the Post’s farm-house Margaret found herself comfortably established on the second floor. She wrote every day to Helène glowing accounts of the beautiful country and urged her to come and visit her for a few days. The people were nice and kind and there was a quaint room which she could have all to herself. She was getting quite strong again and had acquired a tremendous appetite. She pleaded so earnestly that Helène finally agreed to go if Madame Lucile gave the permission.

Certainly the prospect of a vacation did look alluring. She had been working hard during Margaret’s illness and had been very lonely and depressed in spirits. She had even denied herself the few hours of relaxation she had enjoyed when Margaret was at home, and had kept herself confined during the hottest days—a trying ordeal to anyone living in New York, and especially so to a foreigner.

The canny lady from Glasgow was too pleased to extend a vacation to Mademoiselle Heloise, and thus it happened that by the Saturday before Labor Day Helène had made all her preparations and was ready for the great event.

As she was utterly ignorant of ways and means, Mr. Diderot, the fatherly librarian, was duly impressed to act as escort to the dreaded Terminal and Ferry. Mrs. Kane, with many motherly admonitions, kissed her good-bye and put her in charge of her elderly lodger. The old gentleman, proud of his duty, had spruced himself up and assuming a youthful gait, walked vigorously by her side carrying the suit-case. His hailing of the street car was done with a dignity which can be compared only to the bearing of the Mayor escorting the President of the United States to the City Hall.

In the waiting-room at the Ferry, Helène was glad to sit in the cool protection from the heat while Mr. Diderot negotiated the various transactions necessary to obtaining the ticket and checking the baggage for the particular place in the New Jersey vastness to which his charge was bound. The crowd of people hurrying here, there and everywhere, so bewildered the poor girl that she hardly dared to lift her eyes. She almost regretted her step in taking such a long journey alone into an unknown country.

At last her escort returned. She rose eagerly and he led her into the pushing crowd where she was gently propelled through a narrow strait flanked by two sharp-eyed men armed with shining punchers, into a spacious room filled with a motley assortment of people of both sexes and all ages.

A slight shock followed by a tremor through the wood flooring startled Helène. But Mr. Diderot explained that she need not be afraid—it was only the arrival of the ferry-boat. At the opened gateway, he handed her the ticket for Charlotteville and wishing her a pleasant journey he bowed in his punctilious way and left her to the mercy of the crowd that soon pushed her on to the boat. What a hurrying and scurrying and jostling and hustling! Men with packages and suit-cases, women with suit-cases and packages and children; men with golf bags and women with dogs; children clinging frantically to their mothers’ skirts—all perspiring and all craning their necks to swallow the river’s breeze, thankful of this respite from the city’s heat.

A clanking of bells, a shrill, long-drawn whistle, a clinking of chains and she was off—off on her wonderful journey across the majestic river to the hazy, mysterious shore of Jersey—her first travels into America. She gazed about her at the people sitting on the low seats and standing in the doorways; they seemed to her to be different from those she had met in New York. The men were so important, the women so self-conscious and the children so droll.

Through the open windows shone the reflection from the waters of the river, the waves of which sparkled in the sunlight. Busy little tugs saucily stretched their prows; cumbersome ferry-boats glided past as mountainous shadows. The fresh air and the wide expanse gave her a sense of assurance. She decided to risk the outside platform.

As she stood up to go out a sudden recollection made her start. Where was her suit-case? For a moment she felt as if her heart was sinking; but the next moment she gave a sigh of relief as she remembered that Mr. Diderot had “checked” the case to Charlotteville. She felt for the precious pasteboard in her handbag and smiled when she found it was safely there.

On the platform without she looked about her drinking in the wonderful expanse of water and free air and blue sky. The great river with its baggage and floats, tugs and steamers, sailing vessels and a big liner steaming slowly down towards the Bay, little launches and graceful yachts, appeared to her like the river of life itself. Looming up and drawing nearer and nearer, the cavernous train-shed flanked by stupendous grain elevators, looked to her like gigantic fortifications guarding and preventing a possible entry into the green country beyond. Where did the railroad begin, she wondered?

And now the people began their jostling and hustling once more. Packages were seized and children grabbed at the sound of the clanking of chains and the turning of windlass. Then came the rattling of iron gates being opened and the living stream poured itself on to the land.

For a moment she looked about her, bewildered, but seeing a uniformed individual, she plucked up courage to ask him the way to her train. He scarcely deigned to notice her, but with a motion behind him he said: “Track number four to your left.” Helène was no wiser, but she dared not risk another inquiry and walked with the crowd. She heard a benevolent looking elderly person in a magnificent uniform and gold-laced cap singing out some words she could not understand. She found her courage, however, and put her inquiry to him. To her relief he led her to the car and even assisted her to mount the steps. The quick transition from the outer glare to the dark interior caused her to falter; but seeing that other people were making free with the cushioned seats, she chose one for herself opposite a wholesome looking, stout lady and a small girl. She was too timid to look about her and was almost afraid to return the happy smile of the little child across the aisle. At last came the long cry “All aboard,” followed by a hissing noise and the train—her train—moved slowly out.

She was really on her great journey! As the engine gained headway the train passed the pillars along the track and dived into a cavernous deep cut on to a long trestle over the housetops. Then winding its way between simmering and smoky factories, past ugly board fences and stretches of open land covered with rubbish, it thundered over a bridge spanning a broad expanse of muddy water. Round a sharp curve with a shriek as if of desperation, and there she was in a lovely meadow gleaming green in the sunlight, the reeds and the bulrushes waving in the breeze—the country! America—the long sought for land of romance—the New World!

Her heart beat with the excitement of the rush, her eyes fixed on the swiftly moving landscape. The deep rose color of the giant mallows enlivens the sage green of the reeds; narrow veins of tidewater wend their courses with almost geometrical directness through the dark muck of the salt meadows; in the distance are seen the rounded humps of dwarfed hills and the tall smoke-stacks of factories. Then another river is crossed—a broad stream with shallow barges loaded with crimson bricks and yellow clay. The landscape gradually changes to cultivated farmlands. Clumps of trees, cottages and cows—real live cows grazing along the hedgerows—appear and disappear. Through the opening in the foliage are seen small villas and occasionally more pretentious houses; lawns and stone walls; highways with carriages and bicycles. Another rush into a deep cut walled in with rocks and then a gentle gliding into the open revealing a hilly country with houses, gardens, rows of trees and avenues. With a rumble, a short bridge over a stream traversing a deep green pasture is crossed and the train rushes through a quiet street. Out of the village with a noise as of many waters and into another cut flanked by a rocky ledge dripping with moisture and overhung with brambles that almost brush the windows of the cars. Then once more into the open, rolling land.

On and on, northward, the train speeds. Now and again it stops at some small station with a grinding noise and, after a few passengers alight, the engine bell rings once more, the hissing of the brakes deafens the ear, and with hoarse puffs and groans, it is off again, squeaking, bumping, swaying with dust and cinders floating and flying into the cars.

It is all a stunning, bewildering, amazing and wonderful experience to Helène. She finds herself speculating as to what will come next, hoping it won’t last long, and wishing it wouldn’t be over quickly. She is under the fascinating spell of quick motion through space and is in a continual tremor of excited anticipation.

And now, all at once, the landscape changed entirely. Beautiful valleys, fine streams shaded by giant trees, broad fields, endless levels of tasseled maize moving in the wind passed by her like a swiftly moving panorama. The hills became more abrupt, the mountains shut out the horizon. Houses were now fewer and smaller. The mirror of a lake gleamed between dark foliage. A weather-beaten gray structure resembling a wrecked whaler, though it was only an ice-house, causes Helène to start back as its black shadow darkened the windows. Then came a grinding of iron wheels on the metal, a creaking and a scraping, the train began to slow down, and with a shock it pulled up at the station—Charlotteville.

She doesn’t realize that this is her goal until the conductor speaks to her and a begrimed brakeman grabs her bags with a “your station, miss.” Helène follows with a sinking of the heart and is left, standing forlorn on the hot, dried boards of the platform, contemplating a number of boxes, trunks, plows and lawn-mowers which lie around. She gazes after the fast disappearing train utterly at a loss what to do or where to turn.

“Be ye lookin’ for somebody, miss?” The question came to her in a quavering, falsetto voice.

Turning quickly she beheld a whiskered nondescript of a man looking at her with shrewd eyes and a dry smile on his thin lips.

“Yes, sir,” she answered; “Mr. Post was to meet me.”

“I guess, it’s Bill Post ye mean, miss. Thar’s his team—that sorrel over yonder. I guess I’ll tell Artie.”

It was Bill Post’s team all right—the large blondish horse of the breed of hard working cousin of a percheron and a box-like wagon on the driver’s seat of which a boy of tender years with the face of a Methuselah, sat humped. The whiskered owner of the falsetto voice deposited Helène’s valise on the tailboard of the wagon and helped her to a seat by the side of the silent and prematurely aged Artie who, without opening his lips or moving a facial muscle, gave a peculiar chuckle, and the noble steed was off at a heavy, leisurely amble.

“Git ap, Major!” came from the tightly closed lips of the boy, and at a slightly faster gait they skirted the long, rambling frame building with the sign, “John P. Brown’s Hotel,” the guests of which on the stoop stared inquiringly after the ill-assorted pair on the wagon. Next came an unpretentious structure greatly in need of the painter’s services bearing the legend, “Post Office.” Passing this they entered a gray highway, bordered with dust-covered bushes and weeds.

The first part of the drive lay across an unattractive stretch of level fields baked hard by months of constant sunlight, the green of the sparse vegetation of which seemed as though it were struggling hard to overcome the all-enveloping gray. The air vibrated with the heat and was laden with floating particles of dust. Helène’s spirits sank. Was this the beautiful, wild rural America? Her eyes were smarting and her throat parched and itching. Suddenly the vehicle turned round a sharp bend in the dust-covered road to a short bridge with a somewhat elevated approach.

What a miraculous change! And oh, what a blessed relief! Under the rattling boards of the bridge ran swiftly the most refreshing of clear waters on which graceful fronds floated and trembled in the current. The banks of this stream were fresh in green and resplendent in the gay colors of flowers. A little beyond the road were deep shadowy woods of giant trees with moss-covered trunks. The bright foliage was altogether free of the oppressive dust. The brilliant yellow of the golden-rod vied with the heliotrope and the purple of wild asters to form a charming foreground inviting to the shady depths beyond. Helène was enchanted.

“What is the name of this pretty stream?” she risked in her meekest and softest of tones. She was really afraid to speak to this boy of twelve, with the serious immobile face that appeared so supernaturally indifferent to mere worldly things. It was almost a sacrilege to disturb so calm and superior a being.

“Pequannock.” And then, as if he had condescended too greatly, “Git ap, Major!” The rest was silence.

But the ice was broken, for when they passed an opening in the wood which showed a large house with broad, sloping lawns in front of it, he volunteered the information, “Mr. Van Dusen’s place.”

Helène was greatly relieved. He was just a boy like any other boy, after all, and not a youthful Cyclops or a Rapunzle. She asked more questions—about the district, about Miss Fisher, about himself—to all of which he replied in sentences of gradually increasing length. So that when at the end of the two miles’ drive which took the ungainly horse half an hour to cover, they drew up before a newly painted house with a row of fine old maples shading it, she and the youthful “whip,” had become fast friends.

Margaret had spied the family vehicle in the distance and was at the gate to meet Helène. Affectionate greetings exchanged, Helène was shown to her room and ordered to remove the stains of travel.

“I’m just too happy for words to have you here,” exclaimed Margaret.

Helène looked at her friend and was delighted to see that she had improved greatly. Her cheeks showed the return of color, the scar on the temple had lost its dull purple, and the expression on her face was just the same Margy’s of old.

As they were descending the stairs, Margaret whispered: “They are dying to see you; but they wouldn’t for the world let you see their curiosity. We must go to them in the kitchen.”

“Mrs. Post, I’ve brought my friend, Miss Barton.”

Mrs. Post, a painfully plain and stolidly built woman of middle age, was busily engaged at the range, cooking. She turned a kindly face on hearing Margaret’s voice.

“Pleased to meet ye, Miss Barton.” She wiped her hands deliberately on a clean apron and let them drop resignedly. Then, seeing the hand of Helène stretched towards her, she seized it with a glad smile.

“So ye be Miss Fisher’s friend, be ye? Maybe ye’re tired after yer long trip, hain’t ye, miss?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Post, the journey was delightful and new; especially the drive to the house.”

“Waal, I guess it be. I ain’t had a ride ter the city for nigh on five years. I mean Paterson. I’ve never been to Noo York all my life. But ain’t ye hungry? Dinner’ll be most ready in an hour—can ye wait that long, miss?”

Helène could and gladly would.

The two friends retired to rest in the shade of the roomy porch, and to exchange confidences. There were not many but, such as they were, they were interesting to them since they were born of their own lives.

Margaret betrayed an anxiety lest others who were more wealthy and could offer more pleasure and comforts, might entice Helène away from her. Her questions were carefully framed, however, and Helène replied frankly and freely. She had not seen Mr. Van Dusen more than she could help. She had really thought little or nothing about him. Her mind had been too much occupied with her work and with thinking of Margaret.

Margaret, however, was not quite satisfied and persisted in putting more questions all bearing on the same subject, until Helène was quite puzzled.

“What is it you are driving at, Margy? Tell me, now—what’s in your head?”

Margaret looked into the honest eyes of her friend, clear as a June sky, and was satisfied.

“I guess, nothing, my dear,” she said, “nothing at all. I love you so that I suspect everybody has designs on your affections. I guess I’m just a jealous, selfish old thing. Forget all about it.”

After the mid-day meal Margaret, in obedience to the doctor’s orders, retired to her room for a rest. Helène, left to herself, took a book and recalling a shady nook she had passed on her way to the farm-house, crossed the road and sought its seclusion.

CHAPTER XXV

THE small, moss-covered clearing under the beeches proved to be an ideal retreat—a place good for the soul longing for isolation—a refuge for those desiring to escape from the insistent call of the obstinate present.

The sloping ground, soft and furry like a carpet, invited relaxation. The book seemed clever and promising—but somehow she could not concentrate her attention on its pages; her mind would wander off aimlessly. She began to muse, and the volume slid on to the moss.

This life she was living—was it really to be her life always? This wonderful land had opened up to her new vistas and new experiences. The people were, oh, so kind and good to her. It was all very interesting and no doubt worthy the efforts. But was this the land for her—for her, the last of her race?

She had been so enthusiastic in the morning. She had been looking forward to this little vacation for many days; and now, when it had come, when everything was just as she had wished it to be, she was not happy!

What had become of her dreams of intimate exchange of noble thoughts with dear friends? Where were her romantic fancies of a world of love, of glory and poetry? She knew not what these dreams and fancies might actually be, but she was sure they were not being realized now. Was her life’s horizon to be landlocked as was this rural home? Was her life’s goal to reach no farther than the making of pretty bonnets for strangers? Was this to be her ideal? Certainly she had found a freedom from one kind of bondage, but had she not obtained it only to find herself bound by far more cruel fetters—the drudgery of a life occupied in gaining a livelihood and losing its soul?

Would she be compelled to point to this as her only achievement? And what would Mr. Morton say when her hour of reckoning came with him? “And it was for this—that you disobeyed your father’s wishes, and gave me unspeakable pain!” Had she pained him? Had she disregarded her father’s injunctions? Oh—if she could but be enlightened on these doubts, these ever recurring questions!

She sat meditating, lost to her surroundings while the busy bees hummed and the flies buzzed about her. A slender catbird, smooth and droll like a dainty squirrel, its bright beetle eyes turned inquisitively upon the intruder, slipped in and out of the underbrush—“Peep”—“Peep”—its mate joined in the sport,—“Peep,” and they were gone. Little kinglets with their wine-colored caps flitted from branch to branch, chirruping in sweet confidence. A subdued whirr drew Helène’s eyes idly to a tall plant swaying in blossom in the glaring sunshine; above it was the most exquisite of little creatures floating in a haze produced by the rapid motion of its delicate wings, its thread-like bill seemingly resting within the flower. Whirr—it had vanished!

Was this an enchanted glade or a fairy’s retreat?

Yes—even if she had done wrong in running away, she had learned to know something of life, life as it was to the vast majority of humankind. She had come to know this great Western world—his own land. Surely he could not but approve—he——

An aggressive noise, resembling the sound of scissors being ground on a whetstone, piercing and disturbing, broke her reveries. Helène sat up staring into the leafy tangle which screened her refuge. What could it be? There it was again. It was only a locust, had Helène but known it, but its arrival had broken the spell; her retreat became once more but the hot, sweltering clearing; the buzzing of the flies became an annoyance, the bees a threat. She was again alone—a stranger among a strange people.

Oh, no—not alone! There was always her good Margy. No one could take her from her. And there were her own thoughts and memories. No one could steal them from her. And—autumn would soon be here—the day of reckoning and, perhaps, the day of promise, also—the day when her letter must be written and sent. But her first duty was to Margaret. She must help her dear friend and protector to get well. As soon as they were again settled at home, she surely would set to work on the letter. And an inward voice whispered to her: “my knight without blemish.” She rose and smoothed out her crumpled dress to cover her self-confusion at the unspoken words.

Carefully picking her way through the tall weeds and brush she gained the road. Glancing for a moment towards the house she saw no one about; but the next instant her attention was drawn to a distant cloud of dust and the sound of the regular hoof-beats of horses. A carriage was approaching, and soon it drew up before the gate of the Post’s farm-house. Hesitating what she should do, she saw a man alight, but, instead of going up to the house, he turned and made straight to where she was standing.

As he approached nearer she recognized Mr. Van Dusen. Her indecision died in its inception. Hat in one hand and the other extended cordially he called out:

“How are you, Miss Barton? I am so glad to see you. What good fairy brought you here?”

Somewhat embarrassed, she permitted him to take her hand, and press it lightly. He felt rather than saw her indifference. “You are not pleased to see me, Miss Barton?” he added with a weak smile. “But never mind, since I am here, may I walk with you?”

“Y-e-s, Mr. Van Dusen. Miss Fisher is resting—the doctor’s orders, you know—but it is almost time for her to waken. Do you wish to see her?”

“Ah, Miss Barton, I am not going to let you get rid of me in that way. Let Miss Fisher have her full allowance of sleep; my message to her can wait. Mother sent me to invite her and you for a drive around the lakes to-morrow. The country is looking so beautiful, she thought you would enjoy the water and the hotels along the shore. But may I be frank? I agreed to be her messenger because I had heard you were expected to-day. Now, please, Miss Barton, don’t look so forbidding. I do so want to speak to you.”

Helène made a motion as if about to step back, a slight blush suffusing her cheek and neck. Courteously bowing her proud little head she said in somewhat staccato tones:

“Very well, Mr. Van Dusen; but I really think we ought both of us go in to Miss Fisher. I am her guest, you know.”

“I know, Miss Barton, but let me have my way, won’t you? This place, these woods, fields and lakes,” he added with a wave of his arm, “have been my playground ever since I was a boy. I know every nook and corner. You are not alone Miss Fisher’s guest but the guest of us all who live here and love this secluded corner of Jersey. Do let me be your guide and show you around.” His humorous eyes gave his face so whimsical an expression that Helène almost regretted her coldness towards him.

“Have you seen the orchard and the enchanted bower of Kittanah, the Indian Maiden who dwelt here more than two hundred years ago? No? It’s right round the bend of this road, less than a minute’s walk, and really well worth a visit. Shall we go?”

His playful insistence and her own desire to efface the impression of her cool reception of him conquered her indecision. She turned with him along the road to where the orchard was situated.

Gnarled old fruit trees laden with red, green and speckled apples, deep grass that clung to ankles, weeds of unusual size and luxuriance, and all against a dense clump of birches as background.

Within these birches were flat boulders covered with lichen and small tufts of living green—“The Indian bower, Miss Barton; behold the throne of Kittanah!”

It was a pretty spot, and Helène felt no regret that she had come. Van Dusen drew out his handkerchief, spread it carefully over the rock and invited his companion to sit down. “You must let me see how a white maiden would appear upon the throne of her ancient copper-colored sister.”

Helène smilingly obeyed, and the young man stepped back in mock criticism, nodding approval.

“Miss Barton, tradition tells that this Indian maiden outrivalled in beauty all the other girls of her age and place. But I think—there never sat upon this rock a more beautiful girl than she who is sitting there now.”

Helène rose. The very thing she had dreaded was going to happen. She had been very foolish to come to this place.

“Miss Barton, please sit down.”

Hardly knowing what she was doing, Helène resumed her seat, helplessly.

Van Dusen came close up to her, the smile gone from his face, and in its place an expression of grim determination.

“Miss Barton, ever since I first met you I have had but one thought—to win you if I could. I know you have given me no encouragement; indeed, I believe you have avoided me. Yet, I still beg of you to permit me to plead my cause.”

Helène, with downcast eyes, sat patiently, her hands folded, a troubled expression on her face.

“I don’t amount to much, I know, but I am a pretty clean fellow and I am awfully fond of you. Won’t you give me a chance to show you how in earnest I am? To see more of you? There isn’t another girl like you in this world. I know there are lots of fellows much better than I, but—do give me a chance!”

As he spoke the last words he took Helène’s hand, his eager face flushed with his emotions. She gently drew it away, and looking up piteously at the young man she mustered just enough strength to say sadly: “Mr. Van Dusen—I don’t know what to say, and if I did I wouldn’t know how to say it. You are very kind. I—I have never thought of any man as you wish me to think of you. We ought not to have come here; we should both of us then have been saved this great embarrassment. Please, remember, that I have no one but Miss Fisher—that I am her only friend. Shall we return to the house?”

“Miss Barton, Helen dear, will you not give me some encouragement, some hope——”

“Oh, Mr. Van Dusen—what can I say? Really, I must not listen to you any longer. Pray, permit me!”

Her heart in a riotous beating, her temples throbbing and her face filled with indignation, Helène rose and ran toward the orchard. And as she ran she kept thinking: he had no right to speak to her thus: Margy would have to tell him that he must not visit them again. Her feet became entangled in the deep grass and treacherous brambles, and she was compelled to walk and pick her way.

Van Dusen, who had followed her at a quick pace, hurt and offended at he knew not what, was the first to break the awkward silence following on the precipitate flight.

“Don’t be angry with me, Miss Barton. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I can see I am distasteful to you; but you need have no fear.” He paused for breath. Then seeing that she was finding it difficult to get over the brambles, he added in an unconscious non sequitur: “Pardon me, if you don’t keep to the path you will tear your shoes and skirt. You are getting into a patch of low bush blackberries; they are worse than barbed wire.”

Helène stopped short, her sense of humor overcoming her. After all the young man had not done anything very grievous! Of course, it was absurd, but he meant well and she had been wrong to be indignant with him.

She turned to Van Dusen, and the smile which met him was like a ray of sunshine breaking through threatening clouds. “Mr. Van Dusen—I am sorry. It was rude of me to run away. I was taken unawares. Please pardon me. You may show me the path. I can’t afford to ruin my shoes and spoil my vacation. But you must promise me not to refer to the subject again. Will you promise, Mr. Van Dusen?”

“Miss Barton, I may not be a genius but nobody can say I don’t know when I am not wanted. I apologize,” he added in a more earnest and subdued voice, “and let us be friends. I guess I am not good enough for you!”

“No, Mr. Van Dusen, you are unjust to yourself. You are a gentleman and you have been very kind to me. But—oh, well, I suppose I am foolish. Let us go back to Miss Fisher.”

Van Dusen, silent and depressed, led the way back along the path over the hard-baked field, through the orchard and into the road. Helène spoke not another word all the way.

Whether she intended it or not her silence convinced Van Dusen that he need look for no further hope from her. It was not coquetry, but a definite and permanent refusal. What an ass he had been not to see that she never cared for him! But that he, a Van Dusen, should have been turned down by a snip of a milliner! No, no, he must not think that. He was a cad to call her names even in thought. Ah, she was a beautiful girl—as good as they made them—but, she had not been made for him, worse luck! Of course, there must be another fellow. But, by George, couldn’t she look proud! And what a temper she could show! Ah, but she looked more beautiful angry than smiling. Oh, well, if she didn’t care to talk he wouldn’t make her. There was the gate, and there was Miss Fisher, all in white, smiling and wholesome. After all, there was no girl like an American girl. These foreigners——

“Hello, people, where have you two been?” came Margaret’s cheery greeting to the silent pair emerging from the cover of the trees; “exploring the landscape, Helen?”

“How do you do, Miss Fisher!” Van Dusen welcomed the break in the oppressive silence he had endured. “You look very well. I need not ask if the country is doing you good! Mother sent me with a message to you, but as I learned you were resting I proposed to Miss Barton to visit the ‘Kittanah Rock’—and here we are.”

“How are you, Mr. Van Dusen. Come in and sit down in the shade. This is the only cool spot I know around here. Were you interested in the Indian Rock, Helen? You didn’t know we could boast of ancient history here, did you?”

They sat on the camp chairs in the grass under the spreading maples, chatting in desultory fashion. Helène, however, soon retired to her room, offering as an excuse her dishevelled condition after the walk.

As he sat facing the comely Margaret with her shrewd eyes, Van Dusen realized that it would be useless for him to make a secret of what had happened in the orchard. He saw that she already more than guessed. Moreover, his disappointment at the rebuff made him feel a deep desire to unburden himself; perhaps, also, to obtain a little sympathy. He sought for an opportunity, and it came when Helène left them together. But it was Margaret who seized it first.

“What have you been saying to Helen, Mr. Van Dusen? She seems unusually quiet, and she kept her eyes away from you. I have elected myself Helen’s guardian, you know, and her happiness is dear to me. What’s been the trouble?”

“Miss Fisher,” the young man fidgeted and spoke nervously. “I know you will be angry with me. I’ve made an arrant fool of myself. I proposed to Miss Barton, and was promptly refused. I hardly know how I came to do it, but, I suppose I couldn’t help it.”

Margaret’s face paled; she closed her eyes and said not a word.

“Miss Fisher, I see you are angry. But I’ve made it all right. I don’t know how I came to forget myself, because, as I sit here now, I feel as if I’m not in love with her at all—and never have been. If I feel hurt it’s not my heart that has been wounded, but my vanity. Do say a kind word to me, Miss Fisher. I don’t want you to send me away in anger.”

Margaret opened her eyes and looked at Van Dusen for a moment with slight disdain. The ingenuousness of the young man, however, was so transparent, and indicated so honest a nature that she was moved to smile—the free and open smile which only she could give.

“Poor boy!” she said, “I guess you are right, you couldn’t help it. I don’t blame you. If I were a man I would have done as you did. But you must not come with us to-morrow; it would be awkward for both of you. Oh, I do wish men wouldn’t insist on making love to every pretty girl they meet; I’m afraid you’ve now spoiled Helen’s vacation—the first one the child has had. I don’t know if you understand what that means to a working-girl, because you’ve never done a day’s work in your life.”

“You’re right, missie, I don’t. But what can I do? Father thinks I am a dunce; the fellows I know don’t do anything great, and mother wants me to do the social stunt and shine. I wish I could do something. Won’t you advise me, Miss Fisher?”

“Advise you? Why, Mr. Van Dusen, I don’t see that it is any of my business! And please don’t ‘Missie’ me. I am too old for that. Really, you make me laugh. I honestly believe you haven’t grown up yet.”

Any other young man might have resented the snubbing he was getting, but Van Dusen enjoyed it.

“Never mind, Miss Fisher,” he said laughingly. “I’m not nearly the boy you think I am. And if you keep on looking at me with those nice eyes of yours—I’ll make another fool of myself. Now, please don’t get angry. I’m going to behave from now on. You are right about the drive to-morrow, though I’m awfully sorry to miss the pleasure of showing you round. I had been looking forward to it.”

His tone was light, but it was evident that he was feeling the deprivation deeply.

“Don’t think little of me, Miss Fisher. I hope some day to prove to you that I can be of some use in the world. Say good-bye to Miss Barton for me, please. Good-bye, Miss Fisher, and think kindly of me.”

Van Dusen rose and held out his hand to Margaret, who had reddened in spite of herself. Really, he looked a manly fellow in his earnestness, despite the flippancy of his manner. She couldn’t help appreciating the sterling nature which it hid.

“Good-bye,” she said quietly as she took his hand in her friendly clasp.

She watched him get into the carriage and take the reins from the waiting groom, and noticed how well he sat his seat. Van Dusen turned and raised his hat in a parting farewell to her smiling nods. There was not a trace to be seen of either disappointment or chagrin in his laughing eyes, as he drove up the road and was lost in the wooded avenue. Margaret turned and walked pensively into the house.

Labor Day had become a memory; Margaret was now fully recovered, and both girls were back at their duties. Their well-regulated life, which had been so rudely interrupted by the accident, resumed its even course. The new actors which, in consequence of that distressing event, had come into it, in no way disturbed the even tenor of their ways.

Helène met the spurned wooer, after not a few qualms of conscience, with quiet friendliness. Van Dusen, on his part, had swallowed his disappointment and became a devoted friend, using the privileges of an elder brother, which had been extended to him. Helène had but hinted to Margaret at what had occurred between her and Van Dusen, and Margaret had refrained from inquiring too curiously. It was best to leave well alone, she thought.

Flowers still came to the house in Gramercy Park; but their destination was the reverse of what it had been before. Then it had been Helène who was the recipient of the roses and giant asters and Margaret of the lesser flowers. Now it was to Margaret that the more gorgeous plants were addressed, and to Helène were relegated modest little bouquets of lilies and pansies (pansies? Did he mean—heartsease?) and cornflowers.

The arrival of the flowers for Margaret usually presaged an evening’s outing, and Helène soon came to understand that the bouquets which came for her were but the expressions of courtesy and brotherly attention. She did not fail to tease Van Dusen on the change, in her more audacious moods, to his smiling content.

With renewed health Margaret’s cheeks filled out and regained their old roundness and color. Indeed, her illness had improved her appearance. She began to add to nature’s gifts the productions of the lore of the “Modiste” and blossomed into as charming a woman as ever attracted the eyes of the dwellers of the Park.

And now, with the waning of the summer, the first signs of the new “season” began to appear on the Avenue. The World of Fashion was returning to its urban fields of activity; the shops once more became busy hives of jostling women. The evenings scintillated and sparkled with brilliant lights and more brilliant costumes. The glamor of the city drew people from the country, and once again the busy stir of business and pleasure filled the blue-covered cañons of New York.

As for Margaret and Helène, work kept them from ennui. It was a lesson to Helène, and she entered on the work of the season with all her heart.

The letter, the task of writing the important letter, had occupied her thoughts for many months, sometimes as ominous, often as a ray of hope, occasionally as a burden, but always as a sacred duty—a pilgrimage to a shrine. She had begun its composition and had destroyed what she had written time and again. And every time she had put off its completion, waiting for a happier mood. When did autumn begin? Mrs. Kane’s almanac said the twenty-second of September. And that was but a few days off. Well, she would obey the promptings of her heart and do it now. It was an evening when Margaret had decided to take an inventory of their belongings to see what they required in the way of dresses for the coming season, and she had retired early, leaving Helène to herself. She sat down determined to get it done with once for all. At the end of an hour the letter was finished, all but the date and signature. She read it over carefully, and although she was not satisfied she decided it would have to do.

Surely he would understand! She wondered what he was doing in Cleveland, and if he ever thought of his friend of the Carpathians. Perhaps he had found some rich and beautiful girl of his own country!

And his mother and sister? Was the Ruth he had spoken of like the girls who came to Madame Lucile’s—free and lively and gay and often slangy? Was his mother like Mrs. Van Dusen, with her haughty air and jewelled fingers?

These and the like questions she put to herself only to add to her hesitancy of purpose and distress of heart. She had learned much but she was still a child and knew very little of life, especially of life in America.

The greatest of all teachers, the omnipotent opener of all eyes and all minds, had not yet come to her. Love may be blind, but it is a wonderful magician for opening the heart’s far-seeing eyes. It may be blind to the object of its passion, but as a teacher it takes the highest rank. Helène did not know this. She was alone in the world—without a home, without a father or mother, without even her birthright. In this land of her adoption she was still a stranger. She could but follow the impulses of her heart blindly. She did not realize it, but it was love that led her. And Monday would be the twenty-second!

CHAPTER XXVI

VERY soon after he had entered on his administrative duties in connection with the business his father had bequeathed him, John Morton had found that one thing was certain—he must give his whole heart and mind to the work, or things would go wrong. Judge Lowell had put it to him characteristically when he said: “You must either attend strictly to the executive work, or pay some one else to do it for you. A leader cannot sit astraddle.” Morton had not believed him, at first, but it was not long before he found, to his sorrow, that the judge was right; and then he knuckled down to the system.

When he began gradually to master the fundamental principles of generalship underlying the direction of so gigantic an enterprise, he experienced a curious sense of elation and self-satisfaction. Nothing pleased him more than to notice the admiration in the eyes of the old warhorses of his father’s army. The knottiest of problems, he found, would yield to earnest thought and tactful work.

Those who, at the beginning, had looked at him evasively or contemptuously, had of late given both their approval and confidence. The heads of the many diversified interests had tested him and had found he was not wanting. They realized that he was both able and strong. “A chip of the old block,” some of them said with a smile, and others would remark: “I told you the acorn wouldn’t drop very far from the oak,” or “Old Dan in his prime wasn’t in it with the boy.” These were the opinions expressed by those who were in the business with him.

“The Street” had even begun to whisper that it wasn’t wise to monkey with young Morton, and grizzled old bankers had found it desirable to consult with him before deciding on some of their “big moves.” From the outset he had declined offices on financial boards, pleading lack of experience; but somehow important enterprises would be mentioned to him at their inception. The players on the chess-board knew that it was safer to give Morton a chance to make a move or not, as he felt inclined. Thus it was that every day found Morton more firmly seated in his father’s ample chair, and found also that the work connected with his duties left him more and more invigorated.

His life with such responsibilities was bound to become circumscribed in ever-narrowing circles, and could not fail to leave on him, both in his features and bearing, indelible marks of care and thought. He found little room for indecision, small opportunity for moroseness, and fewer moments for idle dreaming. He carried himself so seriously that his old friends at the club scarcely recognized in him the John Morton of the past. He no longer found time for intercourse with men of science, nor for indulgence in reading books. John Morton had, indeed, come into Adam’s legacy—work and plenty of it.

Mrs. Morton and Ruth, although they could have but few opportunities for coming in contact with the business world, heard some of these good opinions. Married ladies, from whom their husbands kept no business secrets, would repeat what they had been told; fiancées would carry the expressions their future lords and master had made about Morton; Judge Lowell, on his occasional visits, never failed to avow his high esteem of this paragon of a son. They heard that he had been elected to the dignified offices his father had held, and to which only honorable and estimable men were called; that his advice and counsel were sought in matters of public welfare, civic improvement and works of charity. The Randolph in him may have been strong, but there was enough Morton in his composition to make his power felt, and those who looked to him for action were not disappointed.

Mother and admiring sister regretted his now regular absence from their drawing-room gatherings and his even less frequent visits to the country home. But the women of America are content to accept the demands that business makes on their husbands and brothers. As long as John kept his health and looked as handsome as ever, with his face lit up by his humorous smile, they were satisfied.

They had almost forgotten the existence of “the dark lady” of the Carpathians. Ruth had gone so far as to say that she believed John “had been stringing” them about her. She still was as determined as ever to marry her handsome brother to some beautiful American girl, which was her reason for not sharing in her mother’s pride at his continued devotion to business. Not that she objected to hear people talk in praise of John; but she could see no sense in working so hard for money when they already had more than they needed. John lived like a hermit, she said.

Her brother would listen to her smilingly, pat her on the cheek and explain that the interests of their estate demanded it. Her mother would talk of the sacred duty John owed to his father’s plans. But neither argument had much weight with Ruth, for whom life was a much more interesting affair than mere money-making. However, she said nothing, but quietly made up her mind to carry out her plans. She’d see that John married, come what may.

Moved by the desire to be nearer her son, Mrs. Morton, towards the middle of the summer, had brought her household goods from Newport to the big mansion on the Hudson. John had agreed to come there at least once during the week and to spend his Sundays with her. She made occasional trips to New York for shopping and visiting purposes, on which Ruth would often accompany her—especially for the shopping. On such occasions they generally succeeded in bringing John home with them. They found that he was willing to break important engagements, though to them these engagements seemed strangely unimportant. He would meet them at some store or at the Terminal, and his escort was always an added pleasure to them. Mrs. Morton, in particular, felt a great pride in driving home with her son. Their arrival was like a triumphal entry into some feudal castle. Her eyes would beam with delight as she noted the servants’ admiring glances at “Mr. John,” or the proprietary pride of the old station-master’s greeting of “Mr. Morton.”

Sometimes Ruth would go alone to visit a school friend, who would assist her in selecting her purchases. It was on one of these private expeditions that she ’phoned John and, catching him in a moment of weakness, wheedled him into a promise to meet her at Maillard’s that day at five, and to take her back to Tarrytown.

Punctual, as always, John was at the confectioner’s—the favorite place of those ladies who believe they need reviving refreshment of a stronger nature than can be obtained at the ordinary department stores. His arrival made Ruth and Hattie Brown, her friend, the envy of the other girls, who saw this distinguished-looking man greeting them. Is it unkind to suggest that Ruth had selected the place of rendezvous with this effect in view?

John had met Miss Brown on many previous occasions, so that he looked at the girls’ effusive leave-taking without much emotion. Ruth’s great charm to him had always been her perfect naturalness of manner, but this did not prevent her behaving as other girls did when she was with them. Once alone in the carriage with him, however, she quickly resumed her vivacious self and was her brother’s comrade again.

The girl was excited, full of fun and bubbling over with laughter, much to her brother’s amusement. Something unusual must have happened.

“You know that piece of fine old timber on our grounds, John? I mean on the slope to the river.”

John nodded.

“Well, I’ve taken a fancy to it and want it all for myself. It’s been neglected, because it hasn’t got what people call ‘a wonderful view.’ It needs draining and some paths cutting through it. Won’t you spare an hour and come with me to look it over?”

“I don’t mind,” her brother remarked carelessly.

“And you will please me, won’t you, John, dear, and have the woods put into good condition? I’m tired of hearing about grand vistas and glorious sights and distant purple hills and all that kind of rot. It’s a perfectly lovely bit of timber, and if you go the right way about it, it can be made into a most delightful spot and a real refuge for birds and small game. Put some quail on the place and mummy and I will see that they are taken care of and fed in the winter. Now is just the time, before it gets too cold. If you do this for me, John, I’ll reciprocate. Oh, I’ve made the most marvellous discovery to-day. I’ll let you in on it, if you’ll be good.”

Ruth rattled away without pausing for breath.

“Well, sis, I’ll go round the place with you and try to see it with your enthusiastic eyes; but the superintendent is really the right man. However, your wish shall be a command. Now, what’s this wonderful reward I’m to get for being good?” He spoke in a bantering voice, smiling at the excited face.

“I’ll tell you in good time. It’ll do you good to feed on your curiosity a little. You haven’t enough emotion in you, anyway, John. All you do is work and plan. Before you know it, you’ll be nothing but a thinking machine. Ah, but I’ve got a charm up my sleeve that’ll make you come out of your shell and be your old self again. Oh, John, if you only knew!”

“What is this mysterious thing you are hiding? A new collie, or a plant that sings between drinks, or some new genius? Tell, oh, sloe-eyed daughter of my race!”

“You can laugh at me, if you like; but I tell you, John, I’ve struck it rich. You’ll have to wait. All things come to him who waits. First my woods and roads and drains, and then—your reward.”

They had arrived at the Terminal by this time and John had all he could do to guide Ruth through the crowd into the train. In due course they reached home and a short time after the modest family of three were seated round the dinner-table.

Though a simple function, dinner was always an important affair for Mrs. Morton when her son was with them. She took pride in seating him in the high-backed chair at the head of the table and would gaze lovingly at his handsome face and listen entranced to his conversation. In Mrs. Morton’s opinion John could talk better than Daniel Webster. A day’s absence would afford her an excuse for discovering new virtues in her boy. Unlike the other women of her station, she had remained what they would have characterized as “old-fashioned.” Home to her had its old meanings and old duties—it meant home, and not a mere stopping-place for the country club or the golf links or the porch for slangy gossip. So that visitors to her house still found in it the air of bygone days and were grateful for it.

Mrs. Morton had long since laid out her course of life and kept to it. She knew that so long as John felt that he was taking care of her and Ruth, he would stick to his business. She herself was not at all necessary to him; but her pride lay in his strength and ability to succeed. She was deeply afraid he might drift again into the “bohemian life” of aimless study and travel, as she classed his previous lapses into those fields. She could understand being a gentleman of leisure, even approve of it; she could easily accept the life of ceaseless labor and planning of business enterprises, for she had had the example of that in her boy’s father; but she could see nothing in studying for study’s sake, or in a devotion to research for the object of discovery. This might do for eccentric foreigners or crazy college professors; but for a Morton or a Randolph?—Never!

But Ruth had no such compunctions of mind, no such scruples of conscience or carefully set plans. As they sat over the meal and she listened to the serious discussion between her mother and John on subjects in which she had not the slightest interest, she became impatient.

“Mother, dear,” she said, breaking in. “I must tell you what happened to me this afternoon. Please stop talking shop and bothering about those horrid men in their offices, without souls, who sit there like spiders in webs. Anyone listening to you two would think you were a couple of promoters.”

“I think, Ruth, you might have chosen a better comparison,” remarked Mrs. Morton severely. “What is this wonderful thing that happened?”

Ruth, not a bit abashed at the reproof, went on:

“Well, Hattie and I were snoopin’ around looking for things, you know——”

“My dear, I wish you’d be a little more select in your vocabulary,” remonstrated her mother mildly.

“Mummy, dear, you must let me tell my story my own way. As I was saying, Hattie and I were shopping. You know Hattie simply won’t have anything else but the latest and Frenchiest, and no trouble’s too much for her so long as she digs it out. We had been to all the likeliest places—to Arnitt’s and Longman’s and Carson’s and many others, when she insisted that we should go to Madame Lucile’s. The great lady herself waited on her, and Hattie tried on almost everything there was in the place—hats, bonnets, laces, plumes, frocks—and could not be suited. While the things were on the shelves they looked beautiful, but when Hattie tried them on she couldn’t bear them. I am sure Madame must have been disgusted. Even I was getting ashamed of her. Well, at last Madame suggested that Mademoiselle Hello-a, or a name something like that, should come and give her opinion. The young lady, she said, was the very latest arrival from abroad and was absolutely faultless in her taste. Well, Mademoiselle with the profane name was sent for and well, she is simply wonderful!”

Ruth gazed at her listeners with eyes that said what no words could express. They seemed to suggest dreams of delight and beauty. John leaned back and roared with laughter. Ruth gave him a mingled look of pity and disdain, and turned to her mother.

“Mamma, you never in your life saw such a beautiful girl. Honest, she’s simply a wonder. It’s all very well for you to laugh, John, but you’ve not seen her. But I’ll take you to see her and then you’ll know if I’m right or not. I don’t believe she’s a day older than I am, but, somehow she’s quite womanly. And her face, oh, mother, it’s like the face of that beautiful Gainsborough picture we have, only much younger. Her hair is the loveliest color and her eyes are like violets. As for her figure—well—I’d give my eye-teeth to have one like it.”

“Say, Ruth, let up a little, won’t you?” chuckled John, “if you go on I’ll have to be carried out by the butler.”

“Let me tell you, you’ll have to be carried out when you see her; she’s a stunner.”

“Ruth, dear, don’t get so excited,” begged Mrs. Morton.

“I’m not excited, mother; but John doesn’t understand. He’s never heard her speak, or he wouldn’t make fun of what I’m saying. She talks the prettiest English in the loveliest voice you ever heard—and she’s so modest and refined. I tell you she’s one in a million. I bet she’s a lady—every inch of her—and I couldn’t help saying nice things to her. You ought to have seen her blush when I said I’d like to know her. If the girl ever does her blushing stunt when you’re around, John, you’ll just walk right up and propose to her on the spot. And I hope she’d accept you. And now, here’s my proposition. If you fix up my woods, I’ll introduce you to her. Mummy, dear, you must come to New York with me and invite her out. You’ll fall in love with her. You will come and ask her, won’t you?”

“But, Ruth, how can we invite a shop-girl to this house? You are so impulsive, my dear.”

“She’s not a shop-girl; she’s a lady,” exclaimed Ruth, indignantly.

“But a girl you know nothing about; how can you think of it? I never heard such a thing! What did Hattie Brown say?”

“Oh, Hattie! She thought her very beautiful; but she prefers dark people. Madame Lucile told us afterwards that the young lady was highly educated. Now, I’ve said all I have to say. If you don’t want to meet her, John, that’s your loss. But I tell you she’s a wonder.”

John saw that his sister was really in earnest and would hurt her feelings if he carried his jocular manner too far. Rising, he went up to her and put his arms around her shoulders.

“All right, sissie, some day I’ll ask you to introduce me. But not just now. I’m going to Idaho. I’ll seek your kind favors when I get back. Mother, dear,” he turned to Mrs. Morton, “I’ve got to go to Jackson’s Hole next week. Do you mind if I take the opportunity to put in a week’s shooting? I feel I need the rest.”

“Oh, John,” exclaimed his mother, “I’m so glad you’re going to take a vacation. You deserve it, and I’m sure you need it. When do you start? There’s nothing to keep you so far as I am concerned.”

“Thank you, mater, I’ll start next Tuesday. That will give me two days here. Judge Lowell arrives on Friday and promised to remain until I return. He’ll see to everything you may want. When you feel like going to town to stay for the season, I’ve leased the Arkwright house, and I’ve taken the even days for Box 17 at the Opera. Shall we have our coffee on the verandah, mother; it’s a lovely evening?”

Mrs. Morton smiled her assent; but said nothing further about his going away. Since her husband’s death she had clung to John with a double tenacity—a mother’s love for a son, and a woman’s reliance on the man. But she was too wise to permit her own feelings to come between them. When, later in the evening, the three were together in the spacious living-room, Ruth took her brother aside and finally got her way about the little wood.

The following morning Morton returned to the city. But this time he carried back with him his old dreams. Ruth’s story at the dinner-table had unlocked a door in his memory which he had kept closed; and now the gracious spirit wandered once more about the chambers of his mind giving him neither rest nor hope.

Would the promised letter arrive? Perhaps it was even now on its way to him across the ocean! What if it should come while he was away in Idaho? He made a note to leave instructions that it must be forwarded on to him.

Love is said to give the lover almost supernatural powers of insight and vision, as if the mysterious force produced a psychical state which responded in harmony to the presence of the loved one. If this be true, then Morton must have been born of a different species. In all his concentrated thoughts of Helène he saw her either in some retired village in Germany, or in some nunnery, or sitting in tearful neglect in a dreary attic, or living with some high-born relative and walking the world a queen in grace and beauty, the cynosure of all eyes. But never for one instant did he picture her in New York, working patiently and hopefully in a place he had passed a thousand times.

On the Saturday which was to be his last in town for some weeks to come, Morton decided to lunch at his club before leaving for Tarrytown. On the way he stopped his brougham at a gunsmith’s to purchase a rifle and ammunition for his hunting trip. Was it fate or did a mischievous fairy plan it?

It was a lovely day, one of those days on which in certain places of the earth, far from the madding crowd, fairies would come out of their secret places and dance in the green glades of the cool forest. New York’s cañons of streets were blue and gold under the gracious sunlit skies. Surely one of those lively sprites must have mistaken the city in its shining beauty for a new kind of forest; for of a certainty he was there. He must have skipped in past the yawning policeman at the corner, heedless of the noise and the crowds, and careless of the consequences. Seeing Morton in his carriage he must have whispered to him to stop at the gunsmith’s shop and go inside and take his time. And this same little fellow must have arranged it that Michael Sweeney, the best judge in the city of a damascened barrel, with the finest touch for adjusting the trigger, should just then be in the shop to wait on customers. For Michael, withal his watery eyes, could weigh powder with the skill of an assayer and discourse of guns as though they were his beloved children. Morton forgot where he was and who he was, so entranced was he. All he felt was that he was going away for a vacation—he was putting work away and going to play! The fairy had certainly enchanted him.

Outside on the avenue the horses in the brougham stamped in nervous impatience, switching their short tails in vain efforts to keep the flies away; the old coachman on the box had grown tired of flicking his whip and had dozed off in the warm shade. And all the time Morton was under Michael’s spell. Then the fairy, who had timed it well, touched the weight of the old clock in the corner and started so loud a whirr that Mike was disconcerted. The asthmatic gong gave a hoarse ding-dong—it was one o’clock!

Immediately Morton realized that he was to get the 2.30 train and that he had had no luncheon. He made for the exit hurriedly, giving at the same time brusque instructions to Michael to bring his purchases to the carriage.

Michael had wrapped everything very carefully, as was his custom, using the brown paper and string which the famous establishment always took care should be of the best, and hurried out in obedience to Morton’s instructions. Now what followed proves conclusively that there was a fairy or a leprechaun, as Michael would have called him, in New York that afternoon. For Michael had not taken two steps beyond his door, when the string broke and the contents of the brown paper parcel—hooks, lines and sinkers—were scattered, like the buttermilk from the pitcher of the fair Kitty of Coleraine, all over the place. Sweeney, the impeccable, looked aghast and could but stare at the articles rolling and sliding in every direction.

Morton was on the point of stepping into his carriage, but hearing the commotion he stopped and turned round. And here is where the fine Italian hand of the fairy came in. For now Morton also made a discovery.

CHAPTER XXVII

AS this Saturday was to be the last of the half-holidays of the summer, Margaret and Helène were devoting it to replenishing their wardrobes for the coming autumn. Monday would be “Fall Opening” day, with its resumption of longer working hours, and no other opportunity would be given them for this most necessary preparation for the winter.

The avenue was crowded. Idle promenaders mingled with people hurrying to and from work, all exhibiting, in dress and manner, the many phases of life in the metropolis. A touch of crispness in the air gave warning of the change in the season.

Margaret, broad and commanding, walked by the side of Helène as though protecting the slender figure in black from the press about them. Bent on their important affairs they stepped briskly along regardless of those about them and arrived at the gunsmith’s at the very instant of Michael Sweeney’s mishap.

Michael, bent and perspiring with the effort of collecting the scattered objects, straightened up to allow the two ladies to pass. Morton, at that moment, turned and saw one of them skip gracefully aside and then catch up with her companion’s gait. In that same instant Morton experienced a sudden singing in his brain followed by an association of ideas and an awakening of memory. He became dimly conscious of something familiar about the graceful skip of the young woman in black, and looked searchingly at the face beneath the broad-brimmed hat and veil. At once he made an undignified jump from the carriage step and was walking rapidly after the two girls.

He caught up with them and looked sharply as he passed; the next instant he had stopped right in front of them.

“Comtesse Helène!” he exclaimed, “you here?”

Helène shot a frightened look at the man before them.

“Mr. Morton!” The silvery voice bathed him in beatific memories. He saw nothing but the girl; nay, it may be doubted if he even saw her. He had taken the little hand which had been involuntarily stretched out to him and he now held it firmly as though fearful it might slip away from him, his face mirrored with his emotions. The rest of creation did not exist; it contained but this girl and himself.

“Comtesse Helène—for once fortune has favored me—I am so glad, so glad.” He could find no other words.

“Oh, Mr. Morton, I wrote you last night and mailed the letter this morning. And that I should meet you to-day of all days!”

“Pardon me, but I guess you’ve forgotten me,” interposed Margaret in her driest of drawls. “Won’t you introduce me, Helen?”

John’s face flushed and Helène looked prettily embarrassed.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Margy,” and then turning to John smilingly, she said slowly and distinctly: “Miss Helen Barton has the honor to present to Mr. Morton her dear friend and chum, Miss Margaret Fisher.”

Margaret offered her hand with somewhat cold reserve. This entrance of a male friend into her shy ward’s acquaintance was both unexpected and inexplicable. Mr. Morton looked all right—too much so, she thought with a tinge of resentment.

Morton, by this time, had regained his composure, and shook Margaret’s hand heartily.

“Now that we have been properly made acquainted with each other, may I inquire where you ladies are bound for? It is a long time since I last saw Miss-er-Barton. Have you had luncheon?”

No, they had not. And then, to Margaret’s astonishment, the timid, ingenuous Helène immediately accepted the offer which followed. On their way to the hotel, Morton did his best to appear calm and divided his attentions equally between the two girls. When they were settled comfortably near a window looking out on the avenue of one of New York’s famous hostelries, Margaret could not help speculating as to who this man was. He evidently possessed Ali Baba’s countersign, for he was waited on most assiduously. A seat at this particular hotel had always seemed to her to be the reward of the world’s elect. She glanced inquiringly at Helène, who was all unconscious of what was passing through her friend’s mind, and to Margaret’s increasing wonder Helène was taking the whole affair as if a luncheon at the Waldorf were an everyday occurrence. With the utmost sang-froid she removed her gloves and, to Morton’s delight, the protecting veil. Her eyes were sparkling with a light Margaret had never before seen in them. Who and what was this Mr. Morton? She was becoming really jealous of this interloper. She remembered that Helen had once casually referred to a Mr. Morton she had known “in the old country.” But this man was unquestionably an American! She watched him closely and noted the animation in look and tone whenever he spoke to Helen. Then she remembered that on meeting her in the avenue he had addressed her as “Countess.” What did he mean? Margaret was both puzzled and hurt.

Morton felt a restraint in himself and rightly judged that a similar feeling existed in the girls. He made an effort to remove it. Turning to Margaret, he said: “I cannot tell you, Miss Fisher, how glad I am to have met Miss Barton. When we said good-bye to each other last it was thousands of miles from here, and I suppose we both find it difficult to realize that the world is a very small place after all. You will, therefore, pardon me, I hope, for seeming unattentive. But I promise to behave better.”

Margery at once saw the situation now. She guessed they would have many things to say to each other which her presence prevented them discussing. “Two is company and three is a crowd,” she said to herself.

Smiling amiably in response to Morton’s explanation, she turned to Helène and said:

“Helen, dear, I’m sure you and Mr. Morton have much to say to each other. Now, please, don’t mind me. I am going to devote myself to the good things I see before me, and then I can enjoy looking at the styles of the women passing by the window. This is a rare treat for me.”

Helène said nothing, but a tell-tale blush spoke volumes. Morton laughed and said that Miss Fisher was right; he’d take full advantage of her forbearance.

Suiting his action to the word he drew his chair more closely to Helène, and before many minutes had passed the two had quite forgotten Margaret’s presence.

“I have kept my promise, Mr. Morton. I sent the letter this morning and it would have reached you on Monday—the first day of autumn. You will believe that I have never forgotten your kindness to me, Mr. Morton. It was, indeed, not ingratitude that kept me silent.”

“I am too happy to think of finding fault. Now that we have met again, I shall say not a word of censure. You are looking very well. Ah, Miss Barton, I give you warning that you won’t lose me again. To think that you should have been in New York for these five long months when I have searched the continent of Europe for you!”

“I know now, Mr. Morton, that it was, perhaps, wrong of me not to have communicated with you earlier. But I am very happy now.”

“I cannot tell you how glad I am!”

“I have been very content of late in my independence. It makes me proud to be able to say that.”

“I can well believe it,” responded Morton thoughtfully.

“But—Mr. Morton—it is all owing to Margy. She was and still is my good angel. I don’t know what I should have done without her. She has been my comfort and stay and the most patient and dearest friend in the world.”

Helène stretched her arm across the table and pressed Margaret’s hand, the tears filling her eyes. Margaret blushed and stroked Helène’s slender fingers. Praise always called up her innate modesty of nature. “You think too much of me, darling,” she whispered, smiling happily.

Morton looked at Margaret keenly. This was an unusual woman, he thought, as he noted the broad forehead and firm yet kindly mouth. He would not forget her kindness to the orphaned girl.

During the meal Margaret kept stealing glances at Helène. She could scarcely explain the nature of the change she now saw. This erstwhile quiet, simple maiden might be a princess, so queenly did she bear herself and so beautiful was she in her animation. “What a difference a man makes!” she thought bitterly, “especially if he is the right man,” she added as an afterthought.

The luncheon over Morton remembered that he ought to have been on his way to Tarrytown.

“Will you excuse me for a moment, ladies? My mother expects me home, and I ought to send word to her that I will be delayed. Have you any engagement for this evening, Miss Barton?”

“No, Mr. Morton,” Helène replied, “but I must not keep you from your family and friends.”

“Miss Barton, I have been in great good luck to-day, and I should like to take every advantage of it. Shall we say dinner at seven and the theatre after? Help me, Miss Fisher, won’t you?”

Morton was longing to be alone with Helène, and as he did not quite understand the relationship which existed between the two girls, he put the question hoping that she would take the initiative. He was determined not to part from Helène until he had had an opportunity to hear her whole story from her own lips.

Margaret’s practical nature saw more than the surface of things showed, and she had seen sufficient to know that she was de trop—to the man, at any rate.

“Helène, dear,” she said, “you have had enough of me for one day. Make your plans without considering me. I expect Mr. Van Dusen this evening, so that I cannot avail myself of Mr. Morton’s kind invitation. You go. I am sure you and he must have a great deal to talk about. Mr. Morton, let me thank you for including me in your invitation.”

Helène seemed somewhat uneasy. Before, however, she could reply to Margaret’s suggestion, she heard Morton say:

“You are quite right, Miss Fisher, Miss Barton and I have a great many things to talk over. You are very kind. Am I to have the pleasure, Miss Barton?”

Helène had decided. “I shall be very pleased to dine with you, Mr. Morton; but I do not care to see a play for some time yet.” Then turning to Margaret she asked: “You are sure, Margy, you don’t mind?”

“Not at all, my dear. Mr. Morton, I have acted as guardian to Helen for the past five months, and have been very strict, as you see. Perhaps I have been selfish; but Helen has been nowhere without me. She is very dear to me. You may, therefore, consider it a great compliment that I am willing to place this little treasure of mine in your care. But you must promise that you will look after her, won’t you?”

“I am honored, Miss Fisher, and beg to assure you that I deeply appreciate your trust. I shall take your place with Miss Barton.” Morton smiled, fully appreciating this unusual anxiety on Miss Fisher’s part.

“Will you excuse me now, for a few minutes, while I ’phone to my mother?”

Margaret followed him with her eyes as Morton wound his way between the tables. Helène sat gazing dreamily out of the window absorbed in her thoughts. Margaret turned to her friend.

“Well, my dear, am I to know all about him? I am bursting with curiosity, you know; but don’t tell me more than you care to.”

Helène turned her clear, honest eyes on her friend’s face. “There is not very much to tell, Margy. I met Mr. Morton about a year ago under unusual circumstances. He was a friend of my father’s. My father died since then, and you are the one friend I have now. Mr. Morton was very kind to me at the time, and I believe was willing to assume certain responsibilities on my behalf, for my father’s sake. I promised that I would let him know this autumn how I had fared, and it was only this morning that I sent him the letter which he has not yet received. I shall tell him now all that has happened to me, and he may be able to give me news of old friends abroad. Did you really intend to go out with Mr. Van Dusen?”

“Yes, dear. I was going to tell you about it, and now it will be pleasant for both of us. Your Mr. Morton, Helen, is the real swell!”

Helène laughed. “Yes, I suppose that’s what you’d call him. But to me he has been a fine friend—the best I have had—except you, dear.”

“Well, I accept the compliment. But—you know what the old song says: ‘A girl’s best friend is her lover.’ I can see, Helen, where I pass out.”

“Oh, Margy!” she exclaimed, adjusting her veil quickly.

Morton’s return at that moment ended the confidences between the girls. He was now, he told them, entirely at their service. It was then arranged that he should call for Helène at seven o’clock at the address given him by Margaret.

Helène’s hand lingered an instant in Morton’s at parting, and as he saw her happy face he knew that he was welcome.

Morton drove to his rooms. Events had been crowding on him and he wanted to be alone. On his way he stopped at a florist’s and ordered flowers to be sent to the house in Gramercy Park.

Once in his room he drew a deep chair to the window and after lighting a cigar sat down to his thoughts.

How beautiful she was! More beautiful than even he had pictured her in his dreams. This evening she would tell him everything and explain why she had kept herself away from him. And how pleased she had been to see him! One look at her face had assured him that no other man had come between them. She must have carried out her intention and come to New York to work for her living. That explained Miss Fisher. By George, that woman was a splendid protectress! He had no fault to find with her—not in the slightest. Yes—he must put off his Western journey, now.

John rose and began walking the room, whistling and smoking by turns, smiling happily. His valet in the next room could hardly believe his ears. He came obedient to a summons and was ordered to lay out evening clothes. Mr. Morton would stay in town over Saturday night. What had come over his master?

John had told his mother that he would be detained in town that night and promised to be with her for luncheon the next day. He had laughed to himself as he thought of the guessing match that would follow, between mother and daughter. Ah, if they only knew!

He dressed with great care and took a hansom, thinking it would be more fitting than his own more pretentious carriage, and as he drove down the avenue he could not forbear smiling at his thought—he was just like any ordinary young “chap” calling on his “best girl.”

Margaret and Helène, after leaving Morton and finishing their shopping, arrived home, their arms filled with packages, most happily expectant. An evening such as this promised to be to each of them was a rare occasion. Helène had been afraid that Margaret would question her further, but to her surprise and relief, she made no reference to Mr. Morton.

“I think, Helen, dear, you must let me help to dress your hair,” she said quietly, “your hat will sit better.”

Helène sensed a slight coldness in her friend; she came over to Margaret and seating herself on the arm of her chair, cuddled up to her.

“Margy, dear, you are not disapproving, are you? Do you think I ought not to dine with Mr. Morton this evening?”

Margaret held her tight and patted her shoulder affectionately.

“You mustn’t mind me, dearie; I suppose I’m a jealous old thing. It’s perfectly right to go out with Mr. Morton, and I’m glad you are going. I’ve been selfish; you’d get quite rusty if you allowed me to monopolize you. There now, little girl, hurry and get dressed and when you are ready call me.” And Margaret kissed her affectionately.

Helène knew that her friend had only her good at heart and thought it wisest to say nothing more. She went to her room, though not to dress. Her mind had been so disturbed by the sudden meeting with Morton and she was so excited over it, that she felt she must regain her composure. She took out her box of treasures containing the dried leaves of flowers and a few letters and sat fingering them thoughtfully. What passed through her mind it would be too curious to inquire. The thoughts of a girl are sacred to herself. All we need to know is that she did not sit long, but stole quietly to the mirror and looked earnestly at her face and then with a sigh of satisfaction, turned away with a happy smile.

Margaret, in her room, could hear her humming a pretty melody, the words of which she could not make out; but, certainly, they were not those of a dirge. When she responded to Helène’s call she found her ready and saw spread on the bed the latest acquisition—a gray silk dress. Margaret pretended not to notice it.

Indifferently at first she began her task of dressing Helène’s hair; but gradually the feel of the silken tresses, almost human in their touch, brought her back to her true self. With a sudden movement she leaned forward and kissing the cheek before her, whispered: “I am so glad you are going to wear that dress—you must look your prettiest to-night.”

Helène gave her a glad look and smiled. The two were once again dear friends and each felt the happier for it.

Mrs. Kane came in bearing two boxes of flowers. “From Thornley’s,” she cried, “we sure have some swell admirers, haven’t we?” Her face was beaming. Not for anything would she have foregone the pleasure of bringing in the flowers. She also saw the dress and catching Margaret’s eye she gave her a meaning look. How quickly women seize at the little straws floating on the swift current!

The box addressed “Miss Barton” contained some magnificent roses on long stems. Margaret gave an exclamation of admiration. Then taking out a large bouquet of violets she held them out to Helène: “To match your eyes, my dear,” she laughingly remarked, with a low curtsey.

At last both were ready to their mutual satisfaction, though not before Margaret had made a careful survey of Helène from all sides to make certain that she had received the finishing touches that would heighten her darling’s charms. Then she had to leave, because Mr. Van Dusen had arrived and was waiting for her in the parlor.

The Mr. Van Dusen who had now become a regular frequenter at the Kane boarding-house was a different gentleman from the dapper young man of the summer. His visits to Margaret had become the talk of the table. Helène, however, was the only one who seemed to see nothing of a special purpose in his calls. She always took him as a matter of course. Under Margaret’s influence, no doubt, Van Dusen’s manner had lost its flippancy and air of condescension. He had gained both in reserve and tact, so much so, indeed, that in his intercourse with Margaret, it was he who played the part of the serious friend and she that of the light-hearted tease. To see them as they sat in the parlor one would have said that Van Dusen was undoubtedly a man of experience and good sense.

Margaret had not failed to notice the improvement. She was glad of the change and her lightness of manner may have been part of her strategy to bring out the stronger nature she knew he possessed. She told him of her meeting with Helène’s friend and the luncheon at the Waldorf.

“Who was he?” inquired Van Dusen somewhat anxiously.

“Oh, a very handsome man, evidently rich, and looked like a Westerner and with the nicest manners and voice. He is a—Mr. Morton.”

“Oh, how did he come to know Miss Barton?”

“They met abroad some time ago. He didn’t seem sure of her name, because he called her by a word that sounded like Countess. What do you make of it? I didn’t like to ask Helène more than she cared to tell me.”

Van Dusen sat looking down thoughtfully.

“You know,” he said after a pause, “I always had an idea that Miss Barton was not any ordinary young woman. She is so different, don’t you know. I’ll wager she’s some aristocrat. Poor girl, she must have gone through great trouble. Did she show any sign of anxiety when he spoke to her?”

“No, on the contrary, she was very surprised and then very pleased. She kept on blushing whenever he spoke to her—and he—well he sat looking at her as if he couldn’t take his eyes off her face. I was afraid he’d forget himself and begin making love to her right in the restaurant. If ever a man was in love with a girl that Mr. Morton is with Helène, or I don’t know anything about men.”

“What’s Mr. Morton’s business, do you know?”

“No, I don’t, and I believe Helen doesn’t know either. He’s a gentleman, there’s no doubt about that, and as good-looking as they make ’em. His face seems familiar as if I had seen him before; but I can’t place him.”

“Are you thinking of a portrait of a Mr. Morton you saw in the newspapers, Miss Margaret?”

Margaret stared at him for a moment and then exclaimed:

“That’s it! You struck it! That’s just where I did see that face. It’s a strong face with a slightly drooping mustache and gray eyes so calm that you feel small as you look into them. That’s the very man! Who is he?”

“Well,” replied Van Dusen, “if he’s the Mr. Morton whose portrait was in the ‘Tribune’ the other day, he’s John R. Morton of Cleveland.”

“Who is he?”

“You don’t mean to tell me you’ve never heard of him?”

“No, I never did, and I am sure Helen never reads the papers carefully enough to have seen it. But don’t look so surprised at me—who is he—some criminal or a politician?”

“Oh, Lord,” groaned Van Dusen, “this beats anything I ever heard. Why, John R. Morton is the only son and successor of old Dan Morton; he’s just the biggest man in New York—and some man! You know my governor is no piker when it comes to dollars, but Morton—why all the blue bloods of New York are not in the same class with him. He could buy and sell them all without the wink of an eyelash. I’ve met him at the Metropolitan Club this summer. He’s a biggish fellow, about 33, a couple of inches shorter than I am. Talks like a professor, gentle and quiet. By George! I remember now. There was something in the papers about his being mixed up in some foreign business with revolutions and princesses. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s the man. No wonder Miss Barton turned me down. Why, John Morton is the greatest catch in the country and as fine a fellow as ever stood in shoe leather, so they say.”

Margaret suddenly realized that she had not been wise to open the conversation on a matter which concerned Helène alone. Indeed, she had done wrong, she felt, especially as she had not pressed Helène herself for information. She was deeply vexed at her indiscretion.

“Excuse me, a moment, Mr. Van Dusen,” she said quickly, “while I get my coat. I shall not be long. Helen will not be down this evening.”

Without waiting she walked rapidly out of the room. The door closed behind her, she became at once thoughtful. No—she would say nothing to Helen of what she had been told. Besides, she did not know how to broach the subject without betraying herself. She put on her coat and opening Helène’s door she looked in and called out smilingly: “I’ll sit up for you, dear.” Before Helène could reply the door had been closed and Margaret was running down the stairs.

Helène heard the front door slam and knew that she would have to face the coming ordeal alone. How she dreaded the announcement of Mr. Morton’s arrival! Mrs. Kane would draw her own conclusion immediately. The new dress, the flowers, the elaborate preparations—well, Mrs. Kane must think what she liked! It could not be helped now. To-morrow would be the twenty-first of September—the last day of summer. She glanced at the royal roses crowding the vase, their heads proudly erect as if in challenge to the world. Then her eyes fell on the sweet purple of the violets on the table—“The last rose of summer,” she murmured; “but the violet is blue—true blue.”

Her watch told her that it was still some minutes before the time. She must not betray any anxiety or show any undue haste. She would wait ... ah—the electric bell was ringing. A deep voice, his voice, reached her above the hum of talk—then quick steps ascending and a knock at her door brought Nora, the maid.

“Miss Barton, Mr. Morton is waiting in the parlor.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

BRILLIANT lights flooded the gallery adjacent to the sumptuous dining-room from which it was separated by a balustrade of palms. The tables were occupied by men in sombre evening dress, setting off to greater advantage the bright costumes of the ladies who sat with them. The air palpitated with the hum of talk, the peals of light laughter, the clinking of silver and glass and the music of a string orchestra. The perfumes of flowers, the odors of viands and the scent of tobacco smoke rose like the incense from a burnt-offering. The place was typical of one of the more select of the restaurants in the best sections of New York.

At a small table sat Helène and Morton facing each other. Helène’s face was radiant with a happiness that was reflected from Morton’s eyes as he gazed at her—and her only. Morton had quite forgotten the months of anxiety of the spring and summer, he had cast into oblivion the many questions he had intended to ask. It was enough for him that she was there, facing him, happy and her dear self again. He was wishing he could tell her all he felt and all he could not repress in his face. As a matter of fact, however, he was conversing with her just as any man would do who might be dining at Berry’s with a lady. But he was not conscious of the power habit gave him to hide his emotions.

Helène’s modest frock was quite in contrast to the costly and elaborate gowns of the ladies near her. Those of the sisterhood who sent occasional searching glances at her wished they had the courage to wear so simple a dress and to look so beautiful in it. The men eyed her in open admiration, and the waiters evidently were of the same opinion, for they were most deferential and suave to the slender girl in dove gray with the violets in her corsage.

To Morton the fresh beauty of Helène grew so overpowering in its insistency that he put his feelings into words before he knew what he was saying: “You are bewitching, to-night, Comtesse,” he breathed, “wonderfully so.”

Helène’s face suffused with blushes while she gave him a quick look of surprise; but the next moment she smiled and her smile was like a ray of sunlight through a rift in the clouds.

“The dress is pretty, is it not?” she said. “I am glad now I had the courage to wear it. I did not expect you would take me to so fashionable a place as this seems to be.”

Morton said nothing, but looked volumes. He dared not to say any more; he dreaded a return of shyness and timidity in her, and yet he hoped it would not pass away. He saw the two pretty little hands resting flower-like on the white damask, fingering a fork, and an impulse came over him to take them in his own and tell her there and then, of his love and his heart’s desires. But the primitive man in him held him back; it was so delightful to watch the ebb and flow of shy reserve and unconscious expression in the sweet mobile face. What is it in the human male that prompts him to seek this peculiar pleasure, as of a cat playing with a mouse? Morton would have been highly indignant had any one dared so to characterize his attitude at this moment and he would have been justified, because he was as much the victim as the victimizer—he was simply obeying the compulsion of the moment, enjoying in anticipation the pleasure that he somehow was convinced the future held for him.

The current of his emotions must have leaked through some faulty insulation and induced a corresponding current in Helène, for she suddenly became reserved and shy again. She sought refuge in a question.

“Shall I tell you of my adventures after I left Weimar?” she said.

The waiter had deposited two high-stemmed glasses filled with a pale liquid before them.

“I am most anxious to hear everything,” he said; “but first let us drink to good luck.”

He raised his glass and watched her take a dainty sip of the apéritif and then with a puzzled expression replace the glass on the table.

“Your very good health, Comtesse Helène,” he said, “and may we always be good friends,” and emptied his glass.

The orchestra had struck up a new piece. She listened intently for a moment to the first few bars, and then her face lightened and the tears came to her eyes.

“Do you hear, Mr. Morton, do you remember, it’s ‘The Blue Danube.’”

“Yes, I remember well. We heard it at the Bristol in Vienna on the day I left for home,” he whispered back hastily, overcome with the emotion born of the recollection. The next moment, however, he was the courtly host again. It was the present, not the past, that concerned him just now.

“And now, Miss Helène, may I hear your story?”

At first hesitatingly, then somewhat more fluently and occasionally with a rush of words, she began and continued the story we know. When she came to the incident with the Frau Professor in Hanover, she scarcely knew how to relate it without conveying a false impression about herself to Morton. But he realized the situation without her assistance.

“I think I can fully appreciate the Frau Professor’s motives,” he said, “the poor woman, worried and harassed by cares, had become soured by her life. Many other women would have been only too glad to avail themselves of your services; but you know, Miss Helène, Germany demands diplomas and references more than she does ability. But go on with your tale.”

Helène then told of her meeting with Margaret Fisher and told it so enthusiastically that she forgot the excellent food before her. Then came the voyage to America and her adventures in New York. When she had finished, she looked at Morton, searching his face for a sign of interest or reproach; but what she saw there made her cast her eyes down quickly.

“Do you not think I did right, Mr. Morton, in coming to America?” she asked, playing with the ice before her, “or did I act too hastily?” There was a pleading note in her voice. She had not intended to say the words, but her confusion consequent on seeing the expression in Morton’s face threw her back on an instinct which women possess and which they exercise in self-protection, the instinct which appeals to the man and acknowledges his superiority.

Morton did not reply at once, but busied himself slowly pouring out the coffee—the one menial office a man permits himself at a dinner-table—and took the time thus granted him to reflect on what he should say. This was the point which he had been hoping to reach in order to discover her real motives.

“Under the circumstances, Miss Helène,” he said, “I think I would have acted as you did. But why the secrecy towards Mr. and Mrs. Tyler, both of whom had become greatly attached to you? And why did you not let me know? Surely we had done nothing to deserve your displeasure! Ah, Miss Helène, how I searched for you and scoured the most unlikely places in my efforts to find you! Why did you do it?”

Morton’s face expressed his grievance and he could not repress a slight tremor in his voice.

Helène had become white at his words of reproach. She struggled with herself to regain composure and find a fitting answer. About them everything had become suddenly quiet and she felt as if everybody in the room were looking at them. For an instant she gave a frightened glance around to see if her feelings had been justified; but she found the same people there, all absolutely unconscious of her. Immediately she realized that the place was her best protection. Alone with him she would have confessed herself—here, in the crowd, she could tell him only what she judged proper.

“Do you remember, Mr. Morton, that we had agreed to wait until the autumn? To-night is still summer—my dress and the lovely violets bear witness to that. Why should we not enjoy the season while it is still with us? This is my first dinner en fête—will you not allow me to taste its pleasure to the full without scolding me? If I have been naughty, be kind to-night, mon chevalier.”

She breathed the last two words and looked at him pleadingly, her lips tremulous, the blue eyes shining. Without saying a word, Morton bent over and kissed the hand on the table.

“My dear child,” his voice was husky with emotion, “I am a brute. Of course, it shall be as you say. And, after all, what does anything matter? You are here, safe and well, and I—I am fortune’s favorite in the privilege you have extended to me this evening. To-night, as you have said, is still summer. I shall match the sunshine in your eyes with the warm friendship in my heart.”

“Thank you, dear friend,” whispered Helène with drooping lashes.

“And to-morrow, Miss Helène, is another summer’s day. Will you not give me a second opportunity to act as your escort? Let me take you to our home in Tarrytown. My mother will welcome you, and you and Ruth—do you remember my little sister?—you two can roam as you please in the park and woods. It promises to be a beautiful day. Will you come?”

“You are very kind, Mr. Morton. I don’t know what to say. I have thought of your sister with the pretty name, very often. Does she know of my existence?”

How utterly different is the trend of women’s minds from men’s, thought Morton. He had not dared to bare his soul even to Ruth, and yet Helène took it for granted that he had spoken of her, and she was, perhaps, speculating at this very moment, if his description of her had been favorable.

“I want you to be my surprise to them, Miss Helène, if you will. You have become so thoroughly Americanized that I doubt if my mother will guess at your identity, though she knows I met you in Europe. But Ruth knows nothing, and she will throw her slang at you as she would at any New York girl she knows. So permit me to introduce you merely as a friend without any further explanations.”

“Why, Mr. Morton, they will know immediately I am a foreigner—my first words will tell the tale—they always do. Still, I will accept your invitation gladly.”

“Thank you,” replied Morton simply.

“Won’t you tell me about your mother and sister?” Helène asked shyly.

Morton laughed; the question was a natural one for one girl to put to another, but to him, a man, it was a puzzling one to answer. However, he entered into the spirit of her curiosity and told her what he thought would interest her. Helène had become quite animated now, and Morton enjoyed keenly watching the sweet play of her features, the dainty gestures of her little hands, so slender and soft and dimpled, as he told her of his home life in his quiet unassuming manner. His eyes kept looking at the finger which he was hoping some day to adorn.

“Is it not getting late, Mr. Morton?” Helène’s voice broke in on his thoughts with a seeming suddenness that startled him. “Margy will be waiting for me, and I must not keep her up late. If I abuse my present privilege, she’ll not let me go another time. Margy is very strict, you know. Sometimes I think she is jealous. Oh, but we’ve been so happy together, and she’s been so good and so patient. I can never hope to repay her.”

“Yes, Miss Fisher is a fine young woman,” he said. “It was a Providence that sent her to you.”

To himself he thought that if the buxom Margaret were his only rival, he could afford to be gracious. And as for her jealousy—well—he could well understand that.

“Won’t you ask Margaret to come with me, Mr. Morton?”

“I shall willingly do so, if you wish,” he replied with a slight dropping of his voice; “but if you came alone it would fit in better with our plan.”

Morton thought he saw a threatening cloud in the distance. “Go slow, old man, go slow,” he said to himself, “let her do the talking.”

To his surprise, however, she dropped the subject.

“When do we start?” she asked.

“There’s a good train at 9:40. Will it be too early if I call for you a little after nine?”

“Oh, no, we breakfast early on Sunday. Shall we go now, Mr. Morton?”

Morton settled the bill and the two left followed by the admiring glances of the late diners in the room. John’s vanity had been suppressed from an early day; his training and habit of mind had made him indifferent to what people might say of him. But as he walked across the spacious salon he could not help noticing the looks sent in Helène’s direction, and felt quite proud. Yes, the girl was worth admiring, he said to himself.

The fairy of the afternoon must have been near them all the time, for in spite of the salaaming manager at the exit and the cry of “Cab, sir?” from a waiting driver, Morton was compelled to turn his head away and look up at the big moon floating in the spangled blackness of the gorge’s roof. A voice seemed to whisper to him: “Make hay while the moon shines.” Instantly he had taken Helène by the arm and though his heart beat within him he said, in a most matter-of-fact tone: “Shall we walk? It’s a delightful evening.”

Of a certainty the fairy was at work; for the cool air was laden with the scent of the meadows across the river and touched with the dew distilled of youth’s innocent hearts. Margaret was forgotten, the night was bathed in beauty and the bell of a neighboring clock lost one of its strokes in the reverberating sounds from the cañon’s sky-scrapered sides.

It is good to be young and to be pure in heart; for then we stand well in the esteem of the fairies of our land. Morton trembled at the touch of Helène’s arm as he walked by her side, breathing in the cool, scented breeze, and realized, for the first time in his life, that he was, indeed, rich.

When they arrived at the shadowed doorway of the boarding-house, Helène gave a quick look upward and saw a light in the window of her sitting-room. She felt guilty and a little afraid. John stood for a moment, hat in hand, and took the dear hand in his own warm, friendly grip. Then bowing deeply he touched it with his lips.

“Good night, Miss Helène, and pleasant dreams attend you. I shall call in the morning.”

“Good night, Mr. Morton, and thank you for a most enjoyable evening. I hope these violets will keep. I should like to wear them to-morrow.”

Morton smiled and watched her go up the steps. The door opened. Helène turned to the still waiting man standing bareheaded in the moonlight.

“Good night, Mr. Morton,” she cried in her happy voice.

“Good night, Miss Barton,” but his words were drowned in the sound of the closing door.

He looked up at the light in her window for a moment and then, replacing his hat, walked slowly away.

Helène tripped up the stairs rapidly and almost rushed into the sitting-room ready with an explanation to Margaret for her late return; but although the light was brightly burning, no Margaret was there. She looked into the bedroom but she was not there either. Where was she? What had detained her? It was so unusual for her not to keep her word. Well, she would wait until she arrived. The soft arm-chair was inviting and Helène was not sorry to be alone and dream over the wonderful events of this wonderful day.

But where was Margery? Ah, that is another story. Shortly after leaving the boarding-house, she and Van Dusen were comfortably seated at a table in a restaurant very similar to the one in which Helène and Morton had spent such intimate hours. Miss Fisher, the buxom damsel, and Van Dusen, the gilded youth of Gotham’s pride, may not have appeared to the ordinary eye as fit subjects for romance, but the ordinary eye is ordinary just because it does not see below the surface of things and people. We, who are not ordinary, see more deeply and know better, which is our reason for being present at this second dinner also.

Van Dusen had evidently made up his mind, though it would seem he lacked somewhat of courage. He had had his cocktail and not a few glasses of wine. Margaret had not failed to notice his nervousness and the frequency with which he refilled his glass, but she said nothing and tried to look unconcerned. She was herself nervous; her usual self-possession and poise seemed to have left her. She had tried on previous occasions to restrain him but to-night he was more than usually reckless.

As the wine began mounting to his head, he became more and more sentimental and more and more talkative, and unbosomed himself to her of his hopes and aspirations. He called her Margy and dearest Margy, and laying his large bony hand with its prominent knuckles over her plump one, he fastened on her ox-like eyes that gleamed amorously. He was pleading his cause with her.

Margaret, full of doubt and distress, with her lips tightly compressed and her bosom rising and falling in her agitation, knew not which way to turn.

“Margy, dear,” he said almost tearfully, “I know you haven’t much faith in my protestations and that you think me fickle; but you are unjust to me—honestly you are. I know I’ve been a fool; but I’ve been cured of my folly. Margy, I want you—only you.

“I love you, Margy. Give me a chance to prove it, won’t you? You always understood me better than any girl I’ve ever met. I know now that it was you I really cared for from the first—really I do. I know it sounds silly to say so, but my running after your little friend was only a momentary fancy—an impulse of admiration, and not love. Instead of being unhappy, I was glad she refused me. Margy, don’t let that silly business prejudice you against me. I don’t amount to much; but I want to be somebody, and—you can help me. There isn’t anybody like you—and you can do what you will with me.”

He paused while his exploring hand groped for hers: “Say something, Margy. Say you will believe me and give me a trial.”

Margaret had kept her eyes all the time fixed on the table; she raised them now and looked full into his now thoroughly serious, pale face. The earnestness she saw there was as evident as it was unexpected. Was she wise in permitting him to talk like this? And yet, after all, he was a man and should know his own mind. She could but admit to herself that he had been very kind, very courteous to her, and what he said was really true—he had been marked in his attentions to her from the first time they had met. He was young—but that was only in manner, not in years. And, she could not help confessing that she liked him better than any other man she had known.

Van Dusen sensed her kindlier feelings for him from the changing expressions in her face.

“Listen, Margy,” he urged, “mother likes you. She says you are the most sensible and wholesome girl she has ever met. Only last night she told me that I needed a girl like you to wake me up and keep me straight. I know she will be glad if you will have me—honest, she will!”

In a moment Margaret—the strong, big, wholesome Margaret—forgot all her doubts, forgot her oft-repeated vows to celibacy, forgot everything except that she was lonely and still young, that Howard was the kindest of men, and that it would be pleasant to take care of him, to make a good husband and a successful man out of this spoiled boy. She looked at his face and noticed that his hair had become disordered in his excitement and felt an irrepressible desire to brush it straight. She hesitated what to say—began to temporize with herself—and ended where all end who hesitate—by being lost.

“Do you really care for me so much?” she murmured. “I never, never thought you did.” Howard made an impulsive movement towards her.

“Please, remember, we are in a public place. Don’t lean over and look at me like that. Please, sit up straight and let us be calm.”

“Then, tell me, Margy, that you care for me. Tell me that you love me.”

Margaret admitted that she was very fond of him—and immediately felt very happy.

He made another movement to get nearer to her. “Please, please, remember where we are!” And to her own surprise she burst into tears.

Quickly drying her eyes, she whispered: “Do you really love me, dear?”

This time Howard disregarded all injunctions. Leaning over the table he almost sent the solitary sugar bowl between them sliding to the carpeted floor, and whispered in her ear: “Shall we go, dearest?” The question sounded ridiculously inane, but it had a very practical import.

Proudly and with a new-born sense of protection, he assisted her with her coat and walked with her to the door. To the boy who handed him his hat and cane he gave all the change his large fist could grab. Flushed with victory and anticipatory happiness, he followed the tall, striking figure of the girl into the street.

Once outside, he lost not a moment in drawing her hand through his arm and leading her down the quieter side street. Where they walked or what they said to each other neither of them knew. The evening was balmy and the little park in Madison Square a quiet haven with most accommodating benches in the deep shadows. And as the benches can neither see nor speak nor hear, what transpired there was, therefore, never recorded.

When Margaret reached the house in Gramercy Park, she found it as quiet as a church. The vestibule, that time-honored institution of America, the ever-ready refuge for laughing swains and coy maidens, was inviting and bright. Margaret did not see the fantastic designs on Howard’s face made by the arabesques etched on the glass panels of the door, nor did he see anything but her sweet eyes and arched lips. And here they sealed their plighted troth; here they made their plans for the morrow’s new-coming happiness. John Morton need have no fear about Margaret going with Helène. The good fairy had done his day’s work most excellently well.

Helène was sitting in comfortable deshabille, waiting for Margaret. She had almost made up her mind to chide the lax duenna for her dereliction of duty. But when she saw Margaret open the door she greeted her as if a midnight home-coming were a common occurrence in their lives.

And Margaret? Margaret carefully locked the door and then walked straight up to Helène. She knelt down before her, put her arms about her and kissed her without giving utterance to a single word.

For a few moments the two rested thus in close embrace, and then Helène, the inexperienced, innocent child-woman, kissed her dear friend and stroking her cheek and hair, murmured:

“I am glad from my heart, dearest, that it has come. I am sure you will both be very, very happy.”

Who had told her? Ah, who knows?

The workings of a woman’s brain are mysterious, her moods subtle, and the communion between one woman’s mind and another’s ever a miracle. The instant she had spoken Helène felt that she had always known that Van Dusen loved Margaret; nay, that he could not help loving her. And yet, a moment before she would have denied vehemently the possibility of her entertaining even a suspicion of such a thought. Scientists may write volumes about the feminine brain; they may dissect and weigh it as much as they please—their experiments will but bear witness to their futility, for their analyses will have been in vain. It is wisest not to analyse but simply to bow down and accept this perfect organism. Man may intellectualize and reason; but woman knows, and she never questions how or why she knows.

Margaret, her head against Helène’s breast was crying softly and protesting that she would never leave her darling, never forsake her so long as Helène wanted her. Helène said nothing, but sat still and allowed the girl to kiss and embrace her. Her sympathetic silence had its beneficent influence, and when Margaret had quieted down, Helène said to her:

“Margy, dear, it is the best that could come to you. I have known it all along. You must think now only of your own happiness. And now, good night, Margy, dear, it is very late and we must be up early in the morning. Happy dreams be with you.”

Helène lay in her bed thinking, not of her friend’s new-found happiness, but of the morning’s meeting, and the visit to Morton’s home. She was anxious about the impression she would make on his mother and sister and painfully timid of the ordeal. Of Morton himself she had no fear—he had been so kind, so happy to meet her. There was but one problem with regard to him she had still left unsolved—it related to the money in the bank at Weimar. She was at a loss how to broach the subject and how to dispose of it once and for all. She lay awake for a long time turning it over in her mind again and again. She decided finally that she would speak of it at the first opportunity and have done with it. She would not then be his debtor, and would feel free of the burden it had been to her.

Comforted by this decision, she closed her eyes and with a happy sigh slept peacefully the deep and strengthening sleep of a mind at rest.

Margaret sat for a long time going over in her mind all that happened to her on this momentous evening. She was doing battle with herself to subjugate the doubts that kept assailing her as to the step she had taken. For, indeed, she had gone through a wonderful metamorphosis. Yesterday, an ordinary working girl—to-day, the affianced of a Van Dusen! A few hours ago she was a confirmed spinster, and now she was happy in the possession of the truest lover a girl was ever blessed with. Her eyes fell on the finger of her left hand on which shone a gorgeous diamond—his betrothal ring. He had had it ready in his pocket—nay, as he told her, he had had it there for weeks, waiting until he could muster up the courage to speak to her. What a man!

She began slowly to undress, speculating the while as to whether or no she should wear the ring in the morning. What would Mrs. Kane and the others say? She extinguished the light, but not before she had taken a last admiring and loving look at the glittering gem, and crept into her bed. Should she remove the ring or wear it? The pillow was soft and soothing. She stretched her limbs luxuriously. Should she wear the ring or—her eyes closed in sleep.

Sleep, dear girl; sleep and dream of the happiness that has at last come to you. Your brave spirit shall soon receive its reward. Love, with which you blessed, will bless you.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE harvest moon that had smiled so benignly upon New York in all its fullness the evening before had proved a false prophet. The wind had shifted to the east and brought a copious rainfall during the early morning hours, and it was still drizzling when Morton’s carriage drew up before the Gramercy Park house.

The feelings of Helène, who had risen early, and in high spirits, had begun to oscillate while awaiting the arrival of Morton, alternating between looking forward with hopeful expectancy to meeting the ladies of whom she had thought so often, and the dread of a possible unfavorable impression she might create.

Laboring under these depressing doubts, her greeting of Morton appeared less spontaneous than he in his optimism had anticipated. The exchange of salutations became quite formal, his compliment on her appearance sounded commonplace. When, during the short drive to the Grand Central Station, he once more and rather soberly expressed his regret that their outing had begun in such unpromising weather, Helène turned to him with a somewhat pathetic smile:

“I don’t mind the rain at all. I think I am really frightened at the prospect of meeting Mrs. Morton and your sister!”

“You dear child—you need not worry on that score! They can’t help but like you, and I am quite confident that you will like them.”

“You give me courage, Mr. Morton—I do hope you will prove to be right!” Helène’s smile had now lost its pathos, anticipating to Morton the breaking of the sunshine through the clouds which was promised by a rapidly widening strip of heavenly blue.

In the drawing-room of the now quickly moving train, Helène found the opportunity she had been waiting for so long.

“Mr. Morton—I want to speak to you on a matter which has been constantly on my mind. It relates to that money in the Weimar bank. I cannot accept it—it is not rightfully mine. Please withdraw what of it is yours. I cannot take money from you, really I cannot!”

Morton was not surprised. He had expected some such outbreak as this. In the stillness of the past night, in which he had devoted some hours to his “Hellenic studies,” he had once again read the girl’s last letter to him, and while in the blissful state of having found her, had also decided what he would do should she speak of this matter.

“Miss Barton, you told me yesterday that you had written to me to Cleveland. The letter should reach me in two days. In that letter, I presume, you accept the injunctions laid upon you by your father? Am I right?” Helène, who had been anxiously awaiting his reply, nodded.

“Your father had enjoined me to act in his stead. Consequently, I have become, so to say, your legal guardian. Now, Miss Helène, as you are still a minor, any action with reference to any property or money you may own, lies with me. You surely do not question my qualifications for this duty?” Helène gave a protesting and frightened, “Oh—no!”

“Very good, then, suppose you leave this all to me and to my office. When the proper time arrives, my secretary will render you a full account. Until then, please let us dismiss it!” The mouth of his vis-à-vis showed a decided droop, which made Morton immediately change both his tone and tactics. Taking the little hand that hung listlessly at her side, and giving her his most brotherly smile, he said, as insinuatingly as he knew how:

“Poor child, you have been worrying all these months without any real cause! You should have had full confidence in your father’s wisdom and in me. Now remember what you promised me last evening? To-day is still summer, this is to be yours and Ruth’s day. Brush away the wrinkles from your brow and let us all be happy. See, the sun is shining again, bright and warm. The country will look the better for the rain. Even the elements are on their best behavior in your honor, Miss Helène, and you should reciprocate!”

His eyes met her searching glance unwaveringly. She saw no guile in them and her heart found its happiness in surrendering to his authority.

Helène and Morton were the sole occupants of the lumbering “carry-all” that deposited them at the open park gate. The gravel paths had dried, but the lawns still glistened with myriads of dazzling rain-born gems. The foliage of bush and tree shone with a renewed gloss and the sweet scent of new-mown hay belied the spring-morn redolence of the balmy air which was filled with faint whispers of bird-song.

Helène breathed the gracious air and with care-free heart tripped joyously by the side of her companion, exclaiming her delight in the beauty of her surroundings. Then both grew silent. The restfulness of the garden, the peace of the Sabbath and the hush of memories were upon them.

The path rose gradually. The sauntering pair advanced slowly until, emerging from a group of thick shrubbery, they caught the first glimpse of the majestic river glistening in the broad sunlight. The charming vista drew renewed admiration from Helène and brought the suggestion from her companion that she should rest upon a convenient stone seat in the deep shade nearby.

“We have many things to talk about, Miss Helène, and, I fear, once my mother meets you, I shall find very little further opportunity. You have given me an outline of your life during the past ten months, and you have told me you are now quite happy. Will you not tell me of your ambitions, of your work and, perhaps, of your plans? This is a cozy spot, almost made for friendly confidences.”

Helène’s eyes rose questioningly to his; but the calm face beamed kindly and invitingly on her.

“I am, indeed, very happy, Mr. Morton. I have not heard from either Weimar or Roumelia, so that I am entirely out of touch with my old life. What has been the fate of my country and my Princess? Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

She paused questioningly. Was she trying to gain time? But surely, it was Morton’s turn to speak.

“The last information I received from abroad,” replied Morton, “said that the Princess Marie-Louise was still at Weimar. Some ten days ago I had a letter from Mr. Rosen, the first news from Roumelia since we left it. Conditions there have at last begun to improve somewhat; life has become bearable, he writes. Miss Rachel is well. About the political state of the country, however, he is silent. From Berlin come rumors that the Royalist party is growing stronger every day and that an important move may be expected shortly. Would you wish to return to your own country, Miss Helène?”

“I have no one left there, Mr. Morton, who would claim me. And even if restitution were offered and papa’s land should be returned to me—what could I do there? No, Roumelia and I have parted forever, I fear. This country, your country, Mr. Morton, has opened to me a new vista in life, even if its prospects are not quite clear. But to tell the truth, I have not thought much of what is to come, and I have formed no plans for the future.”

But John had his plans, however, but these lay hidden in his breast, for the time had not yet come for him to reveal them. He had his road cut out before him.

“I am delighted to hear that our beautiful country finds an admirer in you. It well deserves it. Do you know, your remarks recall a curious prophecy pronounced by your father in one of our frequent conversations. He pointed out that history proves the constant trend of progress from the East to the West, and predicted that the most powerful commonwealths, the most enlightened people will in future dwell in the West. His words recurred to me the other night while thinking over what a friend of mine, a prominent professor of the city, had said to me on the subject of telepathy. I was wishing I could speak to you by means of this mysterious power, wishing I could bring you nearer to me or know where I could find you. And, behold, the very next day I met you! It must have been this mysterious force of the ‘westward trend’ that brought you here.”

A flush suffused Helène’s face. “Then you did sometimes think of me?” she asked shyly. “I see now that it was wrong in me not to write. But, oh, I was so ignorant of life—will you not forgive me? Happy as I was with Margaret, the thought of my negligence was never out of my mind—and—I corrected my error just as soon as I could!”

“My dear Miss Helène, my dear child—all is well that ends well!” He glanced about him; for he had a sudden feeling that eyes were hidden in the bushes. But all breathed rest and solitude, not a sound disturbed the still air. “Miss Helène, we have still some time before us. Mother and Ruth are at church. Let us walk up to the brow of the hill, where you can get a wider view of the river. It is but a few rods from there to the house, and we can time our arrival by observing my mother’s carriage drive up!”

Helène was chatting vivaciously now about her interesting work, and was expressing her admiration for the customs of this, her country by adoption. She permitted Morton the full enjoyment of her confidences. The path led to a low marble building patterned after a Grecian temple, which occupied the summit of the gentle hill.

“There is our goal, Miss Helène. Please do not turn round until you are on the porch; to obtain the full effect of the beauty of the view, it should come by surprise!” She smiled up to him happily and, obedient to his request, sat down on a wicker-bench he drew towards her. The next moment a glad cry of wonderment escaped her.

There before her gaze spread the broad river bordered by luxurious trees, the waves of which shimmered in the brilliant light of the sun now high above them, and beyond the glorious waters the olive smoothness of the hills on the opposite bank. The foreground, a well-kept park, lost itself into neighboring slopes equally parklike. On the waters, the one thing in motion, an ungainly barge towed by a powerful tug; and over all the quiet of leisure, the restfulness of solitude.

“Oh, Mr. Morton,” she exclaimed, “I am so grateful to you for bringing me here. It is glorious! And to think that we are but a few miles from the gigantic city and its teaming millions! Wonderful! I see now why your people love this place. Will you point out your house to me?”

“The house is hidden beyond that slight swell to your left. There, right under us, is the driveway. Shall we sit here awhile? It is so quiet and restful—almost like in a church, don’t you think?” He found a seat on one of the steps of the porch.

Helène, smiling assent, gratefully relaxed in her seat. She was too happy to speak. She felt at peace with herself and all the world.

“Miss Helène,” Morton broke into her reveries. “Would you be interested to know what happened to me since we parted? You have not inquired?”

“I am more than interested, only I had not the courage to ask. Please tell me.” She placed her hands together supplicatingly.

“May I go further back than one year? I should like to tell you about my earlier life. You may find it entertaining.”

“Nothing would please me more;” her animated eye confirmed her words. Morton sat leaning against the fluted column.

“It seems a long time as I look back, but as a boy, I was, no doubt, as fond of studies and athletics as most boys; but somehow, I never became intimate with my schoolmates. My father’s wealth prevented me, for I was always reminded of it, and I resented it. It was the same at college. Whenever I attempted to embrace a friendship offered me, my father’s position interfered. I don’t believe that the young men of my country are any more devout worshipers of the Golden Calf than those of the rest of the world; but I suppose I was over-sensitive. At all events, I came in time to hate wealth. I put down to that the loneliness of my youth; for I became more and more a solitary. In time this so grew on me that, after my graduation from Harvard, I went abroad—to England and then to Germany. There I devoted myself to literary and scientific studies. Strange to say, the people there were more willing to value me for what I was, and I lived there some of the happiest days of my life. Do I tire you with this autobiography, Miss Helène?”

“Not at all, Mr. Morton. I am greatly interested. Please continue.”

“I returned to Cleveland with the full intention of entering one of my father’s enterprises. I had quite a leaning towards engineering and had acquired considerable knowledge of it. My father approved when I spoke to him, but I could see that he did not believe I was serious. He suspected that I had made the suggestion to please him. I believe now he was right, because I soon grew restless again. I tried travel for one year and was attached to our Embassy in London—but nothing satisfied me. Again I returned to America and assisted my father in some work in the Rocky Mountains; but wanderlust once more seized me and I went to the Soudan. It was on my return from that place that I met and came to know the Count, your father.” Morton paused and locked his hands over his knee; then he continued in a softer voice: “To know him was to reverence him. The few days of companionship I had the privilege to spend with him have had a great influence on me. When I came home I was a changed man. To-day, I am engaged, heart and mind, in the work my father so ably laid out for me. I am a business man; and, strange as it may sound, I am proud of it.”

Helène had listened with the deepest attention and interest showing in her mobile features. When Morton paused, she said simply:

“I do not think it strange, Mr. Morton. Since I have lived in America I have come to look up to the business man—the man of action. I think his is the noblest of occupations. The European attitude to the man of business is both foolish and wrong. Were I a man, I would want to be in business.” Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed.

Morton had risen and was standing before her with folded arms.

“Miss Helène,” he said in a low voice, “will you let me tell you what else happened to me during the few weeks between my meeting with your father and my leaving for home?”

The words were simple enough; but the man’s face wore so strange an expression that Helène was filled with trepidation. She could barely stammer her assent and stared helplessly into space.

“Miss Helène,” Morton was pale now and his voice had gained an impassioned vigor. She felt she dared not look at him. “Miss Helène, when I met your father—I also met his daughter—by means of a portrait which has since never left its place near my heart.”

The girl’s lips formed as if to whisper, but no sound passed through them.

“A voice in me spoke to me, and said ‘this is the woman of your dreams,’ and I exultantly obeyed the call. When I met you in Padina my dream woman was surpassingly realized. And during the days that came after, when I saw you, hour after hour, so brave, so loyal, so good, my heart went out to you. All my manhood cried out to protect you, and all my soul desired to worship you. On that memorable morning in the Transylvanian cottage, when I stood near you and held your hand, I almost forgot your distress and came near opening my heart to you. And in Vienna when at parting you spoke those words of friendship and approval, it was all I could do to hold myself back. I left determined to come back to Weimar and speak to you; but you had flown. Oh, how I have searched for you! But I had to be content with your letter and its promise for the autumn. I have lived on that promise—and no man ever longed for autumn as I did! Helène, I am not a youth to be caught by a beautiful face. I am a ripened man tried by the fire of life. When I met you, face to face yesterday, I knew it was the answer to my prayers. I know now what love is—true, ennobling love. Helène, I love you. Will you not look at me? Speak to me, Helène!”

Deeply agitated, she raised her eyes, which shone with the bliss of a revelation, to the impassioned man towering over her. Her lashes were wet with tears they had tried to hide. Then a mischievous little smile parted the lips as she whispered:

“I am still a minor—what does my dear guardian command?”

Morton gave a quick step forward and gathered her into his arms. Her face was hidden in his breast; she was safe in the harbor at last! He held her for some moments when a timid voice muffled in the folds of his coat came up to him:

“Mr. Morton—did you say those words because you pity me—because of your promise to my father?”

“Pity you, my darling! Why, sweetheart, you are the greatest, noblest gift God can bestow on any man. All my life I shall bless Him and thank Him for the great boon he has vouchsafed me. The promise I gave your father was given long after the sacred promise I had given myself—to protect you always—as my dear wife.” Then in a softer voice: “But, sweetheart—you must call me John.”

No reply, only sounds suspiciously like a child’s sobs, came from the hidden face. Helène was weeping her tears of unspeakable happiness. Morton gently lifted her head back and saw her face transfigured with love. With reverent finality he kissed her moist lips as she murmured:

“My dear knight, without fear and without blemish.”

The shady porch is transmuted into an altar. Framed between the pillars and above the balustrades, templelike, the blue vault of true heaven looks down. In an air vibrating with a whispered symphony a little butterfly alights on the seat—a harbinger of security. And over the pair passes that happiness which the human heart knows but once in a lifetime.

Through the shade of the lofty pillared portico Helène and John entered the spacious reception hall of “Rhinecliff.” Helène was still under the influence of the emotion aroused in her by the solemnity of the last hour. She barely noticed the transition from the park to the broad driveway, lined by ancient elms, leading to the commanding terrace. Indeed, she could not have told how she reached the room to which Morton’s guiding arm had led her. The dread which had possessed her in the early morning had now returned with increased insistence; so that when they stood before a handsome gray-haired lady, she heard Morton’s voice as through a veil: “Mother, I have great pleasure in bringing to you Comtesse Rondell.” She could just see the winning smile upon the fresh face and hear the cordial words: “I am happy to welcome you, Comtesse.” As in a dream she took the hand which was held out to her, and mumbled a polite sentence, imagining, in her trepidation, an investigating pause on the part of the elderly lady. Try as she would she could not master her embarrassment; but her gentle breeding and natural charms came to her aid, and she expressed eloquently what the disobedient lips failed to say. She looked the pure girl she was. One glance of Mrs. Morton’s approving eye was sufficient to take it all in.

“We entered through the South Gate, mother, and Comtesse Rondell must be tired. She has agreed to stay for luncheon; I trust you will persuade her to remain until after dinner.”

“Permit me to ring for the maid, Comtesse. You will require a rest after your journey and the warm walk,” suggested the hostess.

“Hello, Ruth!” His sister had entered from an inner door. “Ruth, I want you to meet Comtesse Rondell, a dear friend of mine—my sister Ruth, Comtesse. I have often spoken of you, Ruth, to the Comtesse. I hope you will be friends.”

Full of animation, Ruth came forward. A glance at Helène’s face caused her to halt momentarily and to send an indignant look at her brother, both of which actions escaped all but Helène. Then her willing hand grasped Helène’s shy offering in a hearty clasp: “If the Comtesse is minded like I am, it won’t take us long to be the best of friends.”

Helène reddened deeply, but this time the little dimples came into play. The smiling eye veiled the recognition which the parted lips were longing to betray: “Miss Morton, I shall be very happy if we are friends.”

When the maid appeared, Ruth and the visitor were occupying seats next to each other in a retired nook engrossed in a low-voiced conversation. “Comtesse,” said Mrs. Morton, interrupting them, “Nettie will show you to your room. Luncheon will be served in a few minutes.”

When Helène retired, John turned to his mother: “I hope, mother, you will like Comtesse Helène. If you are disengaged before luncheon, I should like to see you. Can you spare the time?”

“Certainly, my dear boy. You will find me in the lounging room. Was the matter that kept you in town disagreeable, John?”

“Not at all, mother. I will tell you all about it. I shall put off my Western trip, however, for the present.”

On his way to his room John was intercepted in the hall by his excited sister. “John,” she hissed breathlessly. “I wouldn’t have believed it of you! How could you be so mean?”

“I don’t understand you, sis. What have I done?”

“Couldn’t you wait until I had brought you two together? Who introduced you to her?”

John looked his astonishment. “Do you refer to Comtesse Rondell? Why, I met her abroad last year, through her father. What are you driving at, little one?”

“Oh, John—this is too wonderful! You big stupid—don’t you see! The Comtesse is my beautiful discovery of two days ago, the replica of papa’s Gainsborough!”

At once John saw everything, even the ambiguous situation in which his darling might find herself.

“Ruth, I didn’t dream of this! Please do not refer to it in any way. I would not have Comtesse Helène embarrassed for anything in the world. Promise, sis?”

“Sure, Jack, cross my heart! But, brother of mine, isn’t she all I said she was?”

John laid his arm affectionately about his sister’s shoulder. “She is all that, my dear, and more. Now, run off and be discreet. And—Ruth—it is my dearest wish that you and Helène—the Comtesse, you know—should be dear friends.”

“Oh! Does the wind blow from that quarter, Jack? I am so glad!” A lightning-like hug, an ethereal kiss—and she was off!

In the lounging room, later, John sat facing his mother. The breeze entering through the open Venetian windows relieved the noon heat, but failed to lighten the task he had before him. Many a time had he gone over this interview in his mind, always looking forward to it with exultation. And now, when the moment had arrived, he felt greatly ill-at-ease.

“Mother, dear—you may remember my telling you that I had met a lady whom I hoped to win—that she had been lost to me. Well, I have found her again. She is the Comtesse Rondell. I met her in New York yesterday, quite by chance—and I have won her. Mother, I am very happy. I want you to love her for my sake, though I know you will gladly embrace her for her own virtues.”

John had spoken very earnestly. Mrs. Morton looked at her “boy” in sheer astonishment. “John, my dearest boy—I don’t know what to say—it has come so unexpectedly! Of course, John, I will do my best—she certainly looks sweet. But, John....”

“Mother, you will love her and be proud of her when you see me the blessedest man in America.”

Mrs. Morton’s eyes filled with tears. “Your happiness, John, dear, is all I ask for.”

“Thank you, mother. And now will you do me a kindness? I have no ring to give Helène. Can you give me one of yours?”

“Wait until after luncheon, John. Do you love her very much?” She rose, floundering again on the verge of tears. The news had almost overwhelmed the good lady; or was it jealous resentment or simply the fear of the change that it would mean for her?

Morton rose quickly and, laying his hands affectionately upon his mother’s shoulders said, with deep feeling: “Mother, I do. It is not a momentary fancy or infatuation. When you know Helène, you will understand that it was not her beauty only but her golden heart that drew me to her. Mother, I feel blessed beyond all men that this heart has been placed in my keeping.”

“Oh, John—I do hope it’s as you say. You must forgive me—I am a little unnerved. If Comtesse Rondell should come down before I return—will you excuse me to her, John? I shall be back shortly.”

Luncheon proved a very simple affair and the conversation which at the beginning had rested upon Ruth’s shoulders soon became general and animated. Helène, who sat at Mrs. Morton’s left, had lost her shyness and entered into the spirit of the occasion with the tactful modesty and grace of manners which never yet had failed to charm. Mrs. Morton’s formal politeness gradually melted into admiration. She was evidently charmed with the girl. John observed with lightened heart the approving eye and the pleased expression on his mother’s face.

On rising from the table Mrs. Morton pleaded some duty and left the young people to themselves on the porch. At once Ruth rose and took her new friend by the arm. “Let’s leave John to his cigar, Helène (it had been Helène after the first, of course), I want to show you my patch of woods if you don’t mind the hot sun. Mother and John always talk shop at this hour—even on a Sunday, I believe. Come, dear.”

John caught Helène’s eye and saw the look of relief and longing for a respite to be enjoyed with her girl friend, and prudently resigned himself.

It was not long before his mother came to him, smiling happily, her cheeks faintly flushed. “The ring your father gave me upon our engagement, John,” she whispered with a catch in her voice, handing him a brilliant stone. And John knew all was well—Helène had won!

Ruth’s chatter became audible from the stairway, the clatter of youthful feet resounded from the hall, and the two girls entered hand in hand. Ruth looked first at John, then at her mother, and lastly at Helène, who had remained somewhat in the rear. Drawing the hand she held towards her, she encircled her friend’s waist with the other, and curtesying in mock reverence, and with a well-assumed dignity, said: “I have the honor to present to you both the Comtesse Helène Rondell—my darling sister.” Then, running up to her brother she threw her arms around him and gave him a resounding kiss. “My congratulations, brother!”

Of course, after this, all ceremony had to be foregone. But it was Mrs. Morton’s affectionate embrace of Helène which sealed the welcome. It brought a great happiness to Ruth and John and a transcendent light into Helène’s girlish face.

At dinner John announced that Helène would return to New York that night and that he would escort her home. It was, indeed, a happy meal for these four—now reunited in love.

Later they were sitting on the porch enjoying the lovely evening over their coffee. Faint stars were beginning to twinkle and the air had the warmth which comes with the dying summer.

“John,” broke in Ruth, “it’s a glorious evening; you should show Helène the hill-view from the east loggia. I will let you know when the carriage drives up.”

John stood with his beloved in the dusk of the protected wing. Below them the evening haze of autumn enveloped the valley and slopes, leaving a clear outline of wooded hillside against the bright glow whence the rising moon was promised. From the distance blinked occasional gleams of light marking dwellings here and there. Out of the darkened lawn came the song of crickets and the whisper of the invisible night life. It was the very time and place for our fairy. Surely he was behind that dusky bed of cannas, crouching under the giant leaf of that caladium!

Helène sat supported by John’s strong arm, and over both surged a flood of golden memories. She was the first to break the stillness:

“Mr. Morton—John—you are so very rich and powerful. I did not dream of it. And I—I have nothing—not even a dot! Is it right that I permit myself to love you? Will you not regret it, some day?”

John tightened the arm round her shoulder, and gave a love chuckle. “Darling, the girls of our country never have dots, even if their parents have sinful wealth. And you—the good God has given you wealth beyond compare. He has given you a heart finer than gold, beauty rarer than a vision. And ... I love you, Helène, I love you.”

She drew herself closer to his breast and gave a faint sigh of ineffable content. “If papa could know, John,” she said softly.

“I think he does know, sweetheart, and is smiling down on us. See, Helène, there is my faithful ally, the ‘Great Bear.’ He kept his promise and spoke for me.”

“You mean the ‘Big Dipper,’ John,” said Helène with a smile. “He has been my good friend also. Other girls may have a star of destiny; but I—I have seven!”

The fairy behind the cannas rubbed his palms together in great glee—and grinned.

With faces upturned they stood as if listening for the message of promise from the twinkling stars, their souls in union—the brave hearts tried, the abiding love tested. It was the last day of summer; but for these two happy ones, it was the dawn of eternal spring!

A door slammed and energetic heels tatooed a warning. Ruth’s form stood outlined against the dimly lighted glass door.

“Children,” she called out in her fresh, cheery voice, “the moon will be up in five minutes—and your carriage is coming up the drive!”

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

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Table of Contents

- E-text prepared by David E. Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)

- UNDER THE BIG DIPPER
- CHAPTER I
- CHAPTER II
- CHAPTER III
- CHAPTER IV
- CHAPTER V
- CHAPTER VI
- CHAPTER VII
- CHAPTER VIII
- CHAPTER IX
- CHAPTER X
- CHAPTER XI
- CHAPTER XII
- CHAPTER XIII
- CHAPTER XIV
- CHAPTER XV
- CHAPTER XVI
- CHAPTER XVII
- CHAPTER XVIII
- CHAPTER XIX
- CHAPTER XX
- CHAPTER XXI
- CHAPTER XXII
- CHAPTER XXIII
- CHAPTER XXIV
- CHAPTER XXV
- CHAPTER XXVI
- CHAPTER XXVII
- CHAPTER XXVIII
- CHAPTER XXIX
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE