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:

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!