ll unconscious of Paul's presence only a few short steps away Mademoiselle Natalie Vseslavitch, for so we will call her until she herself chooses to reveal more, had rushed to her rooms, her heart almost overwhelmed by a new and dreadful burden.

The tidings she had left Lucerne to know, whose bearer was the black-bearded gentleman, which had so aroused Paul's curiosity, were simply these. Her hand was sought in marriage.

Truly not such news as ought to make a maiden weep, you say, and yet what base political ends have not been served through the holy offices of the marriage service. And when a suit bears the approbation of one's sovereign, is it not more nearly a command?

The cousin of our beautiful Natalie, one Prince Boris Ivanovitch, had long been a persistent suitor. What booted it that she would have none of his attentions? Was he not an heir apparent, and should a girl's whim, her likes or dislikes, stand in the way of a powerful union? The Tsar of all the Russias had given him official sanction; to Prince Boris, and alas! to Natalie, the ceremony was as good as performed.

But what of the desires of her own tender girlish heart, her hopes, her sacred mission? Were all to be sacrificed on the altar of a great political alliance? Natalie cast herself on a divan in a paroxysm of grief and rage, and the imperial note, heavy with a gold crest and seals, fluttered in tiny pieces on the floor. In vain her maid essayed to comfort her. This latest blow was too heavy. Why did Boris not let her give him the vast estates, why must he insist upon her?—her love he never had, never could have. Once more the couch shook with her choking sobs.

After the first dreadful shock was over, Natalie calmed herself, and the innate strength, the quiet determination which had carried her so far on her mission asserted itself. She would obey—the thought of disobedience cannot come to faithful subjects—but there was no haste. Time can accomplish much.

Then, as the events of the past few days flitted before her mental vision there crept into her cheeks a faint tinge of colour as she thought of Paul. "Ah, my beloved—yes, beloved, though you know it not. I must see you once more." And the sudden memory of the hour when she last saw him so eager, so loving, all the fine lines of his virile strength thrown on the black screen of darkness, by the light of the burning summer house, mantled her cheek anew in crimson.

He of all the men she had ever seen was the one most worth loving. And then in confusion again at this admission, deep though it was in her thoughts, she dismissed her maid and curling up before the fire set her woman's wit to match the machinations of her greedy relation.

And as she pondered, she smiled. If she had acted on a sudden impulse once, she felt that she could be deliberate now. Having been somewhat indiscreet in the rustic tea-house, with a woman's inconsistency she was determined to veer to a course of conduct exactly opposite.

She felt too well her power to draw Paul to her—indeed, what woman does not know her own capability to attract? And here was an opportunity to gain a brief respite from the grim path on which her destiny seemed to be leading her. She would see him again.

Her bright eyes roved to the dainty table near at hand. She picked up a perfumed note, and read it again, and as she read, a happier look smoothed away the sharp lines of mental anguish which had marked the beautiful face but a short time before. The crested sheet bore the address of the Dalmatian Embassy in Paris, and was from the lovable old Countess Oreshefski, whose husband was the honoured Ambassador.

"My dearest little Natalie," the cordial note of invitation began, and concluded with a reassurance that the Countess expected her on the ninth of May, without fail.

Yes—the ninth of May—that was to-morrow. The Comtesse was insistent, and the Ambassador himself had charged his spouse to invite her. Very well! She would be there.

And Mademoiselle Vseslavitch called her maid and gave her instructions to be ready to leave for Paris by the morning train.

The next day the little cafÉ across the street from the humble HÔtel de la RÉpublique was the richer by a generous gold piece, and the rubicund propriÉtaire marvelled to his equally rubicund wife over the peculiar habits of the Englishman, who preferred to drink much black coffee and smoke many black cigars sitting at the little table in the doorway, rather than see the beautiful cathedral, as did all the other tourists.

Finally, Paul, impatient at his lengthy vigil, elicited the information, so much desired and yet so disappointing, that a grande dame, for surely she must be such to have so many servants, had honoured the humble hotel across the way by her presence for a brief twenty-four hours and only that morning had taken the train for Nice.

After this bit of information, mingled with much more voluble, mine host had further occasion to remark on the strange actions of "these English." For Paul's sudden departure cut short what the landlord considered a really capable flight of oratory on his beloved cathedral.