ive his friend?"

She spoke, not in the English which Max invariably used, but in French;
and the sound of her voice entangled Blake's senses. It seemed the boy's
voice at its lowest and tenderest, but touched with new inflections
tantalizing as they were delightful. Self-consciousness fled before it;
he was at one with the sister as he had been at one with the brother on
the crisp white morning when comradeship had been sealed to the marching
of soldiers' feet and the rattle of fife and drum.

"Princess," he said, "I shall be as frank as Max himself would be! The
situation is overwhelming; do with me what you will! If I intrude,
dismiss me! I know how fascinating solitude on this balcony can be."

She smiled again, but gravely with a hint of the portrait's mystery.

"Solitude is an excellent thing, monsieur, but to-night I think I need
the solace of a fellow-being. Will you not stay and keep me company?"

He looked at the smiling lips, the serious, searching eyes, and he spoke
his thoughts impulsively.

"I shall be the most honored man in Paris!"

"That is well! Then we will talk, and watch the stars."

Here the naive imperiousness of the boy gleamed out, familiar and
reassuring, and Maxine walked across the room, turning at the window to
look back for Blake.

"He is not without appreciation--this little brother of mine?" She put
the question softly, tentatively, as she and Blake leaned over the
balcony railing.

"He is an artist, princess."

"You think so?" Her voice warmed and vibrated; through the vague
darkness he felt her eyes search his face.

"Undoubtedly."

"Ah, you love him?" The voice dropped to a great gentleness--a
gentleness that touched him in a strange degree.

"It would be difficult to tell you what he has been to me," he said.
"Our friendship has been a thing of great value. Has he ever told you
how we met?"

"He has told me!" Her tone was still low--still curiously attractive.
"And he appreciates very highly, monsieur, the affection you have given
him."

She paused; and Blake, looking down upon Paris, was conscious of that
pause as of something pregnant and miraculous. It filled the moment,
combining, with the soft texture of her garments and the faint scent
from her hair, to weave a spell subtle as it was intangible.

"There is nothing to appreciate," he made answer. "I am merely a
commonplace mortal who found in him something uncommon. The appreciation
is mine entirely--the app