ed waste; but one
day, when even hope is dying, a miracle comes to pass--the sun shines
out! The sun shines out, and he suddenly sees that his waste land is the
color of emeralds and that his dripping woods are gardens, tinted like
no stones that jewellers ever handle. Oh, no wonder I am a
sun-worshipper!"

Maxine, glowing to his sudden enthusiasm, clasped her hands, as when she
heard the music of M. Cartel.

"Ah, and that is your country?"

"That is my country, princess."

"I wish----" She stopped.

"That you could see it?"

She nodded.

"And why not? Why not--when this boy sees reason? How I would love to
show it to you! You would understand."

"When would you show it to me?" She spoke very low.

"When? Oh, perhaps in April--April, when the washed skies are a blue
that even Max could not find in his color-box, and the bare boughs
tremble with promise. In April--or, better still, in the autumn. In
October, when the lights are cool and white and the sea is an opal; when
you smell the ozone strong as violets, and at every turn of the road a
cart confronts you, heaped with bronze seaweed and stuck with a couple
of pikes that rise stark against the sky-line, to suggest the taking of
the spoils. Yes, in October! In October, it should be!"

He was carried away, and she loved him for his enthusiasm.

"You care for your country?" she said, very softly.

"Yes--in an odd way! When wonder or joy or ambition comes to me, I
always have a craving to walk those roads and watch the sea and whisper
my secrets to the salt earth, but I never gratify the desire; it belongs
to the many incongruities of an incongruous nature. But I think if great
happiness came to me, I should go back, if only for a day; or if--" He
paused. "--If I were to break my heart over anything, I believe I'd
creep back, like a child to its mother. We're odd creatures--we Irish!"

"I understand you," said Maxine. "You have the soul."

He looked down into the rue Mueller, and a queer smile touched his lips.

"A questionable blessing one is apt to say, princess--in one's bad
moments!"

"But only in one's bad moments!" Her tone was warm; her words came from
her swiftly, after the manner of Max--the manner that Blake loved.

"You are quite right!" he said, "and I despise myself instantly I have
uttered such a cynicism. The capacity to feel is worth all the pain it
brings. If one had but a single moment of realization, one should die
content. That is