d he
knows it all by heart. We all call him Mr. Livy around here. He says he
doesn't feel like asking his friends to title him. He sounds pathetic, but
he isn't at all. He's the happiest man you ever saw. He's like the verse
at the beginning of Emerson's _Essay on History_. He believes he's Caesar,
and so he is. You'll be surprised at the way he speaks, and the fine
manners he has. It's believing he's the Emperor that's done those things,
I'm sure."

Less curious but more interested, they followed the cool, shady path that
led toward the imperial estates. They crossed a bridge over a creek,
green with fresh water-cress, their open sesame. Upon the railing was
tacked a second flag--this one new and untorn.

"The Emperor must have had a present," observed Virginia. "You catch your
first glimpse of the palace around this curve."

Around the curve they went, and into an open, path-cut field through which
the creek meandered. The palace lay in the farthest corner. It did not
even stand. Its old logs, disjoined and askew, were all but on the ground.
How the roof managed to hold the chimney was a mystery. Perhaps, after
all, it was the chimney which acted as a prop to the roof. A lean-to of
poles, sod, and bark served as an entrance, and boasted a door.
Mountain-fringe and other vines had taken root in the sod, and were
undoubtedly helping to hold the structure together.

An undisturbed, unbroken silence reigned over the imperial residence. The
Emperor was doubtless busy with affairs of state, if indeed he were not
away upon official business. Still the flag disproved his absence. He
might be simply viewing the domain.

Suddenly from the lean-to came such fierce barking that more than one
Vigilante made a hasty return to the safety of her saddle. Then the door
opened, and, preceded by his dogs, the Emperor came out into the sunshine.
He had doubtless been too absorbed to note their coming.

"Down, Nero! Down, Trajan!" they heard him say. "Is this the way you
receive my guests?"

The dogs ceased barking, and stood on either side of him as he surveyed
his visitors. They in turn surveyed him. They saw a tall, slight old man,
still unbent. It seemed as though dignity defied time and kept him
upright. His frayed white shirt was spotless, and his gray trousers, held
up by thongs of skin, were neatly darned and clean. The lines in his
smoothly shaven face vied in intricacy with the streets of Boston; his
thin hair was neatly