die, felt the grim satisfaction of having an enemy for
company. The king lay on his death bed, in all probabilities the throne
tottered; yet the archbishop smiled.

The princess did not know that her father was dying; this was a secret
which had not yet been divulged to her. And this was the only society
she knew. Small wonder that she was sad and lonely. To be young, and to
find one's self surrounded by the relics of youth; what an existence!
She had never known the beauty of a glittering ballroom, felt the music
of a waltz mingle with the quick throbs of the heart, the pleasure
of bestowing pleasure. She had never read the mute yet intelligent
admiration in a young man's eyes. And what young woman does not yearn
for the honest adoration of an honest man? Poor, lonely princess indeed.
For, loving the world as he himself did, Maurice understood what was
slipping past her. Every moment the roots of love were sinking deeper
into his heart and twining firmly about, as a vine to a trellis.

Is there a mental telegraphy, an indefinable substance which is affected
by the close proximity of a presence, which, while we do not see,
we feel? Perhaps; at any rate, Maurice suddenly became aware of that
peculiar yet now familiar agitation of his nerves. Instinctively he
turned his head. In the doorway which separated the chamber from the
conservatory stood her Royal Highness. She was dressed entirely in
black, which accentuated the whiteness--the Carrara marble whiteness--of
her exquisite skin. In the dark, shining coils swept back from her brow
lay the subtle snare of a red rose. There was no other color except on
the full lips. She saw Maurice, but she was so far away that the faint
reflection of the rose on her cheeks was gone before he reached her
side.

"I was afraid," she said, lowering her eyes as she uttered the fib,
"that you would not come after all."

"It would have been impossible for me to stay away," he replied, his
eyes ardent. The princess looked away. "And may I ask after the health
of the dog?"

"Thanks to you, Monsieur; he is getting along finely. Poor dog; he
will always limp. What is it that makes men inflict injuries on dumb
creatures?"

"It is the beast that is envious of the brute."

"And your hand?" with a glance sympathetic and inquiring.

"My hand?"

"Yes; did you not injure it?"

"O!" He laughed and held out two gloved hands for her inspection. "That
was only a scratch. In fact, I do not reme