ion. It is very small--it is wretchedly small; but it is what I live
on."

"And you have only to sign that paper?" Acton asked.

The Baroness looked at him a moment. "Do you urge it?"

He got up slowly, and stood with his hands in his pockets. "What do you
gain by not doing it?"

"I am supposed to gain this advantage--that if I delay, or temporize,
the Prince may come back to me, may make a stand against his brother.
He is very fond of me, and his brother has pushed him only little by
little."

"If he were to come back to you," said Acton, "would you--would you take
him back?"

The Baroness met his eyes; she colored just a little. Then she rose. "I
should have the satisfaction of saying, 'Now it is my turn. I break with
your serene highness!'"

They began to walk toward the carriage. "Well," said Robert Acton, "it
's a curious story! How did you make his acquaintance?"

"I was staying with an old lady--an old Countess--in Dresden. She had
been a friend of my father's. My father was dead; I was very much alone.
My brother was wandering about the world in a theatrical troupe."

"Your brother ought to have stayed with you," Acton observed, "and kept
you from putting your trust in princes."

The Baroness was silent a moment, and then, "He did what he could," she
said. "He sent me money. The old Countess encouraged the Prince; she
was even pressing. It seems to me," Madame Munster added, gently,
"that--under the circumstances--I behaved very well."

Acton glanced at her, and made the observation--he had made it
before--that a woman looks the prettier for having unfolded her wrongs
or her sufferings. "Well," he reflected, audibly, "I should like to see
you send his serene highness--somewhere!"

Madame Munster stooped and plucked a daisy from the grass. "And not sign
my renunciation?"

"Well, I don't know--I don't know," said Acton.

"In one case I should have my revenge; in another case I should have my
liberty."

Acton gave a little laugh as he helped her into the carriage. "At any
rate," he said, "take good care of that paper."

A couple of days afterward he asked her to come and see his house. The
visit had already been proposed, but it had been put off in consequence
of his mother's illness. She was a constant invalid, and she had passed
these recent years, very patiently, in a great flowered arm-chair at her
bedroom window. Lately, for some days, she had been unable to see any
one; but now she was be