e opportunity of trying her fortune
on the operatic stage, Jeanne made the attempt, and was now nobly
employed in earning the money to pay her father's debt.

"It was the only way in which I could do justice to his memory," she
said, simply. "I hope you don't object to my going on the stage?"

I took her hand, poor child--and let that simple action answer for me. I
was too deeply affected to be able to speak.

"It is not in me to be a great actress," she resumed; "but you know what
an admirable musician my father was. He has taught me to sing, so that
I can satisfy the critics, as well as please the public. There was what
they call a great success last night. It has earned me an engagement
for another year to come, and an increase of salary. I have already sent
some money to our good old friend at home, and I shall soon send more.
It is my one consolation--I feel almost happy again when I am paying my
poor father's debt. No more now of my sad story! I want to hear all that
you can tell me of yourself." She moved to the window, and looked out.
"Oh, the beautiful blue sky! We used sometimes to take a walk, when we
were in London, on fine days like this. Is there a park here?"

I took her to the palace gardens, famous for their beauty in that part
of Germany.

Arm in arm we loitered along the pleasant walks. The lovely flowers,
the bright sun, the fresh fragrant breeze, all helped her to recover her
spirits. She began to be like the happy Jeanne of my past experience,
as easily pleased as a child. When we sat down to rest, the lap of her
dress was full of daisies. "Do you remember," she said, "when you first
taught me to make a daisy-chain? Are you too great a man to help me
again now?"

We were still engaged with our chain, seated close together, when the
smell of tobacco-smoke was wafted to us on the air.

I looked up and saw the Doctor passing us, enjoying his cigar. He bowed;
eyed my pretty companion with a malicious smile; and passed on.

"Who is that man?" she asked.

"The Prince's physician," I replied.

"I don't like him," she said; "why did he smile when he looked at me?"

"Perhaps," I suggested, "he thought we were lovers."

She blushed. "Don't let him think that! tell him we are only old
friends."

We were not destined to finish our flower chain on that day.

Another person interrupted us, whom I recognized as the elder brother of
Monsieur Bonnefoy--already mentioned in these pages, under the nam