very good to me,"
he said earnestly, taking Clara's hand. "This is the first great
trouble in my life. I have loved her very dearly. I decided to make
great sacrifices for her. But I am not to have her--never."

"I am so sorry for you, prince." Clara squeezed his hand energetically.
"Nor her dot. That would have been so comfortable for me," he said
simply.

Clara hid a smile, and bade him an affectionate good-night.

As he passed into the outer salle a childish figure in creamy lace rose
before him, and a soft hand was held out. "I know what has happened!"
she whispered passionately. "She has treated you scandalously! She
cannot appreciate YOU!"

Prince Hugo stuttered and coughed and almost kissed the little hand
which lay so trustingly in his. He found himself safely outside at
last, and drove away, wretched to the soul.

But below his wretchedness something whispered: "SHE appreciates me,
and her dot is quite as large."

CHAPTER XIII

George Waldeaux hummed a tune gayly as he climbed the winding maze of
streets in Vannes, one cloudy afternoon, with Lisa.

"It is impertinent to be modern Americans in this old town," he said.
"We might play that we were jongleurs, and that it was still mediaeval
times. I am sure the gray walls yonder and the fortress houses in this
street have not changed in ages."

"Neither have the smells, apparently," said Lisa grimly. "Wrap this
scarf about your throat, George. You coughed last night."

George tied up his throat. "Coughed, did I?" he said anxiously. He
had had a cold last winter, and his wife with her poultices and fright
had convinced him that he was a confirmed invalid. The coming of her
baby had given to the woman a motherly feeling toward all of the world,
even to her husband.

"Look at these women," he said, going on with his fancy presently. "I
am sure that they were here wearing these black gowns and huge red
aprons in the twelfth century. What is this?" he said, stopping
abruptly, to a boy of six who was digging mud at the foot of an ancient
ivy-covered tower.

"C'est le tour du Connetable," the child lisped. "Et v'la, monsieur!"
pointing to a filthy pen with a gate of black oak; "v'la le donjon de
Clisson!" "Who was Clisson?" said Lisa impatiently.

"A live man to Froissart--and to this boy," said George, laughing. "I
told you that we had gone back seven centuries. This fog comes in from
the Morbihan sea where Arthur and his knigh