ttle grey voice, a bit of heart-love, and
something common and precious.

They came down the long rooms together, the child's hand resting lightly
in hers, and her steps dancing a little in happy play. She had not heard
the man's name. He was only a wise man whom she was to meet for a few
minutes, before she and Miss Stone went for their drive. The day was
full of light outside--even in the heavily draped rooms you could feel
its presence. She was eager to be off, out in the sun and air of the
great sea of freshness, and the light, soft wind on her face.

Then she saw the slim, dark man who had risen to meet her, and a swift
light crossed her face.... She was coming down the room now, both hands
out-stretched, fluttering a little in the quick surprise and joy. Then
the hands stayed themselves, and she advanced demurely to meet him;
but the hand that lifted itself to his seemed to sing like a child's
hand--in spite of the princess.

"I am glad you have come," she said. "This is Miss Stone." She seated
herself beside him, her eyes on his face, her little feet crossed at the
ankle. "Have you any new fruit to-day?" she asked, politely.

He smiled a little, and drew a soft, flat, white bit of tissue from his
pocket, undoing it fold on fold--till in the centre lay a grey-green
leaf.

The child bent above it with pleased glance. Her eyes travelled to his
face.

He nodded quickly. "I thought of you. It is the Eastern citron. See--"
He lifted the leaf and held it suspended. "It hangs like this--and the
fruit is blue--grey-blue like--" His eye travelled about the elaborate
room. He shook his head slowly. Then his glance fell on the grey gown
of Miss Stone as it fell along the rug at her feet, and he bowed
with gracious appeal for permission. "Like the dress of madame," he
said--"but warmer, like the sun--and blue."

A low colour crept up into the soft line of Miss Stone's cheek and
rested there. She sat watching the two with slightly puzzled eyes. She
was a lady--kindly and gracious to the world--but she could not have
thought of anything to say to this fruit-peddler who had seemed, for
days and weeks, to be tumbling all Greek civilisation about her head.
The child was chatting with him as if she had known him always. They had
turned to each other again, and were absorbed in the silken leaf--the
man talking in soft, broken words, the child piecing out the
half-finished phrase with quick nod and gesture, her little voice