standing hatless beside her. It was the
Prince Martin Bukaty.

"I was afraid you did not remember me," said Martin. "You looked
straight at me, and did not seem to recognize me."

"Did I? I am so short-sighted, you know. I had not forgotten you. Why
should I?"

And Netty glanced at Martin in her little, gentle, appealing way, and
then looked elsewhere rather hastily.

"Oh, you travellers must see so many people you cannot be expected to
remember every one who is introduced to you at a race-meeting."

"Of course," said Netty, looking into the silversmith's shop. "One meets
a great number of people, but not many that one likes. Do you not find
it so?"

"I am glad," answered Martin, "that you do not meet many people that you
like."

"Oh, but you must not think that I dislike people," urged Netty, in some
concern; "I should be very ungrateful if I did. Everybody is so kind.
Do you not find it so? I hate people to be cynical. There is much more
kindness in the world than anybody suspects. Do you not think so?"

"I do not know. It has not come my way, perhaps. It naturally would come
in yours."

And Martin looked down at her beneath the pink shade of her parasol with
that kindness in his eyes of which Netty had had so large a share.

"Oh no!" she protested, with a little movement of the shoulders
descriptive of a shrinking humility. "Why should I? I have done nothing
to deserve it. And yet, perhaps you are right. Everybody is so kind--my
uncle and aunt--everybody. I am very fortunate, I am sure. I wonder why
it is?"

And she looked up inquiringly into Martin's face as if he could tell
her, and, indeed, he looked remarkably as if he could--if he dared. He
had never met anybody quite like Netty--so spontaneous and innocent and
easy to get on with. Conversation with her was so interesting and yet so
little trouble. She asked a hundred questions which were quite easy to
answer; and were not stupid little questions about the weather, but had
a human interest in them, especially when she looked up like that from
under her parasol, and there was a pink glow on her face, and her eyes
were dark, almost as violets.

"Ought I to be here?" she asked. "Going about the streets alone, I
mean?"

"You are not alone," answered Martin, with a laugh.

"No, but--perhaps I ought to be."

And Martin, looking down, saw nothing but the top of the pink parasol.

"In America, you know," said the voice from under the parasol, "girls