ngs--nod nevare!"

"Ach, zo?" said the grand duke calmly. "He is rooning mooch faster zan
he vas could."

"Id's zat leedle she-devil-child! She make 'im roon and roon all ze
day!" cried the baron.

"Ach, zo?" said the grand duke. "Alzo he is peenk--guite peenk."

The satisfaction in his tone had increased. He could hardly be called
a fond parent, in the matter of Adalbert; he might more truly be said
to bear with him. Indeed he had never been able to explain the boy to
his satisfaction. There was perhaps a slight physical resemblance
between Adalbert and his parents; but whereas he knew himself to be one
of the astutest princes in the German Empire and his wife to be an
uncommonly clear-witted woman, no father's partiality hid from him the
fact that Adalbert was obtuse. He was inclined to accept sadly the
theory of Professor Muller, professor of anatomy and physiology at the
University of Lippe-Schweidnitz, and court physician, that Adalbert
cast back to his great-grandfather Franz, who had been known to his
irreverent subjects as "The Dolt."

He gazed at the perspiring and excited band for a minute in silence.
Then he said:

"Wheech is ze leedle she-devil-child?"

"Zat von--zat von in ze meedle--wiz ze red 'air," said the baron.

He pointed to Pollyooly in the middle of the ring where she was acting
as pitcher, her face flushed, her eyes shining, her red hair a flying
cloud.

An immense slow smile spread over the expanse of royal face; and the
grand duke cried: "Mein Gott! Bud id is nod a child at all--zat! Id
is an anchel--a leedle anchel--Italian renascence! Is id nod,
Erkelenz?" And he turned to his slim equerry.

"Yes, Highness: authentic," said the equerry.

The Baron von Habelschwert gasped; he could not believe his ears.

The little girl, batting, whacked the ball over the prince's head.

"Run, Adalbert! Run!" shrieked Pollyooly.

"Roon, Adalbert! Der Teufel! Roon!" bellowed the grand duke.

It is hard to say whether the shriek of Pollyooly or the terrific
bellow of his august sire was the sharper spur to the prince's legs;
but he saved the rounder.

"Sblendid! 'e did not roon like an ox," said the grand duke almost
proudly. "Vhat did you write vas ze name of zat leedle anchel?"

"Bollyooly, your Highness," gasped the baron in a feverish doubt
whether he was standing on his head or his heels, for the grand duke
had heard her call the hope of the house of Lippe-Schweidnitz
"A