"Really, mother, while I'm a true enough American not to be dazzled by the glamour of a coronet, there is something in a long line of well-bred ancestry. You know the old saying, 'Blood will tell.' I've woven quite a fairy story about those wonderful eyes of hers. She is the princess in the fairy story whom some fine prince will find and wake up with a kiss. I wonder--perhaps my Englishman--" She paused, quite carried away by her own fancy. "Ah! there she is--my fairy princess--now, down there!" and the girl indicated a rustic seat beneath a spreading cedar some distance below them. As Daisy chattered on, she and her mother had drawn close to the edge of the terrace. And there in the gathering dusk, looking out over the lake, sat the pale-faced lady with the dark hair and the glorious eyes. As the two Americans stood gazing down the declivity, a small boat cut across their line of vision and came up to the slip with a sweep which only the expert oarsman can achieve. "The Englishman--Sir Paul!" exclaimed the girl. "You'll see him soon coming up the path that passes close to the big cedar." And even as she spoke, the figure that jumped from the skiff started up the narrow trail. The lady, too, must have been watching him, for she rose suddenly from her seat and quickly gained the terrace, which she crossed immediately to enter the hotel. "Why did she leave when she saw him coming?" the girl asked, quick to divine the hidden impulse. "Why did she run away like that? I'd rather have stayed and had a good look at him! I wonder if she doesn't want him to see her. Now that I think about it, she never stays where he can meet her." "Come, child! Don't be absurd!" said Mrs. Livingstone, and locking her arm within that of her daughter's, she drew gently away. With lagging steps Paul climbed the hill. The natural quieting effect of the day spent in tender cherishing of old-time memories had not been dispelled by his recent violent exercise, and the rustic bench invited him more than the bustling hotel and the prospect of a dreary dinner. But he forced himself to his tub and evening clothes, and once more dined alone. The fixed habits of a lifetime are not to be lightly set aside for some passing whim. That night would be Paul's last at Lucerne. The week had been one of strain, and there had come over him a fatigue scarcely less intense than he could have felt had he actually experienced anew the scenes he had been living over in imagination. But with weariness had come a resignation which at last seemed final--a renunciation of his dream-life. Now must he put away forever the haunting memories that seemed always outlined, however, dimly, on the tablets of his brain. To-morrow he would be speeding on his way westward, to London and duty. Can we blame Paul if he shrank a bit from defining the latter too precisely.