But in his self-abasement Frank failed to take into the accounting the stupendous effect which the New York influences and the handling of great affairs had had upon his own character. Day by day he had learned more plainly the lessons of responsibility, of continued and concentrated action, and even McDermott himself could not use Napoleon's great question, "What has he done?" more meaningly than Frank himself did now. But with this new manhood came a finer comprehension of his baseness to Katrine, and an emphasized doubt as to whether she ever could forgive the miserable selfishness which he had displayed. In his visits between the States and England (he made three during Katrine's stay in Paris, besides the one in which he had met the Countess de Nemours) he went from one side of the question to the other in his thinking, wanting to visit Katrine, but realizing to the full that Mademoiselle Dulany, a singer to the world, or Katrine, adopted daughter of the Countess de Nemours, and a possible duchess, were worlds removed from the little Irish girl who had loved him in the Carolina woods. Fontainebleau! Fontainebleau! Since the day the Countess had told him of Katrine's being there, the name repeated itself in his head like a song. He remembered the silence of the great trees, the nightingales at dusk among them, and dreamed of a day with Katrine there, hearing her quaint humor, her daring speeches, her tenderness, her selfless view of life, of herself, of everything in all the world save him. At the Christmas-time of Katrine's last year in Paris, he received a quaint illumination with the following note of explanation: MY DEAR UNKNOWN FRIEND,--I have thought this out and printed it, too. It is not very well done, but I have tried to make it sincere. Of course I got the idea of making prayers for myself from R.L.S. I am sending it to you with a heart full of hope that your Christmas may be a merry one. Affectionately, KATRINE DULANY. He read and reread the printed lines, and finally had them framed and hung by his bedside, where they were the first thing upon which his eyes rested in the morning: "Grant me the ability to do some one thing well. "Give me sympathy for the suffering of others which has been brought to them by their own acts. "Grant that I may have courage for the weak and the friendship of those who demand the best of my nature. "Remove all doubts from me that there will be ultimate peace and happiness for every one. "Let fear of the consequences of a right act be far from me. Let me forget the words expediency, convention, and reward. "Grant me largeness of judgment, and silence for all weakness, especially that of woman. "And give me, each day, my daily work, with rest at night under some friendly stars." * * * * *