Louis stood for a moment longer, looking down upon him with a puzzled brow. He was slightly above the medium height, with a figure rather firmer and better filled out than is often seen at his age, and a manner of that perfect unconsciousness of himself which is the essence of good-breeding, so that, in his gray “Sunday suit,” he looked, as one of Pinkie’s school friends had once been heard to say, “quite like a gentleman.” The face was a young face, with a complexion of girlish fairness, and eyes of that pure, transparent blue seldom seen beyond childhood. Across the white brow waved hair of gold just darkened into brown, and the brows and lashes, too, gave golden _reflets_ to the sunshine; there was scarcely a trace of masculine down on the short, curved upper lip or the smooth cheek, yet, despite all this, the face of Louis Metzerott at eighteen was neither boyish nor effeminate. The low squarely cut brow, the short, straight nose, the full but firm lips, the square chin, were thoroughly masculine in form; and the wistful gravity of the clear eyes was that of one who had looked upon the sin and sorrow of life without quite seeing how these were to be set right. As he turned to leave the room, his eyes, with that look in them, met those of Ernest Clare, full of that still peace that seemed to hold the solution of all life’s mysteries. Then both smiled, and Louis held out his hand, a firm and shapely one, though with some traces of his daily work at his father’s trade. “I am very glad you have come to Micklegard, Mr. Clare,” he said, “and I hope you will get—whatever you want.” “And I am glad to make your acquaintance, Prince Louis,” said Ernest Clare, cordially pressing the young hand; “and much obliged for your good wishes. I hope we shall be good friends.” Louis smiled with a relieved look, and, before leaving the room, bent to whisper in Annie’s ear. The girl smiled gently, but made no other reply; and Mr. Clare noticed that her eyes had a tired look as she raised them to his face. “I think you struck it that time, sir,” observed Polly to Mr. Clare. “A prince is just what our Louis looks like, and ought to be.” “He’d better be an honest man; princes are very poor property,” growled the Emperor, with would-be severity. “He’s more like an angel,” said Miss Sally. But Louis was no angel, he was only a man; for this was what he had whispered to Annie Rolf. “I will tell her who painted the beautiful roses, _liebes Aenchen_.” CHAPTER IV. CINDERELLA’S SLIPPERS.