"He questioned the girl as to their owner," I continued, "and after vainly pretending that they were her own, she confessed that they had belonged to a young and beautiful lady who had once lodged there and left them behind. Then the prince gave her a purse of gold in exchange for the finery, and on the waistband of the petticoat he read a beautiful name, and he said, 'This and no other shall be my wife, this unknown beautiful woman, and on our marriage night she shall wear this petticoat.' And then the prince went forth seeking--" "There's not much point in it," interrupted Sylvia. "No," I said, "I'm afraid I've stupidly missed the point." "Why, what was it?" "The name upon the petticoat!" "Why, what name was it?" she asked, somewhat mystified. "The inscription upon the petticoat was, to be quite accurate, 'Sylvia Joy, No. 6.'" "Whatever are you talking about?" she said with quite a stormy blush. "I'm afraid you've had more than your share of the champagne." As I finished, I slipped out of my pocket a dainty little parcel softly folded in white tissue paper. Very softly I placed it on the table. It contained one of the precious stockings; and half opening it, I revealed to Sylvia's astonished eyes the cunning little frieze of Bacchus and Ariadne, followed by a troop of Satyrs and Bacchantes, which the artist had designed to encircle one of the white columns of that little marble temple which sat before me. "You know," I said, "how in fairy tales, when the wandering hero or the maiden in distress has a guiding dream, the dream often leaves something behind on the pillow to assure them of its authenticity. 'When you wake up,' the dream will say, 'you will find a rose or an oak-leaf or an eagle's feather, or whatever it may be, on your pillow.' Well, I have brought this stocking--for which, if I might but use them, I have at the moment a stock of the most appropriately endearing adjectives--for the same purpose. By this token you will know that the fairy tale I have been telling you is true, and to-morrow, if you will, you shall see your autograph petticoat." "Why, wherever did you come across them? And what a mad creature you must be! and what an odd thing that you should really meet me, after all!" exclaimed Sylvia, all in a breath. "Of course, I remember," she said frankly, and with a shade of sadness passing over her face. "I was spending a holiday with Jack Wentworth,--why, it must be nearly two years ago. Poor Jack! he was killed in the Soudan," and poor Jack could have wished no prettier resurrection than the look of tender memory that came into her face as she spoke of him, and the soft baby tears filled her eyes. "I'm so sorry," I said. "Of course I didn't know. Let's come for a little stroll. There seems to be a lovely moon." "Of course you didn't," she said, patting my cheek with a kind little hand. "Yes, do let us go for a stroll." CHAPTER XI "THE HOUR FOR WHICH THE YEARS DID SIGH"