His cousin, the daughter of the Grand Duchess of Baden, said to him one evening in London: “Now that you are at liberty, will you resign yourself to repose? Will you give up these illusions which have cost you so dear and whose cruel deceptions have been so keenly felt by all who love you?” “My cousin,” replied the prince, “I do not belong to myself but to my name and my country. Although fortune has twice betrayed me, my destiny will be accomplished all the more speedily.” And, indeed, the hour expected by this man of destiny was about to strike. [_To be continued._] THE MEASURE OF A MAN By John Trotwood Moore CHAPTER VI The Hermitage of 1814 did not look like the Hermitage of to-day. Not until later did the hero of New Orleans erect the substantial home which for many years was the Mecca of those who believed in Jacksonian Democracy. At the time of this story it was a plain but comfortable log structure, differing but little from similar ones built by the pioneers of that age in their efforts to establish homes in the wilderness. But even as it stood it was no ordinary home, sitting back from the pike near the stone spring dairy, the castle of hundreds of acres of as good lands as ever the wilderness gave to civilization. To-night it was lighted up and ablaze with youth and gaiety. It was a farewell party for Juliette Templeton, and the youth of the land were there. Out in the yard bonfires burned, tended by negro slaves, whose dusky forms, slipping like shadows here and there, were silhouetted against the dark background, huge giants of the night. The fires lighted the lawn and the ancient trees; above, a half moon was rising, and the lighted lawn and moon-lighted woods made a typical scene of beauty and romance. Within the house hundreds of candles were stuck about in every conceivable nook and corner, on window sill, on shelf and on the huge logs themselves. Upon the lawn were clusters of horses tied to the limbs of trees, and carriages in groups around them. Within, the long dining tables gleamed in linen and silver. The dancing had already begun, opening with a Virginia reel, in which General Jackson led his fair guest down the line with all that courtly grace he could command when he wished. And, indeed, there was incentive for this gallantry, for never had the old soldier led so stately a beauty down the cotillion line, though in his younger and cock-fighting North Carolina days he had danced with some beautiful women—and some who were not! He was smiling good-naturedly; evidently he was thinking of them to-night. “I have danced with some famous ones in my youth, my dear,” he said, bowing low over her hand, “but never any that could compare with you.” She laughed, twinkling: “Tell me, General, how old must a man be before he quits giving the girls his sweet talk?” “Ah! that depends on the girl. Now, in your case I would say about the age of Methuselah.”