id again, in response to his original impulse. "You
have somebody to meet you?"

The boy glanced up, a secret emotion burning in his eyes. "No,
monsieur."

"You are quite alone?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And why are you here--to play or to work?"

The question was unwarrantable, but an Irishman can dispense with
warranty in a manner unknown to other men. It had ever been Blake's way
to ask what he desired to know.

This time no offence showed itself in the boy's face.

"In part to work, in part to play, monsieur," he answered, gravely; "in
part to learn life."

The reply was strange to Blake's ears--strange in its grave sincerity,
stranger still in its quiet fearlessness.

"But you are such a child!" he cried, impulsively. "You--"

Imperceptibly the slight figure stiffened, the proud look flashed again
into the eyes.

"Many thanks, monsieur, but I am older than you think--and very
independent. I have the honor monsieur, to wish you good-bye."

The tone was absolutely courteous, but it was final. He bowed with easy
foreign grace, raised his fur cap, and, turning, swung down the platform
and out of sight.

Blake stood watching him--watching until the high head, the straight
shoulders, the lithe, swinging body were but a memory; then he turned
with a start, as a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and the pleasant,
prosaic voice of the young Englishman assailed his ears.

"My dear chap, what in the world are you doing? Not day-dreaming with
the mercury at thirty?"

"Foolish--but I was!" Blake answered, calmly. "I was watching that young
Russian stalk away into the unknown, and I was wondering--"

"What?"

He smiled a little cynically. "I was wondering, Billy, what type of
individual and what particular process fate will choose to let him break
himself upon."

* * * * *

The most splendid moment of an adventure is not always the moment of
fulfilment, not even the moment of conception, but the moment of first
accomplishment, when the adventurer deliberately sets his face toward
the new road, knowing that his boats are burned.

Nothing could have been less inspiring than the dreary Gare du Nord,
nothing less inviting than the glimpse of Paris to be caught through its
open doorways; but had the whole world laughed him a welcome, the young
Russian's step could not have been more elastic, his courage higher, his
heart more ready to pulse to the quick march of his thoughts, as he