t take my place in the House of Lords.
It is his wish that I should not leave England again now, so I
suppose there is nothing left for me but to give it up. I have done
my share of traveling and work, after all," he concluded,
thoughtfully.

"Your share, indeed," she murmured. "Remember that but for that
document which was read to the Czar at Windsor, Servia must have
gone down, and England would have had to take a place among the
second-class Powers. There may be war now, it is true, but it
will be a glorious war."

"Louise, very soon we shall know. Until then I will say nothing.
But I do not want you altogether to forget that there has been
something in my life dearer to me even than my career for these
last few years."

Her blue eyes were suddenly soft. She looked across towards him
wistfully.

"Dear," she whispered, "things will be altered with you now. I am
not fit to be the wife of an English peer--I am not noble."

He laughed.

"I am afraid," he assured her, "that I am democrat enough to think
you one of the noblest women on earth. Why should I not? Your
life itself has been a study in devotion. The modern virtues seem
almost to ignore patriotism, yet the love of one's country is a
splendid thing. But don't you think, Louise, that we have done
our work that it is time to think of ourselves?"

She gave him her hand.

"Let us see," she said. "Let us wait for a little time and see what
comes."

That night another proof of the popular feeling, absolutely
spontaneous, broke out in one of the least expected places. Louise
was encored for her wonderful solo in a modern opera of bellicose
trend, and instead of repeating it she came alone on the stage after
a few minutes' absence, dressed in Servian national dress. For a
short time the costume was not recognized. Then the music--the
national hymn of Servia, and the recollection of her parentage,
brought the thing home to the audience. They did not even wait for
her to finish. In the middle of her song the applause broke like a
crash of thunder. From the packed gallery to the stalls they cheered
her wildly, madly. A dozen times she came before the curtain. It
seemed impossible that they would ever let her go. Directly she
turned to leave the stage, the uproar broke out again. The manager
at last insisted upon it that she should speak a few words. She
stood in the centre of the stage amid a silence as complete as the
previous applause h