k. She idly walked Anneli through the various rooms, pointing out
to her this and that; and as the little Dresden maid had not been in the
Museum before, her eyes were wide open at the sight of such beautiful
things. She was shown masses of rich tapestry and cases of Japanese
lacquer-work; she was shown collections of ancient jewellery and glass;
she went by sunny English landscapes, and was told the story of solemn
cartoons. In the midst of it all George Brand appeared; and the little
German girl, of her own accord, and quite as deftly as Madame Potecki,
devoted herself to the study of some screens of water-colors, just as if
she were one of the Royal Academy pupils.

"We have been looking over Madame Potecki's treasures once more," said
Natalie. He was struck by the happy brightness of her face.

"Ah, indeed!" said he; and he went and brought a couple of chairs, that
together they might regard, if they were so minded, one of those vast
cartoons. "Well, I have good news, Natalie. I do not start until a clear
week hence. So we shall have six mornings here--six mornings all to
ourselves. Do you know what that means to me?"

She took the chair he offered her. She did not look appalled by this
intelligence of his early departure.

"It means six more days of happiness: and do you not think I shall look
back on them with gratitude? And there is not to be a word said about my
going. No; it is understood that we cut off the past and the future for
these six days. We are here; we can speak to each other; that is
enough."'

"But how can one help thinking of the future?" said she, with a mock
mournfulness. "You are going away alone."

"No, not quite alone."

She looked up quickly.

"Why, you know what Evelyn is--the best-hearted of friends," he said to
her. "He insists on going over to America with me, and even talks of
remaining a year or two. He pretends to be anxious to study American
politics."

He could not understand why she laughed--though it was a short, quick,
hysterical laugh, very near to tears.

"You remind me of one of Mr. Browning's poems," she said, half in
apology. "It is about a man who has a friend and a sweetheart. You don't
remember it, perhaps?"

He thought for a moment.

"The fact is," he said, "that when I think of Browning's poems, all
along the line of them, there are some of them seem to burn like fire,
and I cannot see the others."

"This is a very modest little one," said she. "It is a