Petite Reine," he murmured gently, striving vainly for his old
lightness, "Petite Reine, how some man will love you one day! Thank you
from my heart, my little innocent friend."

Her face flushed with gladness; she smiled with all a child's unshadowed
joy.

"Ah! then you will take it! and if you want more only let me ask them
for it; papa and Philip never refuse me anything!"

His hand wandered gently over the shower of her hair, as he put back the
Napoleons that he had gathered up into her azure bonbonniere.

"Petite Reine, you are a little angel; but I cannot take your money, my
child, and you must ask for none for my sake from your father or from
Rock. Do not look so grieved, little one; I love you none the less
because I refuse it."

Petite Reine's face was very pale and grave; a delicate face, in its
miniature feminine childhood almost absurdly like the Seraph's; her eyes
were full of plaintive wonder and of pathetic reproach.

"Ah!" she said, drooping her head with a sigh; "it is no good to you
because it is such a little; do let me ask for more!"

He smiled, but the smile was very weary.

"No, dear, you must not ask for more; I have been very foolish, my
little friend, and I must take the fruits of my folly; all men must.
I can accept no one's money, not even yours; when you are older and
remember this, you will know why. But I do not thank you the less from
my heart."

She looked at him, pained and wistful.

"You will not take anything, Mr. Cecil?" she asked with a sigh, glancing
at her rejected Napoleons.

He drew the enamel bonbonniere away.

"I will take that if you will give it me, Petite Reine, and keep it in
memory of you."

As he spoke, he stooped and kissed her very gently; the act had
moved him more deeply than he thought he had it in him to be moved
by anything, and the child's face turned upward to him was of a very
perfect and aristocratic loveliness, far beyond her years. She colored
as his lips touched hers, and swayed slightly from him. She was an
extremely proud young sovereign, and never allowed caresses; yet she
lingered by him, troubled, grave, with something intensely tender and
pitiful in the musing look of her eyes. She had a perception that this
calamity which smote him was one far beyond the ministering of her
knowledge.

He took the pretty Palais Royal gold-rimmed sweetmeat box, and slipped
it into his waistcoat pocket. It was only a child's gift, a tiny Paris
toy; but