nd please won't I tell him the latest news concerning
Jack-the-giant-killer. He asked me to-night if I thought you'd mind if
he banished your father. They've had a children's quarrel, I believe. If
you do mind, I am to let him know: he won't banish him. He's very fond
of you, Countess." She laughed gaily.

"He is a dear boy. I adore him. I think I quite understand why you are
giving up your life to him. At first I wasn't sure."

"You thought I expected to gain something by it, is not that so? Well,
there are a great many people who think so still--your father among
them. They'll never understand. I don't blame them, for, I declare to
you, I don't fully appreciate it myself. John Tullis playing nurse and
story-teller to a seven-year-old boy, to the exclusion of everything
else, is more than I can grasp. Somehow, I've come to feel that he's
mine. That must be the reason. But you've heard me prate on this subject
a hundred times. Don't let me start it again. There's something else you
want to talk to me about, so please don't encourage me to tell all the
wonderful things he has said and done to-day."

"It is of the Prince that I want to speak, Mr. Tullis," she said,
suddenly serious. "I don't care to hear whether he stubbed his toe
to-day or just how much he has grown since yesterday, but I do want to
talk very seriously with you concerning his future--I might say his
immediate future."

He looked at her narrowly.

"Are you quite serious?"

"Quite. I could not have asked you to come to this house for anything
trivial. We have become very good friends, you and I. Too good, perhaps,
for I've no doubt there are old tabbies in Edelweiss who are provoked to
criticism--you know what I mean. Their world is full of imaginary
affairs, else what would there be left for old age? But we are good
friends and we understand why we are good friends, so there's the end to
that. As I say, I could not have asked so true a friend into the house
of his enemy for the mere sake of having my vanity pleased by his
obedience."

"I am quite sure of that," he said. "Are you in trouble, Countess? Is
there anything I can do?"

"It has to do with the Prince, not with me," she said. "And yet I am in
trouble--or perhaps I should say, I am troubled."

"The Prince is a sturdy little beggar," he began, but she lifted her
hand in protest.

"And he has sturdy, loyal friends. That is agreed. And yet--" she
paused, a perplexed line coming between he