had been a time, when he was six and Claire three, that
Francis, with a boldness that the lover of maturer years tries vainly to
attain, had announced to Claire that he was going to marry her. But he
had never renewed this declaration when it came time that it would carry
weight with it.

They made a fine picture as they sat together to-night. One seeing them
could hardly help thinking on the instant that they were made for each
other. Something in the woman's face, in her expression perhaps,
supplied a palpable lack in the man. The strength of her mouth and chin
helped the weakness of his. She was the sort of woman who, if ever he
came to a great moral crisis in his life, would be able to save him if
she were near. And yet he was going away from her, giving up the pearl
that he had only to put out his hand to take.

Some of these thoughts were in the minds of the brother and sister now.

"Five years does seem a long while," Francis was saying, "but if a man
accomplishes anything, after all, it seems only a short time to look
back upon."

"All time is short to look back upon. It is the looking forward to it
that counts. It does n't, though, with a man, I suppose. He's doing
something all the while."

"Yes, a man is always doing something, even if only waiting; but
waiting is such unheroic business."

"That is the part that usually falls to a woman's lot. I have no doubt
that some dark-eyed mademoiselle is waiting for you now."

Francis laughed and flushed hotly. Claire noted the flush and wondered
at it. Had she indeed hit upon the real point? Was that the reason that
he was so anxious to get back to Paris? The thought struck a chill
through her gaiety. She did not want to be suspicious, but what was the
cause of that tell-tale flush? He was not a man easily disconcerted;
then why so to-night? But her companion talked on with such innocent
composure that she believed herself mistaken as to the reason for his
momentary confusion.

Someone cried gayly across the table to her: "Oh, Miss Claire, you will
not dare to talk with such little awe to our friend when he comes back
with his ribbons and his medals. Why, we shall all have to bow to you,
Frank!"

"You 're wronging me, Esterton," said Francis. "No foreign decoration
could ever be to me as much as the flower of approval from the fair
women of my own State."

"Hear!" cried the ladies.

"Trust artists and poets to pay pretty compliments, and this wily friend