oul in them. Let me have your
portrait painted by an artist from whose canvas comes a breath
from beyond this world."

He inclined his cherub head and kissed his mother's hand, which
was resting on Cara's shoulder.

"And kiss me, too!" cried Cara.

"Sentiment!" said Maryan, straightening himself, "beware of
sentiment, little one. I, thy great-grandfather, say this to
thee."

"Splendidly expressed!" exclaimed Irene from the mirror. "Cara's
soul is so primitive, yours--"

"So decadent," put in Maryan.

"That you have a right to be called her great-grandfather."

"I greet you great-grandmother!" laughed he at Irene.

"I say this, mother, for, as you see, I understand my elder
sister perfectly, but not the little one yet; however, that will
come some time--surely soon. Mais revenons a nos moutons: How
about the portrait?"

Malvina laughed. Her face, greatly troubled an hour before, had
grown young again. A certain sunray had pierced the thick cloud
at that moment. She warded off the idea of the portrait.

"Why? There are too many portraits of me already. Oh, too many!"

"Caricatures!" exclaimed Maryan, "and none of them is mine. I beg
a portrait for myself specially; my own exclusive property."

"What for?" repeated Malvina. "Look at the original as often as
you like. Better not have a portrait; then, perhaps, you will
feel the need of seeing me oftener."

"No reproaches, dear mother! Leave reproaches, threats; let the
whole patriarchal arsenal remain on that side, over there--"

With a gesture he indicated the door leading to the interior of
the house.

Cara raised her head from her mother's knees, and her eyes
glittered.

"But on this side let there be only sweetness, only charm, only
that precious, beautiful weakness, before which I am on my knees
always. As to this, that I can see the original of the portrait
when I wish, that is a question! We are grains of sand scattered
over the world by the wind of interesting voyages."

"Have you some plan of a journey again?" inquired Malvina,
alarmed.

"Yes. It is in indistinct lines yet, but is becoming more
definite every day. This will be the step of a giant--fleeing
before that rod with which the all-mighty father is pleased to
beat his children."

Again, with a gesture he pointed to the door leading to the more
distant apartments, and in the short laugh which accompanied his
last words there was sarcasm--almost hatred. At the same moment
he met C