ot so replete with tender memories, and
each succeeding year had found him making anew his pilgrimage, though
a sombre warp of sorrow was now interwoven in the golden woof of his
young happiness.

This year he had decided should be the last. Not that his devotion to
his beloved Queen had lessened--far from that--but the latent spirit
of action, so innate to true British blood was slowly reasserting
itself. For Paul romance might still remain, but as a thing now past.
He was frank with himself in this respect, and he would be frank with
Isabella Waring too.

One more visit he would pay to the scenes of his love-idyl, to the
place where his beloved _Imperatorskoye_ had come into his life, there
to commune again with her in spirit, there to feel her regal presence,
to seek from her that final supreme consolation which his wounded
heart craved--this was Paul's quest. And then he would return to
England--and Isabella.

It was the consideration of this resolution which shut the flying
scenery from his gaze, which drew fine lines about the corners of his
firm lips, and set his face to such a look of dominant strength as
made the high spirited American girl muse thoughtfully and brought a
touch of colour to the face of the pseudo Countess which was not due
to the artifice of her maid.

Such men are masters of their own.

Paul Verdayne was not a man to shirk responsibilities. It is true,
dark days had come to him, when a crushing burden had well-nigh
smothered him, and a bullet to still his fevered brain had seemed far
sweeter to Paul than all else life might hold for him. But Paul was
strong and young. He learned his lesson well--that Time cures all and
that the scars of sorrow, though they form but slowly, still will heal
with the passing of the years.

Paul was still young and he had much to live for, as the world
reckons. He was rich (a thing not to be lightly held), one of the most
popular M. P.'s in England, and the possessor of a fine old name. It
would be a coward's part, surely, to spend the rest of his life in
bemoaning the dead past. He would take up the duties that lay near at
hand, become the true successor of his respected father, old Sir
Charles, and delight the heart of his fond mother, the Lady Henrietta,
by marrying Isabella Waring, the sweetheart of his boyhood days.

So Paul sat communing with himself as the train rushed noisily on,
sat and settled, as men will, the future which they know not of. Ala