ed through them, and the tears did
not fall. When I saw her smile my heart was eased, and I said without
thinking: "Thank God, darling, Rupert is all right."

"I thank God, too, dear Aunt Janet!" she said softly; and I took her in
my arms and laid her head on my breast.

"Go on, dear," I said; "tell me what it is that troubles you?" This time
I saw the tears drop, as she lowered her head and hid her face from me.

"I'm afraid I have deceived you, Aunt Janet, and that you will
not--cannot--forgive me."

"Lord save you, child!" I said, "there's nothing that you could do that I
could not and would not forgive. Not that you would ever do anything
base, for that is the only thing that is hard to forgive. Tell me now
what troubles you."

She looked up in my eyes fearlessly, this time with only the signs of
tears that had been, and said proudly:

"Nothing base, Aunt Janet. My father's daughter would not willingly be
base. I do not think she could. Moreover, had I ever done anything base
I should not be here, for--for--I should never have been Rupert's wife!"

"Then what is it? Tell your old Aunt Janet, dearie." She answered me
with another question:

"Aunt Janet, do you know who I am, and how I first met Rupert?"

"You are the Voivodin Teuta Vissarion--the daughter of the Voivode--Or,
rather, you were; you are now Mrs. Rupert Sent Leger. For he is still an
Englishman, and a good subject of our noble King."

"Yes, Aunt Janet," she said, "I am that, and proud to be it--prouder than
I would be were I my namesake, who was Queen in the old days. But how
and where did I see Rupert first?" I did not know, and frankly told her
so. So she answered her question herself:

"I saw him first in his own room at night." I knew in my heart that in
whatever she did had been nothing wrong, so I sat silent waiting for her
to go on:

"I was in danger, and in deadly fear. I was afraid I might die--not that
I fear death--and I wanted help and warmth. I was not dressed as I am
now!"

On the instant it came to me how I knew her face, even the first time I
had seen it. I wished to help her out of the embarrassing part of her
confidence, so I said:

"Dearie, I think I know. Tell me, child, will you put on the frock . . .
the dress . . . costume you wore that night, and let me see you in it?
It is not mere idle curiosity, my child, but something far, far above
such idle folly."

"Wait for me a minute, Aunt Janet," she