d fortune; why should we complain
because of a few obstacles now?" asked her mistress. "To become a
diplomat one needs to be first a philosopher, and prepared at all
times for the worst."

"I could be more of a philosopher myself over these complications,"
agreed the girl, smiling, "if I were a foreigner of rank seeking
amusement and adventure. But the troubles of all this country have
come so close home to the people of my race that we fear even to think
what the worst might be."

The Marquise held up an admonishing finger and glanced towards the
door.

"Of course no one hears, but it is best never to allow yourself the
habit of referring to family or personal affairs. Even though we speak
a language not generally understood in this country, do not--even to
me--speak of your race. I know all, understand it all, without words;
and, for the people we have met, they do not doubt you are a San
Domingo Creole. You must be careful lest they think differently."

"You are right; what a fool I am! My tongue ever runs ahead of my wit.
Marquise, sometimes I laugh when I remember how capable I thought
myself on leaving Paris, what great things I was to do--I!" and she
shrugged her plump shoulders in self derision. "Why, I should have
been discovered a dozen times had I depended on my own wit. I am a
good enough orderly, but only under a capable general," and she made a
smiling courtesy to the Marquise.

"Chatterbox! If I am the general of your distinguished selection, I
shall issue an order at once for your immediate retirement."

"Oh, Marquise!"

"To bed," concluded her mistress, gayly, "go; I shall not need you. I
have work to do."

The girl first unlaced the dark boots and substituted a pair of soft
pink slippers, and touched her cheek to the slender foot.

"I shall envy the maid who does even that for you when I am gone," she
said, softly. "Now, good rest to you, my general, and pleasant
dreams."

"Thanks; but my dreams are never formidable nor important," was the
teasing reply as the maid vanished. The careless smile gave way to a
quick sigh of relief as the door closed. She arose and walked back and
forth across the room with nervous, rapid steps, her hands clasped
back of her head and the wide sleeves of the robe slipped back,
showing the perfect arms. She seemed a trifle taller than when in
Paris that first springtime, and the open robe revealed a figure
statuesque, perfect as a sculptor's ideal, yet without