up the stairs.

"He has not dined at all, sir, for some days back," said the waiter. "A
cup of coffee in the morning, and a biscuit, are all that he takes."

The Colonel made an expressive gesture by turning out the lining of his
pocket.

"Yes, sir," replied the other, significantly; "very much that way, I
believe." And with that he uncovered the soup, and the Colonel arranged
his napkin and prepared to dine.

CHAPTER II. AN HUMBLE INTERIOR

WHEN Dalton parted from his companions at the "Russie," it was to
proceed by many an intricate and narrow passage to a remote part of the
upper town, where close to the garden wall of the Ducal Palace stood,
and still stands, a little solitary two-storied house, framed in wood,
and the partitions displaying some very faded traces of fresco painting.
Here was the well-known shop of a toy-maker; and although now closely
barred and shuttered, in summer many a gay and merry troop of children
devoured with eager eyes the treasures of Hans Roeckle.

Entering a dark and narrow passage beside the shop, Dalton ascended the
little creaking stairs which led to the second story. The landing place
was covered with firewood, great branches of newly-hewn beech and oak,
in the midst of which stood a youth, hatchet in hand, busily engaged
in chopping and splitting the heavy masses around him. The flush of
exercise upon his cheek suited well the character of a figure which,
clothed only in shirt and trousers, presented a perfect picture of
youthful health and symmetry.

"Tired, Frank?" asked the old man, as he came up.

"Tired, father! not a bit of it. I only wish I had as much more to split
for you, since the winter will be a cold one."

"Come in and sit down, boy, now," said the father, with a slight
tremor as he spoke. "We cannot have many more opportunities of talking
together. To-morrow is the 28th of November."

"Yes; and I must be in Vienna by the fourth, so Uncle Stephen writes."

"You must not call him uncle, Frank, he forbids it himself; besides, he
is my uncle, and not yours. My father and he were brothers, but never
saw each other after fifteen years of age, when the Count that 's what
we always called him entered the Austrian service, so that we are all
strangers to each other."

"His letter does n't show any lively desire for a closer intimacy," said
the boy, laughing. "A droll composition it is, spelling and all."

"He left Ireland when he was a child, and lucky he