elicit the respectful bows of every lackey
in his father's hall. People have widely
different conceptions of what is disgraceful.
Then, too, Veronica had clearly conveyed
in her note that if her father would come
to see her, he should be spared a "scene." No
exigent demands should be made on his
emotions. A combination of circumstances
favoured the reception of her letter by the
vicar. He was alone in his garden when
the fly drove up to the gate. Maud was
absent. There was not even a servant's
eye upon him, under whose inspection he
might have deemed it necessary to assume
a rigour and indignation he had ceased to
feel. There was the carriage waiting to
take him back at once, if he would go.
He felt that if he did not seize this
opportunity, he might never see his daughter
more. After scarcely a minute's hesitation,
he opened the house door, called to
Joanna that he was going to Shipley
Magna, and stepped into the vehicle. It
chanced, as the reader is aware, that his
servants knew as well as he did, who it was
that awaited him at Shipley Magna. Joe
Dowsett had met his friend, the head ostler
of the Crown Inn, at Sack's farm, that
morning, and the arrival of the prince and
princess had been fully discussed between
them. But of this the vicar was in happy
ignorance, as he was driven along the
winding road across "the hills" to Shipley.

"Here is our messenger returned!"
exclaimed Barletti, suddenly, as from his post
at the window he perceived the fly jingling
up the High-street. "It is he! I recognise
the horse by his fatness. Sommi dei,
is he fat, that animal! And I think I see
some one inside the carriage. Yes—yes!
It is, it must be your father!"

Veronica sprang from the sofa, and ran
towards a door that led into the adjoining
chamber.

"Stay, dearest; that is not the way!"
cried Cesare. "Come, here is the door of
the corridor; come, we will go down and
meet him together."

But that had been by no means Veronica's
intention. In the first agitation of learning
her father's approach, she had started
up with simply an instinctive, unreasoning
impulse to run away. At Cesare's words
she strove to command herself, and sank
down again in a sitting posture on the
sofa.

"No—no—no, Cesare," she said, in a
low, breathless tone. "I—I was crazy to
think of such a thing! It would never
do to meet papa in the inn-yard before all
those people. He would not like it. Stay
with me, Cesare."

She took his hand in hers, and held it
with an almost convulsively tight grasp.
Thus they waited silently, hand in hand.
Her emotion had infected Cesare, and he
had turned quite pale. It was probably
not more than three minutes from the
moment of Cesare's first seeing the fly
that they waited thus. But it seemed to
Veronica as though a long period had
elapsed between that moment and the
opening of the sitting-room door.

"The vicar of Shipley," announced the
prince's English valet, who condescended to
act on occasion as groom of the chambers.

"Papa!"

"My dear child! My dear Veronica!"

It was over. The meeting looked
forward to with such mingled feelings had
taken place, almost without a tear being
shed. The vicar's eyes were moistened a
little. Veronica did not cry, but she was as
pale as the false colour on her cheeks would
let her be, and she trembled, and her heart
beat fast; but she alone knew this, and she
strove to hide it. She had put her arms
round her father's neck and kissed him.
And he had held her for a moment in his
embrace. Then they sat down side by side on
the sofa. And then they perceived, for the
first time, that Prince Cesare de' Barletti,
who had retired to the window, was crying
in a quite unconcealed manner, and noisily
using a large white pocket-handkerchief
which filled the whole room with an odour
as of a perfumer's shop.

"Cesare," called Veronica, "come hither.
Let me present you to my father."

Cesare wiped his eyes; put the odoriferous
handkerchief into his pocket, and
advanced with extended hands to the vicar.
He would have embraced him, but he
conceived that that would have been a solecism
in English manners; and Cesare flattered
himself that although his knowledge of the
language was as yet imperfect, he had very
happily acquired the outward bearing of an
Englishman.

"It is a moment I have long desired,"
said he, shaking the vicar's right hand
between both his. "The father of my beloved
wife may be assured of my truest respect
and affection."

There was a real charm and grace in the
way in which Cesare said these words. It
was entirely free from awkwardness or
constraint; and uttered in his native
Italian, the words themselves appeared
thoroughly simple and natural.