The servant follows the retreating figure a few steps and shouts, "Here, you--" The stranger pauses a moment, half turns his head, then, as if the abrupt summons could not possibly be meant for him, moves proudly on without glancing back a second time.

The servant timidly returns. A feeling of shame overwhelms the countess, as though she had committed the blunder of ordering him to address a person of high rank travelling incognito.

"The gentleman wouldn't hear me," says the lackey apologetically, much abashed. "Very well," his mistress answers, glad that the darkness conceals her blushes. A flash of lightning darts from the sky and a sudden peal of thunder frightens the horses. "Drive on," the countess commands; the lackey springs on the box, the carriage rolls forward--a few yards further and the dark figure once more appears beside the vehicle, walking calmly on amid the thunder and lightning, and merely turns his head slightly toward the prancing horses.

The equipage dashes by--the countess leans silently back on the cushions, and shows no further desire to look out.

"Tell me, Countess Madeleine," asks the gentleman whom she has just addressed as 'Prince,' "what troubles you today?"

The countess laughs. "Dear me, how solemnly you put the question! What should trouble me?"

"I cannot understand you," the prince continued. "You treat me coldly and grow enthusiastic over a vision of the imagination which already draws from you the exclamation: 'There he is again!' I cannot help thinking what an uncertain possession is the favor of a lady whose imagination kindles so easily."

"This is charming," the countess tried to jest. "My prince jealous--of a phantom?"

"That is just it. If a phantom can produce such variations in the temperature of your heart toward me, how must my hopes stand?"

"Dear Prince, you know that whether with or without a phantom, I could never yet answer this question which Your Highness frequently condescends to ask me."

"I believe, Countess, that one always stands between us! You pursue some unknown ideal which you do not find in me, the realist, who has nothing to offer you save prosaic facts--his hand, his principality, and an affection for which unhappily he lacks poetic phrases."

"You exaggerate, Prince, and are growing severe. There is a touch of truth--I am always honest--yet, as you know, you are the most favored of all my suitors. Still it is true that an unknown disputes precedence with you. This rival is but the man of my imagination--but the world contains no one like my ideal, so you have nothing to fear."

"What ideal do you demand, Countess, that no one can attain it?"

"Ah! a very simple one, yet you conventional natures will never understand it. It is the simplicity of the lost Paradise to which you can never return. I am by nature a lover of the ideal--I am enthusiastic and need enthusiasm; but you call me a visionary when I am in the most sacred earnest. I yearn for a husband who believes in my ideal, I want no one from whom I must conceal it in order to avoid ridicule, and thus be unable to be true to my highest self. He whom my soul seeks must be at once a man and a child--a man in character and a child in heart. But where in our modern life is such a person to be found? Where is gentleness without feeble sentimentality? Where is there enthusiasm without fantastic vagueness, where simplicity of heart without narrowness of mind? Whoever possesses a manly character and a strong intellect cannot escape the demands which science and politics impose, and this detracts from the emotional life, gives prominent development to concrete thought, makes men realistic and critical. But of all who suffer from these defects of our time, you are the best, Prince!" she adds, smilingly.'

"That is sorry comfort," murmurs the prince. "It is a peculiar thing to have an invisible rival; who will guarantee that some person may not appear who answers to the description?"

"That is the reason I have not yet given you my consent," replies the countess, gravely.

Her companion sighs heavily, makes no reply, but gazes steadfastly into the raging storm. Alter a time he says, softly, "If I did not love you so deeply, Countess Madeleine--"

"You would not bear with me so long, would you?" asks the countess, holding out her hand as if beseeching pardon.

This one half unconscious expression of friendship disarms the irritated man.--He bends over the slender little hand and raises it tenderly to his lips.

"She must yet be mine!" he says under his breath, by way of consolation, like all men whose hopes are doubtful. "I will even dare the battle with a phantom."