"Frank," she repeated, "shall we go home?"

"Do you mean Withlacootchie or the hotel?" was the answer.

The man had his back to Fräulein Vogel, but now he turned, and she
recognized him. The portrait had lied a little, as portraits will lie, and
yet he was a handsome man enough, after all.

"Home or the hotel, dear?" His voice was very gentle, and his smile
tender. "Are you tired of wandering?" he added.

"Oh, no!" she said, "but whither shall we wander?"

"Up-stairs, down-stairs, in my ladies' chamber," he rejoined. "Last summer,
the Tyrol; last winter, Italy; this summer, Switzerland; now,--where? We
are making a long honeymoon of it."

"And are you tired?" she asked.

He gave a rapid glance up and down the Allée then stooped and kissed her.

Fräulein Vogel had not understood all the words, the caress she saw. She
rose and went slowly homeward. In the tiny DÃ¥ssel the swans were floating
majestically, and, standing there on the bank, she tore the box and the
picture into scraps and flung them in the water. The swans hastened after
the bits of white paper; they fought and screamed over them, and the
victor proudly bore away a fragment from his envious mates, only to
discover that it was worthless.

CHARLES DUNNING.