A sunny smile broke over the girl’s winsome face, as she caught the meaning of Czar’s behavior.  “O,” she said, “are you his master?” Her manner was as natural and unrestrained as a child’s—­her voice, musically sweet and low, as one unaccustomed to the speech of noisy, crowded cities or shrill chattering crowds.

“I am his most faithful and humble subject,” returned the man, whimsically.

She was studying his face openly, while her own countenance—­unschooled to hide emotions, untrained to deceive—­frankly betrayed each passing thought and mood.  The daintily turned chin, sensitive lips, delicate nostrils, and large, blue eyes,—­with that wide, unafraid look of a child that has never been taught to fear,—­revealed a spirit fine and rare; while the low, broad forehead, shaded by a wealth of soft brown hair,—­that, arranged deftly in some simple fashion, seemed to invite the caress of every wayward breath of air,—­gave the added charm of strength and purpose.  The man, seeing these things and knowing—­as few men ever know—­their value, waited her verdict.

It came with a smile and a pretty fancy, as though she caught the mood of the novelist’s reply.  “He has told me so much about you—­how kind you are to him, and how he loves you.  I hope you don’t mind that he and I have learned to be good friends.  Won’t you tell me his name?  I have tried everything, but nothing seems to fit.  To call such a royal fellow, ‘doggie’, doesn’t do at all, does it?”

Conrad Lagrange laughed—­and it was the laugh of a Conrad Lagrange unknown to the world.  “No,” he said with mock seriousness, “‘doggie,’ doesn’t do at all.  He’s not that kind of a dog.  His name is Czar.  That is”—­he added, giving full rein to his droll humor—­“I gave it to him for a name.  He has made it his title.  He did that, you know, so I would always remember that he is my superior.”

She laughed—­low, full-throated and clear—­as a girl who has not sadly learned that she is a woman, laughs.  Then she fell to caressing the dog and calling him by name; while Czar—­in his efforts to express his delight and satisfaction—­was as nearly undignified as it was possible for him to be.

As he watched them, the rugged, world-worn features of the famous novelist were lighted with an expression that transformed them.

“And I suppose,” she said,—­still responding to the novelist’s playful mood,—­“that Czar told you I was trespassing in your garden.  Of course it was his duty to tell.  I hope he told you, also, that I do not steal your roses.”

The man shook his head, and his sharp, green-gray eyes were twinkling merrily, now—­as a boy in the spirit of some amusing venture.  “Oh, no!  Czar said nothing at all about trespassers.  He did tell me, though, about a wonderful creature that comes every day to visit the garden.  A nymph, he thought it was—­a beautiful Oread from away up there among the silver peaks and purple canyons—­or,