As she was hurried between the tall stone gateposts and up the cement walk, Ruth had but little time to observe her surroundings; but her eyes were quick, and she saw that the house she was about to enter was set some twenty feet back in quiet roomy grounds bordered by an ornamental stone wall.  Distinguishing the house from its neighbors was a narrow veranda extending for some distance across the front, its slender columns rising to such a height that the flat roof, lodged with stone, formed a balcony easily accessible from the second floor.  To one side, between the wall and the house, was a large tree whose foliage, loath to leave the swaying boughs, defied the autumn breeze.

Before she had time to observe more, the party entered the Ministry; the door was closed quickly, and Ruth’s companions stood respectfully aside.  His Excellency was already coming down the steps, and met her at the foot of the stairs.  Bowing low, he kissed the white hand before Ruth could prevent.

“We are highly honored by the presence of Your Highness.”

With another low bow he stood aside, and Ruth passed up the stairs.  His Excellency conducted her into the room wherein the conference regarding her had been held only a few days before.

“Your Highness—­” he began.

But Ruth interrupted him.  “I do not understand your language.”

The Minister rubbed his hands, smiled, and, still using the foreign language, said, “I am surprised that Your Highness should have forgotten your native tongue during such a short sojourn in America.”

Ruth spoke somewhat haughtily.

“I think, Your Excellency, that I know who you are—­and also why I am here.  Permit me to tell you that you have made a serious blunder.  I am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta.”

The Minister smiled again, and started to speak.  But Ruth again interrupted him.

“Pardon me, Your Excellency, but if you insist upon talking to me, I must again request that you speak a language I can understand.  I have already told you that I do not understand what you say.”

The Minister still kept his smile, and still rubbed his hands, but this time he spoke in English.

“It shall be as Your Highness wishes.  It is your privilege to choose the language of conversation.  We will speak in English, although your own tongue would perhaps be better.”

“My own tongue,” said Ruth, “is the language that I am using; and again I must inform Your Excellency that I am not the Grand Duchess.  You have simply been guilty of abduction.  You have taken the wrong person.”

For answer the Minister went over to the mantel and picked up a portrait, which he extended toward the girl.

“I know,” said Ruth, “I know.  Many times in Europe I have been subjected to annoyance because of the resemblance.  I know the Grand Duchess very well, but my name is Ruth Atheson.”

The tolerant smile never left the face of the Minister.