Her education had been of the most elementary, and the whole aim of those placed over her had been to keep her as innocent and ignorant as a child of ten.  Not a single problem of life had ever presented itself to her naturally intelligent mind.  She had read no books, conversed with no grown-up people, played with no one but her companions, three American girls and a few French ones, and the simple Nuns.  And since her emancipation, she had but wandered in the English lakes with her uncle and aunt and Samuel Greenbank, and so had come to Arranstoun like any other tourist to see this famous castle still inhabited after eleven hundred years.

In these days of women giving daily proof of their capability for irritating mischief, if not of their ability to rule nations, Sabine Delburg was a very unique being, and could not have existed but for a combination of rare circumstances, as she was half American and half French and had inherited the quick understanding of both nations.  But from the age of seven, she had never seen the outside world.  It is not my place, in any case, to explain what she was or was not.  The creature, with all her faults and charms, is there to speak for herself—­and if you, my friend, who are reading this tale on a summer’s day do not feel you want to hear any more of what happened to these two young things, by all means put down the book and go your way!

So let us get back to Mr. Arranstoun’s sitting-room and the June afternoon, and we shall hear Miss Delburg saying, in her childish voice of joy: 

“Nothing could be better—­I always did like doing mad things.  It will be the greatest fun!  Think of their faces when I prance in and say I am married!  Then I will snap my fingers at them and go off and see the world.”

Michael knelt upon a low old prie dieu which was near, and looked into her face—­while he asked, whimsically: 

“I do wonder where you will begin.”

Miss Delburg now sat upon the edge of the table; this was a grave question and must be answered at leisure, though without indecision.

“Oh, I know,” she announced.  “There was my great friend, Moravia Cloudwater, at the Convent.  She was older than me, and went to Paris with her father and married an Italian prince last year.  I have heard from her since, and she has often wanted me to go and stay with her in Rome—­and I shall now.  Morri and I are the dearest friends—­and her things did look lovely the day she came to see us at Tours—­with the prince’s coronet on them—­” and then the first shadow came to her contentment.  “That is the only pity about you—­even with a castle, you haven’t a coronet, I suppose?” regretfully.  “I should have liked one on my handkerchiefs and note-paper.”

Michael felt his shortcomings.

“The title was taken away when we followed Prince Charlie and we only got back the land by the skin of our teeth after an awful business so I am afraid I cannot do that for you—­but perhaps,” consolingly, “you will have better luck next time.”