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“‘Bring it,’ sez he, ‘and howld your jaw, an ye’s a Christian sowl.’ And he brought it. An’ afther the first sip, the child lifts herself up on one arm, and sez, with a swate smile and a toss of the glass:

“‘I looks towards you, Scotty,’ sez she.

“‘I observes you and bows, miss,’ sez he, makin’ as if he was dhrinkin’ wid her.

“‘Here’s another nail in yer coffin, old man,’ sez she winkin’.

“‘And here’s the hair all off your head, miss,’ sez he quite aisily, tossin’ back the joke betwixt ’em.

“And with that she dhrinks it off, and lies down and goes to sleep like a lamb, and wakes up wid de rosy dawn in her cheeks, and the morthal seekness gone forever.”

. . . . . . . . .

Thus Sarah Walker recovered. Whether the fact were essential to the moral conveyed in these pages, I leave the reader to judge.

I was leaning on the terrace of the Kronprinzen-Hof at Rolandseck one hot summer afternoon, lazily watching the groups of tourists strolling along the road that ran between the Hof and the Rhine. There was certainly little in the place or its atmosphere to recall the Greyport episode of twenty years before, when I was suddenly startled by hearing the name of “Sarah Walker.”

In the road below me were three figures,–a lady, a gentleman, and a little girl. As the latter turned towards the lady who addressed her, I recognized the unmistakable copper-colored tresses, trim figure, delicate complexion, and refined features of the friend of my youth! I seized my hat, but by the time I had reached the road, they had disappeared.

The utter impossibility of its being Sarah Walker herself, and the glaring fact that the very coincidence of name would be inconsistent with any conventional descent from the original Sarah, I admit confused me. But I examined the book of the Kronprinzen-Hof and the other hotels, and questioned my portier. There was no “Mees” nor “Madame Walkiere” extant in Rolandseck. Yet might not Monsieur have heard incorrectly? The Czara Walka was evidently Russian, and Rolandseck was a resort for Russian princes. But pardon! Did Monsieur really mean the young demoiselle now approaching? Ah! that was a different affair. She was the daughter of the Italian Prince and Princess Monte Castello staying here. The lady with her was not the Princess, but a foreign friend. The gentleman was the Prince. Would he present Monsieur’s card?

They were entering the hotel. The Prince was a little, inoffensive-looking man, the lady an evident countrywoman of my own, and the child–was, yet was NOT, Sarah! There was the face, the outline, the figure–but the life, the verve, the audacity, was wanting! I could contain myself no longer.

“Pardon an inquisitive compatriot, madam,” I said; “but I heard you a few moments ago address this young lady by the name of a very dear young friend, whom I knew twenty years ago–Sarah Walker. Am I right?”

The Prince stopped and gazed at us both with evident affright; then suddenly recognizing in my freedom some wild American indecorum, doubtless provoked by the presence of another of my species, which he really was not expected to countenance, retreated behind the portier. The circumstance by no means increased the good-will of the lady, as she replied somewhat haughtily:–

“The Principessina is named Sarah Walker, after her mother’s maiden name.”

“Then this IS Sarah Walker’s daughter!” I said joyfully.

“She is the daughter of the Prince and Princess of Monte Castello,” corrected the lady frigidly.

“I had the pleasure of knowing her mother very well.” I stopped and blushed. Did I really know Sarah Walker very well? And would Sarah Walker know me now? Or would it not be very like her to go back on me? There was certainly anything but promise in the feeble-minded, vacuous copy of Sarah before me. I was yet hesitating, when the Prince, who had possibly received some quieting assurance from the portier, himself stepped forward, stammered that the Princess would, without doubt, be charmed to receive me later, and skipped upstairs, leaving the impression on my mind that he contemplated ordering his bill at once. There was no excuse for further prolonging the interview. “Say good-by to the strange gentleman, Sarah,” suggested Sarah’s companion stiffly. I looked at the child in the wild hope of recognizing some prompt resistance to the suggestion that would have identified her with the lost Sarah of my youth–but in vain. “Good-by, sir,” said the affected little creature, dropping a mechanical curtsey. “Thank you very much for remembering my mother.” “Good-by, Sarah!” It was indeed good-by forever.

For on my way to my room I came suddenly upon the Prince, in a recess of the upper hall, addressing somebody through an open door with a querulous protest, whose wild extravagance of statement was grotesquely balanced by its utter feeble timidity of manner. “It is,” said the Prince, “indeed a grave affair. We have here hundreds of socialists, emissaries from lawless countries and impossible places, who travel thousands of miles to fall upon our hearts and embrace us. They establish an espionage over us; they haunt our walks in incredible numbers; they hang in droves upon our footsteps; Heaven alone saves us from a public osculation at any moment! They openly allege that they have dandled us on their knees at recent periods; washed and dressed us, and would do so still. Our happiness, our security–“

“Don’t be a fool, Prince. Do shut up!”

The Prince collapsed and shrank away, and I hurried past the open door. A tall, magnificent-looking woman was standing before a glass, arranging her heavy red hair. The face, which had been impatiently turned towards the door, had changed again to profile, with a frown still visible on the bent brow. Our eyes met as I passed. The next moment the door slammed, and I had seen the last of Sarah Walker.