Mr. Pike suddenly felt himself caressed by three happy mortals.

“I shall make you a Knight of the Gleaming Scimitar,” said the Governor-General.  “I have the authority.”

“Thanks,” replied Mr. Pike.

“And we can have a double wedding,” exclaimed Jeneka, whose ecstasy was almost apoplectic.

“We shall be married in Washington,” said Kalora decisively.  “I am not going to be carted over to my husband’s house and delivered at the back door, even if it is the custom of my native land.  I shall be married publicly and have twelve bridesmaids.”

“You may start for Washington immediately,” said her father with genuine enthusiasm.

“I shall need a chaperon.  Send for Popova.”

“Good!  His punishment shall be—­permanent exile.”

“Nothing would please him better,” said Kalora.  “Over here he is nothing—­in Washington he will be a distinguished foreigner.  Washington! Washington!  To think that all of us are going back there!  To think that once more I shall have pickles—­all the pickles I want to eat!”

“We have over fifty varieties waiting for you,” observed young Mr. Pike tenderly.

“I have been thinking,” spoke up the Governor-General.  “I shall apply to the Sultan.  He shall make you a Most Noble Prince of the Order of Bosporus.  The decoration is a great star, studded with diamonds.”

“Thanks,” replied Mr. Pike.

That night the great palace at Morovenia was completely illuminated for the first time in many months.

THE END