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An unwilling yet irrepressible smile flitted across Mrs. Basil's vexed countenance; but the judge had been an indulgent husband, and she an exemplary wife, and she could afford to smile at a threadbare pleasantry. "Do you mean to say, Arthur," she asked, after a moment's pause, "that you have no definite idea as to what constitutes a judicious marriage? This is, you know, an important matter for a young man to consider."

"Oh, yes, indeed!" replied Arthur, laughing. "Pretty girl, good family, independent fortune, polite education, refinement, style. I can't think it would be reasonable to ask more-or less than this!

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"My dear boy!" said Mrs. Basil, with effusion. "I am not deceived by your jesting tone. I see that I may rely upon the discretion of a Hendall; and if I seemed to doubt your judgment, I beg your pardon."

"Aunt," said Arthur, struck with sudden admiration, "do you know you look just like a fairy godmother, with that killing old staff? Are you going to find me the piece of perfection just described?"

But this was a demand for which Mrs. Basil, who was discussing her nephew's marriage in the abstract, was totally unprepared. However, it gave her an opportunity to make a politic speech. "My dear boy," she said, with a slight, low laugh, "I have no one in view, I assure you; you are your own man, and a Hendall is capable of judging for himself."

"My dear aunt," said Arthur, audaciously, "the sight of you is enough to make a man proud of being a Hendall. Upon my word, you are a handsome old lady; you look as if you were made expressly for diamonds and velvet and yet you don't need these adventitious aids, for poverty can't impoverish your style, you know. Is it your white hair, or is it your astonishing staff?"

"It is character, my dear boy, character," said Mrs. Basil, unconsciouly expanding. "The Hendalls were always distinguished for character."

Never before had she been so well pleased with her nephew.

CHAPTER VI.

A QUESTION OF MONEY.

Ir was half-past ten o'clock on a Sunday morning; and, though it was early in April, the sun was shining hot upon the Westport pavements, along which a summer-clad multitude were going to church. Everybody that passed a certain plain but commodious house of yellow brick, with tall, glistening-green pomegranate-bushes in front, and stiff century-plants on each side of the porch, glanced up, and began immediately to talk of burglars; for here lived Mrs. Elizabeth Stargold.

Presently, a lady, richly dressed, tall, elderly, and formidable-looking, stepped out of the throng, opened the iron gate in front of this house, walked up the steps, and rang the bell with a vigorous peal that made itself heard even in the street. While she stood upon the porch, waiting for the door to be

opened, the people that passed thought of her, and not of burglars. They bowed and smiled, and she bowed and smiled in return. She seemed to know everybody, and everybody seemed to know her.

"How handsomely she dresses!" said the young ladies.

"And how wonderfully well-preserved she is!" said the old ladies. "Miss Hawkesby must certainly be over sixty."

"But it's easy enough to be well-dressed and well-preserved when one has money," said the middle-aged ladies, sighing.

"She's not so very rich, though," said an old gentleman, one of the kind that knows every thing about everybody; "but she's sharp, you see; knows how to compel a little to go a great way, and dazzle as it goes. Never knew a sharper woman."

"She's a dreadful old dragon," said a very young gentleman, who was probably an unprofitable dangler after the dragon's niece.

"There you go, talking about me, I know," Miss Hawkesby commented to herself; "but you can't one of you say I'm a fool, and you can't one of you say I'm not suitably dressed."

And Miss Hawkesby, who cared nothing for the world's opinion, so long as the world pronounced her clever and well-dressed, passed, thoroughly well satisfied with herself, into the house, and went up-stairs to Mrs. Stargold's room.

A delightful room it was, just in the way of catching the breeze, and furnished with a studious regard to comfort. There was cool matting on the floor, there were dark shades at the windows to shut out the glare, there were lounges, there were easy-chairs, and in one of these, near a window, sat Mrs. Stargold, with a large prayer-book open on her knees.

She was a woman of a delicate physique, just the person, apparently, to be shocked irreparably by any sudden fright; yet she was known to be a very determined woman, and because she had lived alone for years she had gained the reputation of being absolutely fearless. But at last it had come to pass, just as everybody expected. Mrs. Stargold's possessions had tempted some desperate wretches, and Mrs. Stargold had received a severe fright: the effect was to be seen in her pale, anxious countenance, and her trembling hands, that had never ceased shaking, it was said, since the night the "two stalwart ruffians," in whom more people than Mrs. Basil liked to believe, entered her house. Mrs. Stargold had been so prostrated by the shock that her devoted relatives the Ruffners had found it necessary to be with her constantly, in order to protect her from the wellmeant but ill-advised intrusion of anxious friends. It was not easy to gain access to Mrs. Stargold's presence now, as Miss Hawkesby knew; but, though proudly conscious of the fact that she was more than a match for the Ruffners on any field, she did not choose to try her powers against them. She preferred to use finesse. She knew that Mrs. Stargold was too strict a church-goer herself to permit Mrs. and Miss Ruffner to remain away on any account; and she knew that the Ruffners were studious to please

"Cousin Elizabeth;" therefore, she chose to make her visit on a Sunday morning, when the Ruffners would surely be out of the way. She didn't mind shocking Mrs. Stargold's sense of propriety. She had always had money enough of her own to enable her to. follow the bent of her inclinations in most things, and she was accountable to nobody; the result was an independence of character, manner, and speech, that sometimes made people open their eyes at Miss Hawkesby, which was a sort of homage Miss Hawkesby enjoyed. She was not abashed, therefore, when Mrs. Stargold stared speechlessly at her as she entered.

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The two had known each other from girlhood, and they still adhered to the old familiar style of address.

'No," answered Miss Hawkesby-and her voice was neither thin nor tremulous; it was deep and sonorous, with a slight, peculiar hoarseness, and altogether in admirable keeping with her general appearance—“ no ; look at my dress; do I seem to have forgotten that it is Sunday? But I'm not going to church; when I've something on my mind, what's the use of going to church? I shouldn't be able to fix my attention, so I would better be honest, and remain away."

"But doesn't Anita sing to day at St. Stephen's?" Mrs. Stargold said, as though she would by any means in her power persuade Miss Hawkesby to her duty. "Sam is gone expressly to hear her."

"I hope he'll enjoy it," said Miss Hawkesby. "Yes, Anita sings to-day at St. Stephen's; but Anita's singing is nothing new to me; in fact, I'm tired of it. I've something on my mind, as I told you, and I must have a talk with you."

"Olivia! On Sunday?"

'Sunday or Monday, my dear, I must have my say out; and you'll find you'll end by hearing me through. You'll have to do it, to be rid of me," said Miss Hawkesby, with the air of a woman who always carried her point. "How do you do to-day, Elizabeth?"

"I'm better to-day," said Mrs. Stargold, wearily; and her voice sounded far away; "but I've had a great shock, Olivia-a great shock."

And she looked at Miss Hawkesby piteously, as though she sought some earthly support against trouble.

"Nonsense!" said Miss Hawkesby, in her deep voice. "You'll get over it if you don't persist in giving up to it."

Mrs. Stargold shook her head.

"I shall never get over it," she said, "never! I've had a summons to yield up my possessions."

In spite of her friend's solemnity, Miss Hawkesby began to laugh, a deep, voluminous laugh, that matched her voice.

"Yes, yes," she said, "I hear that you've seen the lawyers. What a joke! Now did you really, Elizabeth?"

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"Yes," said Mrs. Stargold, solemnly; "I've had a warning, Olivia; I must put my affairs in order before I go hence, and am seen no more."

"You've had a warning to take some one to live with you," said Miss Hawkesby. "I'm considered a bold woman, but I wouldn't live alone as you do: it's bad for the spirits. If you had a pretty young girl on your hands, now, to be provided for, you'd have something lively to think about; and it wouldn't be burglars exactly that you would be afraid of-oh, no! it would be impecunious young men. You'd find, with a young girl on your hands, that you must keep alive and wide awake. Why, look at me! I'm a year older than you, and I'm not thinking of making my will; I mean to live as long as possible. Now, I tell you, you would have done much better to send for the doctors, though as a rule I don't believe in doctors—they give physic they would never take, you know. If I were in your place (you know I always speak my mind frankly), I would pack up and leave. What is the use of immuring yourself here forever, when you don't need to economize? Depend upon it, there's nothing like change of scene for keeping fresh. People say, 'Oh, Miss Hawkesby has no local attachments!' but that's a mistake: I have very strong local attachments. That's the reason I never can stay long in any one place, there are so many places I like. You know, last winter I was in Charleston. I was powerfully drawn to the place, I had so many pleasant recollections of Charleston and Charleston people, but I hadn't been there since before the war, and I'll never go again. Before the winter was over I had to come here. I used to know this place years ago, and a nice place it is, this Westport. People here take a little trouble to enjoy themselves: they don't spoil the present by putting on mourning for the future. But I sha'n't be here next winter; it wouldn't be altogether the same place to me; I must have entire change. As to expense, I've just so much to live on, and I may as well live on it in the way I like. I don't pretend to be rich; I'm poor, in fact, but the worst policy in the world is to seem poor-poor in purse, or poor in spirit. However, that is not the point under discussion. I want to advise you to try change; complete change is what you need."

"That is what the doctors tell me," said Mrs. Stargold, with a sigh.

"Sensible, decidedly," said Miss Hawkesby; "and I hope that you are going to be sensible, too, and follow that advice. It is much better than swallowing physic."

"I am making my preparations," said Mrs. Stargold. "I am going to Middleborough."

"To Middleborough!" exclaimed Miss Hawkesby. She was not often taken by surprise, or, at least, not often betrayed into Any expression of surprise; but, in mentioning Middleborough, Mrs. Stargold was coming near the subject that occupied her mind most weightily just now. "I beg your pardon for repeating your words so rudely; I was not prepared for such an announcement. I suppose you go to your cousin's? Is she

in the way of entertaining company? I mean is she able to have her friends visit her? In old times we never asked such a question about people living in the country; but times are changed."

"No, I'm not going to my cousin's," said Mrs. Stargold. "She has friends with her every summer, I believe; but I wish to be quiet, I wish to get away from people; I've too much on my mind for company; so I've taken a small house in Middleborough for the summer."

"And what good do you expect from such a change as that?" asked Miss Hawkesby, dryly. "You ought to go to the springsthe White Sulphur, say; it would divert you, and you need diversion."

A

believe my niece Joanna may have had something to do with my distaste for the place. She was about two years old, and she lamented incessantly for somebody she called 'Mela. I was glad when she went away. regular Basil. Now Anita is all Hawkesby; she does not resemble me personally, but she is all Hawkesby. I couldn't take both, so, very naturally, I took Anita. Now, there is a Miss Basil, a cousin of old Judge Basil's, who ought to be willing to do every thing in her power for Joanna, for the old judge was the best of friends to her."

"I'm sure I don't know any thing about it, Olivia," said Mrs. Stargold, helplessly, as if she feared a direct attack; for Miss Hawkesby, warming with her subject, had a

"No, I don't," said Mrs. Stargold, irrita- threatening air. bly. "I need quiet."

"And you'll get it by that arrangement," said Miss Hawkesby, who always spoke her mind. "All alone in Middleborough-❞

"But I sha'n't be all alone," interrupted Mrs. Stargold, with increasing impatience. "The Ruffners will go with me and stay with me."

"Oh, indeed!" said Miss Hawkesby. She was surprised again, but not enough so to show it. Then, after a pause, she asked, abruptly, "What kind of a person is your cousin Mrs. Basil ?"

"Why, she is like other people, I suppose," said Mrs. Stargold. "I haven't seen her in a number of years."

"Then of course you can't know much about her," said Miss Hawkesby. "Even if you've kept up a regular correspondence with her, you can't be said to know her; for people generally don't show themselves as they really are, in their letters.-She wrote me a letter, you know" (this after a pause); "you sent it me yesterday evening."

"Yes; it came inclosed to me; she did not know your address."

"That's not at all surprising, I change it so often," said Miss Hawkesby, with an air of accounting for every thing philosophically. "But the surprising thing is that she should write to me at all. She has some object in view, of course."

"Indeed, Olivia, how should I know what she has in view?" said Mrs. Stargold, peevishly.

"If you studied human nature as I do," continued Miss Hawkesby, who seldom thought it worth while to take offense at what any one said, or at the way in which it was said, "you would understand that a woman who never saw me wouldn't care to be telling me, merely for the purpose of giving me pleasure, that my niece Joanna is growing to be a tall girl, and developing many fine traits of character." And, oh, what a deal of scorn! didn't it look beautiful in the contempt and anger of her lip?

"I didn't know you had a niece Joanna," said Mrs. Stargold, with faint interest.

"Anita's half-sister," explained Miss Hawkesby. "A regular Basil. I never saw the child but once. When I was on a visit to Eastcliffe her father brought her to see mo. Eastcliffe, you know, is only about thirty miles from Middleborough, and it is one place I never have desired to see again, and

"But I do, you see," said Miss Hawkesby. "People who go about the world as I do, are pretty sure to hear every thing about everybody, if they take care to keep their ears open and their mouths shut. Now I've heard some dark hints as to Miss Basil's past, and I know that she owes Judge Basil a debt she may be thankful enough to repay to his granddaughter. Mrs. Basil need not make it a reproach to me that Miss Basil is not capable of giving Joanna the highest polish. Dear me ! Haven't I my hands full with Anita? If Anita were to marry, indeed-but look at the girls who marry now! What sort of matches do they make? Now I tell Anita there is no manuer of sense in marrying a poor man."

"People do often marry very recklessly," said Mrs. Stargold, with a sigh; "but I suppose it is possible to be happy without money-"

"No, it isn't," said Miss Hawkesby. "Wealth is a great burden," sighed Mrs. Stargold.

"You say that only because you are afraid of robbers," said Miss Hawkesby.

"No," replied Mrs. Stargold, nervously, "no, no; I think not. But it is a great responsibility-when, for instance, you must decide who is the right person to inherit your wealth."

She looked appealingly at Miss Hawkesby, as though she would fain have had her counsel.

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'Well, and haven't you decided that point yet?" asked Miss Hawkesby, coolly.

"No," said Mrs. Stargold, uneasily. “I want light on the subject-I want light."

"I suppose it was to have light on the subject that you invited young Hendall here?" asked Miss Hawkesby, with a searching look.

'Perhaps it was," said Mrs. Stargold,. leaning her head on her hand, and looking apparently through and beyond Miss Hawkesby, into infinite space. "The ways of Providence are past finding out. For more than a quarter of a century I have enjoyed the wealth that was my poor brother's; and how do I know what sore need has troubled some poor soul for lack of that very money?"

"Elizabeth!" said Miss Hawkesby, rising impatiently, "positively you are growing morbid, and the sooner you have a change, the better. Who has a better right to Francis Hendall's money than you? Weren't you

his own sister? Now, don't you be a goose and leave your money to some asylum or other. Leave it to some of your relations; they are all nice people."

"I mean to leave it to my relations," said Mrs. Stargold, with a mysterious air. "That's sensible," said Miss Hawkesby; "but don't go, now, and fancy that you need be making your relations rich before you die. Nobody will ever thank you for such stupid generosity as that."

console my mother for the loss of her only son."

"Are you mad?"

"Unfortunately, no! One of us must give way to the other: either he or I! Do you think a man of honor and courage can look calmly on and see a shameless intriguer rob him of his betrothed? Fate must decide between us."

"You are betrothed?

This is the first I have heard of it. And may I be allowed to

"I must do my duty," said Mrs. Stargold, inquire who the lady is ?" plaintively.

Miss Hawkesby stared at her. "Your duty," said she, severely, "evidently is to have a change as speedily as possible. When do you go?

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"Not before May, I think."

"Don't put off going; I tell you, you need a change. Middleborough is a nice place, I'm told, and I know some people there: Mrs. Carl Tomkins-I met her at the White Sulphur summer before last-and Mrs. Paul Caruthers, and a Miss Caruthers; I didn't think much of her "-which, indeed, was patent enough from that withering indefinite article. "I met them at Sewanee last year."

Then Miss Hawkesby sat silent a few moments, studiously contemplating Mrs. Stargold."Elizabeth is like all old women with money to leave," she said to herself. "Partly she doesn't wish any one to know what she will do with her property, and partly she doesn't herself know what she will do with it."

"Well," she said, presently, as she rose to go, "I had rather decided that Mrs. Basil's letter need not be answered; but I feel more amiable since expressing my mind to you, and I think now I'll write and tell her that I'm glad to hear my niece Joanna is growing tall-I'm tall myself-and that it is a great satisfaction to know that she is developing fine traits of character; but that I cannot help Miss Basil's lack of polish."

And she did write in just such a strain; but Mrs. Basil's uneasiness had been lulled to rest by Arthur before this letter reached her, and its tone of indifference did not disturb her. She could not now be troubled about Joanna, and it was long before she thought again of writing to Miss Hawkesby.

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"No matter about his name. My only object in taking you into my confidence-"

"You call this taking me into your confidence! You know that I am your friend. Your peculiar frame of mind astonishes me. What do you contemplate? Drop the mys terious and tell me. You know you can count on my assistance, if I have it in my power to serve you."

"Assistance? No! All you do for me is, in case any thing should happen to me, to

"So long as she is promised to another, her name shall not pass my lips."

"Otto, I fear you see the situation in a false light."

"How so?"

"Reflect: A lady who has broken faith with you, who gives a rival the preference-" "Oh, I understand. But such is not the real state of the case. Were she the mistress of her own acts, the fellow's intrigues would have been fruitless. She is the victim of a calculating mother, and is as unhappy as I am; but, being only a young girl, she must tamely and silently submit."

"And who is her fiancé?"

"I have no mind to go into particulars. You will, I am sure, do what you can to console my mother, should Fate decide against me."

"Otto, how can you talk so foolishly? Take a little time for reflection, I entreat!" "I have reflected sufficiently." "Impossible, or you would talk more sensibly. You are on the point of committing a great crime."

Otto shrugged his shoulders.

"Indeed, the course you contemplate is thoroughly senseless, since it cannot prove other than fruitless."

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"That will remain to be seen."

"Otto, do not deceive yourself. If you till now have not been able to accomplish what you so ardently desire, how can you hope, after a catastrophe so bloody-"

"Oh, then I will resort to other measures. If the despotic mother persist in opposing our wishes, I will throw consideration to the dogs. If need be, I am determined to resort to abduction."

"That sounds romantic enough, but I doubt whether your lady-love will consent. While I have no reason to doubt that the lady is clever, I will venture the opinion that she has not sufficient energy to consent to your resorting to such extreme measures. If maternal authority has been able to make her accept a man she does not want, the dutiful child will allow herself to be still further tyrannized over. One does not emancipate one's self in a night."

Otto looked down and kept silent. "If, however, I am in error," continued his interlocutor, "why, then, I would suggest that you carry the girl off at once. Such a course would spare us the tragedy, and-who knows?-perhaps the expense of burying you."

"A good suggestion, certainly; but, before an opportunity to act upon it presents itself, she may be forced to wed. It is a question of only a few weeks."

"A few weeks! Time enough to conquer a kingdom. Listen! Look at me! Promise me to wait patiently-to let things have their course at least a week-" "Why?"

"To please me. During that time some better plan than any that has thus far occurred to you will suggest itself. Or, better stillwill you not take me entirely into your confidence?"

"Ah! what would I not do, if I could only see-"

"At all events it will not injure your cause for us, at some convenient time, to thoroughly discuss it."

"Certainly not, but-"

"I'll tell you: come to me to-morrow between four and five o'clock, and we will see further. But, till then, remember, no 'rash and bloody deeds.'"

"Never fear. At half-past four, precisely, I will be at your house. A propos, do you dance?"

"No."

"If you did, I should have begged you to favor me with your hand for the next set."

"You are very kind. Devote yourself rather to the young girls, and, remember, no more of killing. Beaucoup de plaisir et―au revoir!"

The young officer rose, kissed the lady's hand, and disappeared in the crowd.

Immediately thereafter an aged gentleman, whom the lady was wont to characterize as the "interminable professor," presented himself. He was accompanied by a gentle-、 man of a commanding figure, apparently about thirty years old.

"Allow me, madame, to introduce to you the son of one of my dearest friends-Dr. Leopold Winther, of Rodenstadt-Frau von Ustendorff."

Louise started slightly, and her color heightened visibly. The young man, too, seemed greatly surprised.

"Is it possible?" he cried, bowing low. "Fräulein Louise von Gerhard!"

"Ah! you know each other?"

"We are from the same neighborhood, professor," answered Leopold.

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"Ob, I only jested."

"But your jest was deeply serious at bottom. You say you often felt that my manner toward you was peculiar-that you did not understand me. I, too, on my part, was equally incapable of accounting for your manner toward me."

"Indeed!"

"If I was sometimes-involuntarily, per

"When you spoke to me of the charming Frau von Ustendorff I did not dream that-"haps-abrupt and ironical, it was because I Ah, I see, I see! An unexpected ren- -because I was convinced that you, for contre-quite romantic! Then you are old some cause or other, had taken a serious disfriends. Well, I will not disturb your téte-d- like to me." tête."

"Oh, but you will not disturb us, professor."

"I fear I should-you will excuse me." And, with a low bow, he left the two old acquaintances to themselves.

Leopold was the first to break silence.

"Mein Fräulein-gnädige Frau, I should say-Heavens, how strange that sounds!" Louise smiled.

"Well, when one suddenly and unexpectedly meets a lady whom he has always known as Fräulein von So-and-so, and finds her a Frau von So-and-so-you yourself must admit, madame-"

"Bah! so goes the world, Herr-Doctor. You, too, have changed titles since I had the pleasure of seeing you."

"How long is it since we met at the fancy-dress ball given by your little friend Henriette?"

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Louise's face reddened to the temples. "You were in error," she replied, forcing a faint smile. "I saw that you could be very agreeable when you-chose to be; and-"

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"Oh, it does not matter now."

"But it does matter. What did she say to you?

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'Well, if I remember rightly, she began by congratulating me on my brilliant conquest. I did not understand her. He has just confessed to me,' she whispered. 'He adores you, and is going to sing your praises, as Chloe, in all the magazines in the land.' And then she laughed so immoderately that I lost all patience with her and you too-indeed, I think I wept with anger."

Leopold looked down for a moment, apparently absorbed in thought, then he fixed his eyes full upon Frau von Ustendorff and said:

"That was either an unparalleled indiscretion or a willful falsehood. I took her into my confidence and begged her to help methe little wretch!"

been since, so much in love as I was at that time with you!"

"Indeed?"

"Far, far more than at present with my betrothed."

"Ha, that's naïve, truly. The poor girl!" "I simply state a fact that is easily explained."

"Easily explained? Are you going to say something flattering? Let me assure you in advance that I am very insusceptible."

A comparison was far from my thought, madame. The Louise von Gerhard whom I once knew was so very different from my quiet little Emma, that a comparison would be impossible. But at thirty one loves more rationally than at twenty."

More rationally? It was certainly very irrational to see any thing lovable in Louise."

"You are certainly very clever at misconstructions. I mean to say that the heart, at thirty, is no longer capable of that glowing, self-forgetting, superabundant love, which throws gladness or gloom over life's early spring."

"What do you call glowing, self-forgetting, superabundant? If you truly love your Emma, then these three predicates are as applicable now as when you were younger."

"I do not think so. At my age, a man has already passed the period of sweet illusions. My blood now courses so calmly, so coldly if you will, through my veins, that I can speak of my first love as I would of any other episode in my past life, and I thank Heaven that I can."

Louise looked thoughtfully at the brilliant assemblage in the hall before her, and played mechanically with her ivory fan.

"You are betrothed, you tell me," said she, after a while. "Would you think me inquisitive if I inquired who your fiancée is and what she is like?"

"Certainly not. She is the only daughter of the widowed Hofräthin Fabricius, eighteen years old, blond, rosy, and rather slight, speaks French, and plays passably well, and is very modest and sweet-tempered."

"What more could you desire? Allow me to congratulate you." "Thank you.

ily?"

You do not know the fam

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"It is better we should talk of something neither the time nor the inclination to spin else."

"No, no! now that we are on the subject,

I insist on convincing you. By all the gods, madame, I had never been before, nor have I

love-romances. I saw my betrothed in a little. private company; she pleased me; I seemed, at least, not to displease her, and I decided then and there-"

"Eh, eh! that's what some people would call precipitate."

"In such matters, madame, I think I am safe in trusting to first impressions. The extreme mildness of Emma's manner charmed me. I said to myself: 'This innocent child is exactly suited to you; she will seek neither to tyrannize over you nor to deceive you,' and then I was heartily tired of the gypsy-life I have led for these half-dozen years. I know half of Europe and a good slice of Asia and Africa."

"If I remember rightly, you are quite a large land-owner."

"Yes, but till now I have occupied myself as little with the management of my estates as an Esquimau with æsthetics. From the time I left home and all that was dear to me, I roamed restlessly from place to place, always with the image of a cold, ironical, and yet surpassingly-lovely woman in my heart. This phantom, that followed me from Rome to Cairo, from St. Petersburg to Nijni-Novgorod, from the Tagus to the Euphrates, this sweet, radiant phantom was you, madame."

"Did you penetrate as far into the interior as the Euphrates?" stammered Louise.

"Farther. Oh, one travels fast when one seeks to escape from recollection. Thank Heaven! in course of time I became sensible -I forgot the lovely demon who drove me hence. I learned to look upon life as it is, and in my happier and more rational moments I laughed at my delicious simplicity."

"Is-is the Euphrates a fine stream? " "So-so. When I wandered up and down its banks, I was in no mood to enjoy or appreciate the beautiful. It was only six months after that memorable fancy - dress ball. The wound was still fresh, madame."

"You talk as though I had wronged you, Heaven knows, how deeply! Then your fiancée's name is Emma Fabricius? Why is she not here?"

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"H'm! I'll tell you how we can compass it. Go with me to-morrow to the villa-that's what Mamma Fabricius calls her modest little country-house."

"What are you thinking of?"

"Of taking you to see Mamma Fabricius and her charming daughter."

"A strange proposition, truly!" "Strange? I don't see that it is. We'll take along a duenna, if necessary."

"I'm duenna enough myself, but—” "Well, then, do me the favor-the first I ever asked of you."

"But what would the people at the villa say-an entire stranger and a lady-?"

"A stranger! I will present you as a friend of my boyhood, as my cousin, as my sister, if you like. Mamma will receive you with open arms. You will compliment Emma on her taste in selecting ribbons and stuffs, and the treaty of amity will be sealed. Do you consent?"

"Well, since you insist, yes. You see that, despite my six-and-twenty years, I am still ready for a lark."

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'Agreed, then. I will come for you tomorrow at half-past nine. Nota bene. But how remiss I have been! I have not made a single inquiry after Herr von Ustendorff. I shall be most happy to make his acquaintance."

Louise hesitated a moment, and then replied:

Herr von Ustendorff is dead." "Dead! You are a widow?" "He fell at Sadowa."

At this moment the professor approached, and the conversation very naturally took another turn. Leopold took part in it as well as he could; but when, after a few minutes, the signal was given for a polonaise, he bowed silently and went into the hall. But in what a strange frame of mind he was! He sought to fix his attention on this and that, but all to no purpose. Ever and again he caught himself running off into a reverie, and, before he knew it, found himself leaning against a marble mantel opposite where Louise, with the professor and two or three other gentlemen, was engaged in an animated conversation.

How lovely she was! How beautifully her dark-brown hair encircled her faultless brow! And these eyes-these soulful, bewitching eyes! Yes, there was the same fascinating glance that once raised such a tumult in his breast. And not one tint of the charm had faded-on the contrary, it seemed as though the flower was now but in full bloom. Recollection, longing, love, were suddenly awakened in the depth of his soul. And she was now freer than ever. "O Louise! Louise! how cruel that Fate should thus a second time separate us!" The ball no longer had any charms for him. He hastened to take leave of the lady of the house, and hurried out into the fresh air of a frosty March night. He walked slowly and thoughtfully through the deserted streets without pausing to ask which way or how far he went. Suddenly some one seized him by the left shoulder.

"What the devil!" he cried, shaking off the assailant. "Mind what you are about, my friend!"

"I began to think you were deaf,” answered a voice, tremulous with emotion. “Who are you?" asked Leopold. My name is Otto von Fersen." "The name is unknown to me." "I am a lieutenant of cavalry."

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"Yes, fight me. I mean to kill you, sir."

"The devil you do! You evidently mistake me for some one else, lieutenant. But allow me to observe that in any event you sin against usage. You ought to have apprised me of your murderous intentions through a third person."

"Never mind, sir, what I ought to have done; but tell me whether you will fight me."

"If I refuse, what then?"

"Then I'll shoot you down on the spot!"
"One 'if' more. If "

"Sir, don't drive me to extremities!"
'Suppose I do-what then?"

The officer drew a revolver from his mantle. In an instant the stalwart Leopold wrested it from him and calmly put it in the pocket of his overcoat.

"Send your servant for this thing to-morrow, and I will return it," said he. "Here is my card. Good-night, lieutenant."

"Then you refuse me satisfaction?" Leopold stopped. The light of a streetlamp fell on the young man's pale face. The expression was so unhappy that it excited Leopold's deepest sympathy.

"Tell me, I beg," said he, "what has so incensed you against me? I have no recollection of ever having met you before."

"You are the destroyer of my happiness. Is that not enough?"

"Pray look at my card. I am sure you mistake me for some one else."

"Oh, I know the accursed name! You are a miserable intriguer."

"There is certainly no danger of misunderstanding you. I will pardon your incivility, if you will tell me, without further delay, how I can serve you."

"By leaving the city immediately, never to return."

"I can't do that, lieutenant."
"You must!"

"The city is large enough, I should think, to shelter two of the bitterest enemies."

"But too small for two rivals."
"We are rivals? In what?"

"Can it be possible that you don't know?" "On my word, I only know that it's bitter cold. Let's go have a cup of coffee."

The fiery lieutenant looked down for a moment, seemingly lost in reflection, then silently followed Leopold to the nearest coffeehouse, where the conversation was continued in an undertone.

"Good Heavens, how you look!" said Leopold, when they were seated.

The officer's reply was any thing but goodnatured; he could not conceal his aversion for his interlocutor.

"Let us talk this matter over like two rational beings," said Leopold, smiling. "It pains me deeply to see you so unhappy, de

"From an officer I should have looked for spite the recollection that you just now tried better manners."

"I adapt my manners to the people I have to deal with. Will you be so good as to listen to me?"

"It is too cool to stand still, lieutenant. If you have any thing to say to me, be so kind as to walk on with me."

to blow my brains out. So young and so unhappy! Here, drink this glass of brandy! -So. And now tell me in what we are rivals; for the life of me I can't divine." "No matter: I must nevertheless insist on my demand. You must either leave the city or you must fight."

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