complexion, and rather sleepy pale blue eyes, should escort Madame Davilliers and her daughter. While Miss Lambert, her father, Glynn, and young Le Clerc, a good-looking boy in the polytechnique uniform, should occupy another open carriage.

Glynn fancied he observed an expression of decided relief in Elsie's face as Vincent took the seat assigned him, and she gave her hand to her father, who assisted her with careful politeness to her place; it was absurd to feel pleased by so trifling an indication—yet Glynn did feel pleased.

The drive along the beautiful Champs Elysées, and the Avenue de l'Imperatrice, as the approach to the bois was then called, is exhilarating,—especially when seated opposite an exceedingly pretty woman, whose prettiness possesses a peculiar charm for your own individual taste, and with whom for some occult reason you feel in sympathy. Away past the marionette shows, and Punch and Judy's, the well-kept gardens and fountains, the mansions all sheltered from the heat by their closed jalousies, at the further end, round the wide sweep which encircles the Arc de Triomphe, and on past splendid equipages returning from the afternoon drive up and down Long Champs; their occupants brilliant in exquisite toilettes, on down the Empress' Avenue, soon to be rechristened under a new order of things. Glynn could not help a keen sense of amusement as he compared the present condition of the man opposite him to his former state; and the wonder grew and grew, as to how such a girl as Miss Lambert came to be his daughter. The embryo artillery officer (such was Le Clerc's destination) chattered gaily, and was well seconded by his host, whose French, though fluent and amusing, was not distinguished by grammatical correctness, or purity of accent. His daughter said little, but that little showed she could express herself pointedly. Moreover, she looked so frankly and confidingly at Glynn that he felt as if she accepted him, stranger though he was, as an hereditary friend. He had to exercise some self-control to keep his eyes from saying too plainly how charming he thought her.

The gardens of the Chateau de Madrid were gay and fragrant with lilac and laburnum, mignonette, and jonquils.

Lambert, who loved to do things in a princely fashion, had written to secure a private room and dinner. The party was therefore received with great politeness and attention.

The young ladies betook themselves to the garden, followed by the gentlemen except Lambert, who went indoors with madame to order the wines. They were soon summoned to table, but in the short interval, Glynn observed that Vincent made a decided attempt to separate Miss Lambert from her companions, an attempt which she frustrated with calm, resolute politeness, remarkable in so young a girl. The dinner was excellent, the company animated, pleased with themselves and each other, perhaps slightly noisy. Madame Davilliers talked well if she also talked a good deal. Lambert occasionally, often unconsciously, said good things, and told a story with point and humor. Vincent devoted himself to Madame. Young Le Clerc to his cousin and Miss Lambert. Glynn was for some time an observant listener, more and more amused and puzzled at the incongruity of the whole affair, and gathering from the conversation that Mademoiselle Antoinette Davilliers had been Miss Lambert's dearest friend at the convent school, where they had spent nearly six years together, that the papa Davilliers held some government employment, and that Vincent was the agent for a New York commercial house. Lambert's own occupation seemed very indefinite. He talked of having been connected with the press, of having had business interviews with various artistes, of writing himself on sporting matters. The symposium was prolonged, and when it was over, Glynn, observing a piano in a corner of their dining-room, asked Miss Lambert if she remembered her father's promise, that she should sing?

"Yes," smiling. "But, it was his promise, not mine."

"Ah! my darlin'," cried Lambert, overhearing. "You'll not dishonor your father's draft on your musical bank!"

"No, I will sing with pleasure by and by, Antoinette will begin."

"And an uncommon sweet little pipe she has, of her own. Mademoiselle is always gracious—and ready to give pleasure! Open the instrument, Elsie, I hope it isn't an instrument of torture."

"It might be much worse," she returned, when she had played a few chords. "Come, Antoinette," she said, as she began an accompaniment, and Mademoiselle Davilliers, a neat little blonde with a saucy "tip-tilted" nose, and a pretty toilette of the latest fashion, went over to the piano, and in a sweet, slightly shrill soprano proceeded to request some ideal Jeannette to look into the well, that the reflection of her blue eyes might gladden the singer. She sang with much piquant expression, and was loudly applauded.

"I think I should prefer looking into the blue eyes themselves, to searching for a cold reflection," said Glynn, who had placed himself at the end of the piano, so as to see the faces of the singers.

"It would be far better," returned Miss Lambert; "realities are always best."

"Now, Elsie; we are waiting for you," cried her father. Her reply was to strike a few chords, and begin a sweet, wild, plaintive air with Italian words. Her voice was peculiarly rich and sympathetic; its lower notes were especially fine; she had been thoroughly well taught, and had besides a degree of natural expression that sent her tones right to the heart of her hearers.

"This is indeed music," said Glynn, in a low voice when she ceased. "Do you feel something of the delight you give?"

"Do I give you delight? You look as if you liked my singing,—I am glad."

"It is heaven to listen to you," he exclaimed, almost in spite of himself. "Your song is quite unknown to me."

"It is a Polish air arranged by my music-master for some Italian words. He is Italian."

"I feel as if I were unworthy to ask for another song," said Glynn, after a short pause.

"Why? I will sing as much as you like, I can always sing well for those who like my singing," and again her deft fingers strayed over the notes, till they seemed to fall of their own accord into an undulating accompaniment to which she sang a barcarolle—brilliant, playful, but with an undertone of sadness.

"She can sing a bit, can't she?" asked Lambert, approaching with exultant looks. "Why, sir, she'd create a fureur, a regular fureur; she'd pick up gold for the asking, ay, in hatfuls, if she'd go on the stage; fancy her in the 'Trovatore,' or, 'The Figlia' or 'Martha!'—give us 'The Last Rose of Summer,' my heart;—why, she'd bring down any house; and the obstinate little sinner refuses point-blank to appear on the boards, says it would kill her. Faith, it is a right royal way to keep life in one, and the devil out of one's pocket; by Jove, she would hold her own with the best, when she has a father that can crack a walnut at fifty paces, and wouldn't mind if it were a skull in a good cause!"

"Ah, no! the stage would be a miserable failure for me. You do not take temperament into account," said Miss Lambert, with a sigh, and then stopped the conversation by thrilling out the exquisite air for which Lambert had asked.

"Now," said the singer, when she had finished, rising from her seat, "you must do what I ask, dear father; I want to walk to the river."

"It's a good step," said Lambert; "and it isn't civil to leave your company."

"But they will come with me. Will you not, Madame Davilliers? and you, Antoinette,—you will, I am sure?" raising her eyes with a confiding glance to Glynn's.

"I shall enjoy a stroll immensely," he replied. Madame, however, preferred to remain where she was, and Vincent offered to stay and play a game of piquet with her to pass away the time.

Evening was fast closing in when they started on their ramble, and the falling dew drew out delicious odors