When Glynn woke next morning to broad day, the noise of the busy street, and the consciousness of an early business appointment, last night, with its music and moonlight, seemed to him dream-like and unreal. It was all very pleasant while it lasted, but in a few days he would quit Paris, and probably never see Lambert or that wonderfully charming daughter of his again. What would be the destiny of such a woman so placed? Not happiness, he feared, if she were all she seemed. Yet how devoted that queer fish Lambert was to her. So far as he could take care of her he would; but what perceptions could he have of what was right and suitable for a delicate, sensitive girl!

However, Glynn had other things to think of just then, and soon hastened away to hold high council on money matters with a sharp but soft-spoken German Jew, whose oiliness had not a soothing effect on the cool, clear-sighted Englishman.

Business hours are earlier in Paris than in London. Glynn found himself on the Boulevard des Italiens, and free, while it was still early enough to pay a visit. With a vague curiosity, arising from very mixed motives, he directed his steps to the hotel where Mr. and Lady Frances Deering lodged, and found that lady at tea with her son—a pale, delicate, deformed boy—and a gentleman of middle height, with a frank, sun-burnt face, and a certain easy looseness about his well-made clothes.

"You are just in time for tea, Mr. Glynn," said Lady Frances, in a soft but monotonous voice. "Do you know my cousin, Captain Verner?"

Yes, the gentlemen had met before, and they exchanged a few civil words.

"Is this your first visit to Paris?" asked Glynn, kindly, as he drew his chair beside the sofa on which the boy was lying.

"Yes, the very first."

"And how do you like it?"

"Oh, so much! It is so beautiful and bright. I should like to stay here always."

"Bertie is much better and stronger since we came here, which partly accounts for his wish to stay," said his mother, with a slight sigh.

"I wish I could take you to sea, my boy," cried Captain Verner; "a cruise with me would make you all right."

Lady Frances turned her pale eyes on the speaker, and Glynn noticed that they darkened with a look of intense pain only for an instant, while she said with her usual composure, "I have no doubt that Herbert will be quite fortified by Dr. Lemaire's treatment. Then the summer is before him, and he will have gathered strength before winter. Winter is very severe and dreary at Denham."

"You should winter at Palermo," observed Glynn. "It is a delightful spot—a sort of place to make you forget troubles."

"I wish you would," said Verner, earnestly.

"Say could," returned Lady Frances, and she rose to ring the bell.

She was very tall and slight, exceedingly dignified and deliberate in her movements, and would have been rather handsome but for her extreme stillness, coldness, and want of color. A pale blonde sounds like insipidity, but Lady Frances was not insipid; she was a great lady to the tips of her fingers, yet simple in dress and manner to a degree that bewildered those gorgeous dames, the wives of her husband's wealthier constituents, on the rare occasions when they were admitted within the sacred portals of Denham Castle.

"Why are you hurrying away to London?" asked Verner. "There is nothing to call Deering back, as he has lost his seat."

"He is not happy out of club-land, I suppose," said Lady Frances, sitting down beside her son. "I must say I am very sorry he lost the election. He deserved better at the hands of the Denham men, but it was the radical mining people that turned him out."

"Do you leave soon?" asked Glynn.

"On Thursday; I suppose you will not come back quite so soon? You are fond of Paris, I think?"

"My movements are rather uncertain; I may go on to Berlin."

"I wish you would come as far as Genoa with me," cried Verner, "I am just appointed to the 'Africa,' on the Mediterranean station. I hate traveling alone. Poor Dennison, who commanded her, died of a few days' fever off the coast of Calabria,—caught it shooting in some marshes, and——"

The entrance of Deering interrupted him.

"How do, Glynn? You still here, Verner?" He took no notice of Lady Frances or his son.

"Yes, I want to see the review to-morrow, and will start by the Lyons train at night," said Verner, in an apologetic tone.

Deering threw himself into an easy-chair, exclaiming, "It is getting insufferably hot here. Could you manage to start on Tuesday night instead of Thursday morning?"—to his wife.

"I should think so."

"Then pray make your arrangements. I say, Glynn, things look very shaky in Spain. There will be a tremendous fall in Spanish bonds."

"They will recover, if one can hold on. In fact, if a fellow can afford to wait, it would not be a bad plan to buy now," returned Glynn.

Here Deering's valet brought his master some brandy-and-soda, with a due amount of ice, a refreshment which both Verner and Glynn declined.

Travers Deering was tall, but not so tall as Glynn, more conventionally distinguished-looking, with regular aristocratic features, steel-grey eyes, and nut-brown hair and moustaches. He was, on the whole, a popular man, and bestowed a good deal of carefully veiled cultivation on his popularity. He was considered rather the type of a proud, manly, English country gentleman of a fairly clean life, though no saint, and a little martyrized by being tied to so cold and impenetrable a wife. Servants, and insignificant people of that description, whispered that the steel-grey eyes could flash with baleful fire, and that Lady Frances had grown colder and stiller since the deformity and delicacy of her only child had become perceptible and hopeless; while Mr. Deering never stayed at Denham alone with her.

Glynn was conscious of an unaccountable sense of relief when Deering expressed a desire to quit Paris, even sooner than he had at first intended.

It was absurd to imagine that any evil could arise out of a mere passing admiration; it could be nothing more, for a handsome stranger. Yet the expression of Deering's eyes, the uneasiness, wonder, fire, all commingled, which had so impressed him, flashed back vividly across his memory with undiminished disturbing force. But Deering was talking.

"I have been round Count de Latour's stables this morning. Have you seen them, Glynn? They are worth a visit. His stud-groom and head men are all English. I am very much inclined to back his chestnut, 'Bar-le-duc,' for the Derby. He's a splendid horse, only, of course, it isn't always blood or breeding that wins. There were a couple of Americans looking through the stables at the same time, who seemed deucedly wide awake, and inclined to back both 'Bar-le-duc' and a filly, 'Etoile d'Auvergne,' about which I am not so sure. I have met one of them, Vandervoort, in London, do you know him?"

Glynn said he thought he did. The talk became, for a few minutes, of the Turf—turfy. And while it went on the boy rose, and followed by his mother, who covered his retreat, noiselessly left the room. Glynn, looking at Deering at this moment, caught an expression of malignant dislike in his eyes towards his deformed son, or his wife, or both, which surprised and revolted him. It was instantaneous, and he continued to talk lightly and pleasantly, till Glynn rose to bid Lady Frances good-morning.

Verner left the room at the same time, and the two men walked towards the Place de la Concorde together.

"Pity that poor boy is a cripple," said Glynn, speaking out of his thoughts. "I fancy Deering is a good deal cut up about it."

"I don't know about Deering, nor do I care much," returned Captain Verner, bluntly; "but it has been a desperate grief to the mother. Why, when we were children together—ay, and after—Lady Frances was the life of us all. I never saw a girl with so much go in her; and now!"—he broke off expressively. "However, no one can help her," he added, after a moment; and then quickly turning the subject, began to talk of French politics, till they reached the corner of the Champs ElysÉes, where they paused to see the Empress drive by. There Verner turned back to keep an engagement, and Glynn strolled on slowly to his hotel, resolutely resisting a strong temptation to call and inquire for Miss Lambert. Indeed, with the help of a good deal of letter-writing and interviews with sundry personages of financial importance, Glynn contrived to keep his mind free from imaginative pictures and irresistible suggestions. He was not going to make a fool of himself, or of any one else, either; he was too old and experienced to be carried away by a romantic encounter, or the liquid loveliness of a pair of lustrous, dreamy, dark-blue eyes. "What eyes they are!" he thought, as he sat at his second dÉjeunÉ, on Sunday morning, three whole days since he had enjoyed the hospitality of his quondam comrade of the Californian episode. "Mere civility demands that I should call. I think I have been under fire often enough to stand this last fusillade without flinching; besides, the whole thing is deucedly curious." So, after looking in at Gaglinane's, and reading the English papers, Glynn found himself on his way to the Rue de L'EvÊque.

The perfume of orange-blossoms which came forth from the opening door greeted him like the prelude of delight, so vividly did it remind him of the pleasant hours to which his first visit was an introduction.

"Yes, monsieur was at home, and mademoiselle also," and the servant, opening a different door from that through which she had ushered him on the former occasion, spoke to some one within, and immediately Lambert himself, in a gorgeous dressing-gown, a fez on his head, and a cigarette in his mouth, came forth to greet him.

"Glynn, come along into my den here. I thought you had left for some other diggings. I was going to look you up to-day. I've not had a moment I could call my own since we parted!" While he spoke he ushered his visitor into a small, very small room, containing a large knee-hole table loaded with letters, newspapers, small account-books, and all appliances for writing, and two very comfortable circular-chairs. These articles of furniture scarcely left room to move. A looking-glass, surmounted by a couple of revolvers, completed the decorations. A dim light was admitted by a long, narrow stained-glass window; and a second door, which stood open, led into a comfortably furnished dining-room.

"This is my Cabinet de travaille," said Lambert, wheeling round one of the chairs; "and I am just taking an hour or two from the Sabbath to clear up some little arrears of work. Where have you been all these days?"

"Very busy, or I should have paid my respects to you and Miss Lambert sooner."

"To be sure, to be sure, you are in business yourself. Anything in the book-making way? I think I remember you had a fair notion as to the value of a horse."

"No; mine is a more sober system of gambling."

"Aha! the share market! I could give you a hint or two about that new steamship company they are getting up in Hamburg."

"Thank you, my hands are pretty full already."

After a little further conversation on financial and sporting topics while Lambert was putting his papers together with some degree of rough order, he proposed to join his daughter.

"She was out to mass with her friends the Davilliers, and had breakfast with them; I have scarcely seen her this morning." So saying, he rose and led Glynn through the dining-room to an arched doorway, across which a curtain of rich dark stuff was drawn, and lifting it cried, "Are you there, my jewel? I have brought Mr. Glynn to see you."

"Come in," said a voice; and as he entered Glynn saw Miss Lambert advancing from an open window to meet him.

The room into which he had been ushered was small, though larger than the minute apartment Lambert had appropriated. It was prettily and lightly decorated, the hangings and chair-covers being of chintz, bouquets of roses tied with blue ribbon on a cream ground, and had one large window opening on a balcony full of flowers, which overhung a garden belonging to a large hotel in a street behind. There were books and needle-work, a writing-table and a sewing-machine about, and it was evidently Miss Lambert's private sitting-room. A stout, elderly woman in black, with a lace cap and a large apron, who looked more than a servant and less than a lady, rose as they entered, and was about to leave the room, when Lambert exclaimed in his hearty manner and rather peculiar French, "How goes it, Madame Weber? I hope your cold is better; a summer cold is worse than any other, for it's out of season."

Madame thanked monsieur, reported herself nearly or quite well, and vanished.

"I thought you had left Paris, at least my father did," said Elsie Lambert, giving Glynn one hand, while the other held an open book—a shabby, well-thumbed book.

"I should not have left without calling to say good-bye, to thank you again for your delightful songs," returned Glynn.

She smiled. "Will you sit down, or shall we go into the salon, this is such a tiny place?"

"Oh, we are snug enough here. And how are you, my dear? you haven't said 'good-morning' to your old father yet."

"My old father!" leaning her head against him for an instant, with inexpressible loving grace; "why, he is younger than I am, Mr. Glynn. When I have been brooding over my book or work I always feel as if some bright, pleasant playfellow had come to rouse me when my father walks in."

"Thar!" said Lambert, looking over with infinite pride and a queer expressive nod and toss of the head to Glynn, as if to say, "What do you think of your old fighting, gaming, hand-to-mouth comrade now?" "It's not every old cuss that can find a nice young lady to say as much for him, hey?" he said aloud.

"I quite understand it," returned Glynn, smiling, his eyes full of tender admiration. What a curious puzzle the whole thing was. How had Lambert alias Merrick, or Merrick alias Lambert, found the funds to keep up this establishment, which, modest as it was, must cost six or seven hundred a year? Honestly, he hoped, though from certain dimly-remembered traits he feared the lively, boyish Lambert was not the most scrupulous of men. Still, regard for so sweet, so refined a daughter must, ought to keep him straight.

"What are you going to do with yourself, Elsie, this damp, drizzling afternoon? you can't go out."

"Oh yes I can; I was just asking Madame Weber if she felt well enough to come with me to the salon; one can find all weathers in the pictures."

"A good idea, faith. Will you come with us, Glynn? for I'll be your escort myself, Elsie. Just let me get into my coat and boots, and I'll be with you in a twinkling."

"Yes, do come, that will be delightful. And you too, Mr. Glynn?"

"With infinite pleasure."

"Then I'll make my toilette before you'd say Jack Robinson," cried Lambert, as he left the room.

"You are fond of reading, Miss Lambert?" asked Glynn.

"Yes, very fond; and this is such a delightful English book. I like it much better than French poetry."

"May I see?"

"Certainly," handing it to him.

"Ah, 'The Lady of the Lake,' that is a very old friend; I thought modern young ladies had left such childish productions far behind."

"Childish! what can you mean? Why, it is so clear and vivid; I almost feel the mountain air as I read; and that combat between Fitz-James and Roderick, only a man could have written that!"

"I must read it again," said Glynn, half to himself, as he turned over the pages; "I have not seen it since I was a boy."

"Then you read, too? that also is unlike my father's other friends."

"I am afraid your father's friends do not stand very high in your estimation; I earnestly hope I may find more favor."

"I think I shall like you,"—softly—gravely, and without a tinge of coquetry, looking at him while she spoke.

He could not have answered her lightly, even had he been inclined; there was something imposing in her straightforward simplicity, and he replied, in the same tone: "I hope you will try to like me. You have not read many English books perhaps?"

"Very few books of any kind, and those chiefly since I left school. It is a great delight; but I read very slowly, indeed I am slow about everything, not that I enjoy the less."

"I am sure you learned music quickly."

"I can always pick up airs, and even long pieces by ear, but I do not think I learned by note quickly."

"Tell me," asked Glynn, moved by a sudden impulse, "did you enjoy the races last Sunday at Auteuil? I should not imagine racing an amusement suited to you."

"But I was amused; the crowd and the brightness made a pleasant picture." Then with a sudden recollection, "But how do you know I was at the races; they were long ago, before I knew you?"

A strange thrill of triumph shivered through Glynn's veins at this implied admission that her acquaintance with him was an event to date from.

"I saw you there, and I feared you might have seen me, for I was with a man who gazed at you almost rudely, because you reminded him of some one, and I did not wish you to associate me with him in your mind."

"Was he a tall, haughty-looking man, very English, and rather distinguÉ?"

"Yes."

"Then I did see him, but not with you; it was just before we came away. He walked up to the carriage, and looked into my face. I felt frightened. Why did he do it? Of whom did I remind him? some one he did not like, I am sure."

"That I cannot tell," said Glynn thoughtfully, while he remembered that Deering had no doubt returned to gaze once more at the face which had so fascinated him.

"Do you know the gentleman well? Is he—good, I mean kind, or hard and cruel? He filled me with a strange fear; but I did not mention it to my father, because he is so fond, so anxious about me."

"Now then, go put on your bonnet, my darlin'; the sun is trying to come out. We'll take a fiacre, and have a good look at the pictures," cried Lambert, breaking in on their discourse.

Elsie was soon ready, and a few hours of simple, pure, but thorough enjoyment ensued. Lambert candidly avowing his indifference to art generally, secured a comfortable seat, and produced a couple of newspapers from his pocket. To these he devoted his attention, telling his daughter he would await her pleasure.

So Glynn was practically alone with Elsie. He found a new experience in her genuine, though uncultured appreciation of the paintings, in the complete unaffected reality of her manner, the honesty of her crude opinions. Then when she found he had seen many galleries, and knew something of art, the interest with which she listened to him was flattering and amusing; not that she was ready to accept his dictum unquestioned, she tried most assertions by the test of her own common sense.

The restful charm of her gentle composure, while it enchanted her companion, conveyed an impression of latent strength which unconsciously piqued him into an irresistible desire to exert an influence, a disturbing influence over her. He was growing conscious that at the first sign of discomposure, the first fluttering hesitation in her look or voice, his firmness, prudence, good resolutions would go by the board. For the present, however, all was safe; he might as well enjoy himself, in another week he would probably be far away, and might never see his queer Californian comrade or his lovely daughter again. Never? Well, he was not so sure about that. Meantime the severest chaperon could not find cause to cavil at any of his words or looks; he was calmly agreeable, and put forth his best powers of conversation, his memories of art, of other lands, of all that could lay hold of his companion's imagination, with intuitive skill.

"Have I kept you too long, dear father?" exclaimed Elsie, when at last she sought her much enduring parent and sank into a seat beside him.

"Well, you've been a trifle longer travelling around than greased lightning. I've finished my two journals, and had a doze, but you have enjoyed the pictures, eh?"

"Very, very much; Mr. Glynn knows a great deal about painting, and he has explained many things that puzzled me. I never enjoyed the salon so much before. Will you come with us again, Mr. Glynn?"

"I shall be very glad," he returned with laudable sobriety. "But I fear I shall have to leave Paris in about ten days," he added.

"Then pray let us come one day next week," said Elsie, quite unmoved by this announcement.

"All right, ma belle," returned her father; "but we must be going now, it's six o'clock, and I asked Vincent to dine, we have a little business to talk over."

Elsie was silent, but a distressed look crept over her speaking face. "If you want to talk of business may I not go to dine with Antoinette?"

"Aha! you perverse little puss, you are real unkind to poor Vincent, who is a good fellow enough; why, every one likes him but you."

"And I do not like him, nor do I like to sing to him."

"See that now! and he an old friend of your father's before—no, not quite before you were born. Well, please yourself, dear, please—Why," interrupting himself, "there's old Monsieur Chauvot; I must speak to him."

He went forward, and was soon in deep conversation with a stout Frenchman, through whose arm he passed his own, and they walked on together, Elsie and Glynn following.

"So Vincent is one of your father's friends who do not find favor in your eyes. What has he done?" asked Glynn.

"Nothing; I cannot account for my dislike, but it is here," pressing her hand on her heart, "and will not go away."

"And I with as little reason share it," returned Glynn.

"Do you? I am glad, which is very wrong, but it comforts me to find some one else unreasonable. Madame Davilliers and Antoinette think him quite nice and agreeable."

At the door of Madame Davilliers' residence Elsie paused.

"I may as well go in now," she said to Lambert. "Will you not come in and say a little word to madame? and you, too, Mr. Glynn, she will be delighted to see you."

Glynn assented. After a quarter of an hour's lively talk amidst a circle of evidently solid and respectable visitors he was cordially requested to call again, and left the house with Lambert, feeling that another link had been added to the magic chain which was twining itself around him.

"She's an elegant woman, faith," said Lambert with the air of a connoisseur, as he left the house with Glynn, "and so is the demoiselle. I always count it real good luck that Elsie fell in with them, for between you and me and the post, none of my acquaintances were just suited to introduce a young lady into society. It's been uphill work I can tell you, but Madame D. has been no end of a help to me. Why, you'd never have the faintest notion of all the whim-whams she has put me up to! Wouldn't you think now a girl would be all right in her father's house with a respectable young woman like Celestine to wait on her? Not a bit of it. Madame says I must have a sort of a lady to be a companion to Elsie, and so she found Madame Weber for us. Now they are going to marry Antoinette to a very respectable wealthy young Vicomte that will be another backer for Elsie. I believe preliminaries are nearly arranged, and then he'll be presented as a prÉtendant."

"What a hideous system it is," ejaculated Glynn.

"I don't see that at all," returned Lambert; "a good girl will get fond of any man who makes her a kind husband, and God only knows the relief it is to a parent to make sure that all's right, and see, too, one's girl safe under the protection of a strong man." He spoke with feeling.

"There are some better aspects, I confess, to the mariage de convenance," said Glynn, "but the worse outweigh them."

"Well, I am inclined for the system, though our Amurican girls would never stand it."

"Are you American?" asked Glynn, encouraged by his companion's confidential, regretful tone to put the question.

"A naturalized American. I was obliged by the persecutions of a cruel government to quit my native land as a mere boy, and leave behind me the life of a gentleman, for I can tell you, sir, the Lamberts of Ballybough are as good a stock as any in Ireland; that's five-and-thirty years ago; between you and me I had a hard, sometimes a desperate fight of it since, but I keep all that to myself. Madame D. there thinks me a big man entirely; it's all the better for her, and all I care for is my jewel Elsie."

This brought them to Lambert's door. "Honor bright," said he, giving his hand to Glynn, "I know I may trust you."

Glynn shook hands cordially, and went towards his hotel, musing on the curious contradictions displayed by his former friend, and the incongruity of being made a confidant by the adoring father of the girl against whose subtle charm he had determined to steel himself.

A fortnight had gone by swiftly, too swiftly, and Glynn was still in Paris. True, the plans which would have compelled his presence in Berlin were changed, and he was consequently detained a little longer in the French capital, but he was now free, and had some weeks at his own disposal.

For various plausible reasons he was frequently at the Rue de L'EvÊque, and also a welcome visitor at Madame Davilliers', who declared him worthy of being a Frenchman. He was always careful to bestow his whole attention on her when in her presence, and did not shock her sense of propriety by throwing away any small politenesses on the young ladies.

His happiest moments, however, were those in which he found Elsie sitting at her work or at the piano with Madame Weber and her knitting established beside her. Then they talked long and confidentially on many topics, sometimes in French to include the good Alsacian, but more often in English; and Elsie would practice her songs while he sat in a deep low chair and dreamed, and was lapped into a state of feverish, uneasy delight. Every day the difficulty of tearing himself away grew greater, and still the quiet unconsciousness of Elsie, the easy, friendly tone which she preserved towards him convinced him that whatever of pain might result from their intercourse would be unshared by her.

Glynn was often Lambert's guest; and more than once entertained the father and daughter at some one of the pleasant restaurants, in the bois, or on the Champs ElysÉes.

Lambert, though speaking frankly enough of himself, never explained very distinctly what his employment was; nor did he make any allusion to the position or occupation of his former friend and comrade, as he was fond of calling Glynn.

"I have a wonderful piece of news for you, Mr. Glynn," said Elsie one fine warm afternoon, when he had been ushered through the orange-scented vestibule to the salon where she was sitting beside her work-table, with a book Glynn had lent her in her hands, and she motioned towards a chair opposite her.

"Indeed! what may it be? Good-morning, Madame Weber," bowing. "May I try to divine it, Miss Lambert? Has Mr. Lambert agreed to take you to the Pyrenees or to England?" looking into her eyes. "No! then he will go for a month or two to Switzerland? No? Then your old friend Mrs. ----, I forget the name, who used to take care of you, is coming to Paris? No? Then I am at the end of my conjectures. You see I always read 'no' in your eyes."

"You could never guess! My father has gone away to Havre, quite early this morning, and will not return for three or four days. He has never left me since we came to live here till now, and I cannot tell you how strange and restless and half frightened I feel; but Madame Davilliers has kindly asked me to stay with her, and I go there to dinner to-day. I should have gone sooner, but I thought you might call, so I waited."

Her perfect easy candor was charming, yet mortifying to his amour propre.

"Thank you very much; I am glad to have an opportunity of hearing of your intended movements from yourself; it would have been an awful shock to have found every one gone; but," looking keenly at her, "what have you been doing or suffering? You are pale. There is a weary look in your eyes."

"And you are like my dear father, too ready to think I must be suffering or unhappy, or something dreadful, if I look a shade paler than usual. I am quite well." She smiled, stopped abruptly, let her eyes droop, while the color rose softly in her cheek, and her smile was replaced by a serious, almost sad expression in the curves of her mouth.

"You have something to tell me? something that disturbs you. Speak, you may trust me."

"I am sure I can. Well, I was foolishly frightened yesterday. We, Madame Weber and I, had gone to hear the band play in the Tuileries Gardens. It was very pleasant under the trees, and we sat a long time. Just as we rose to return home, two gentlemen came up from a side walk; one I recognized at a little distance to be Mr. Vincent; the other, when they came nearer, I saw was the same man whom I noticed at Auteuil; you know who I mean? He looked at me so strangely, I felt uneasy, frightened, and I hurried Madame Weber away. They must have taken some shorter path, for when we reached the gate opposite the Rue de la Paix they came upon us again. Mr. Vincent raised his hat, and so did the other, and stared at me with such an odd piercing look of dislike and doubt—Oh! I cannot forget it."

"Yes," said Madame Weber, gathering from Elsie's expression, and the words "Tuileries Gardens," that she was relating the events of yesterday, "that gentleman there was not at all polite; he glared at mademoiselle, Mon Dieu! like a savage beast; nevertheless he was distinguished, and no doubt noble."

"I think you must be mistaken," said Glynn; "the man whom you saw at the races left Paris nearly three weeks ago. I should most probably have seen him had he returned. You must have been mistaken."

Elsie shook her head. "I could never be mistaken in that man," she said.

Glynn was greatly struck by the reappearance of Deering, but he threw off the impression. It was probably an illusion on the part of Elsie. That Deering, the proudest of men, should be walking with so doubtful a personage as Vincent seemed almost incredible. He would make inquiries, however. Meantime he addressed himself to soothe Elsie's evident uneasiness.

"After all, granting you are right, what have you to fear? Your admirer can only look; he dare not annoy you, or any attempt at annoyance could soon be put a stop to. Indeed, I am sure Deering is too much a gentleman and a man of the world to outrage good manners in any way."

"What is his name?"

"Deering of Denham; rather a personage in Yorkshire. I know him and his wife."

"He is married?" as if a little surprised. "Yes, I dare say I am foolish to be afraid of anything, but I am sometimes such a coward. I suppose it is the effect of the terrible terror I suffered when almost a baby."

"Indeed!" said Glynn, his curiosity profoundly stirred, and feeling more than ever convinced there was some very unusual story attached to the sweet, graceful daughter of his former rowdy acquaintance. "I suppose I ought not to ask you how and where you encountered such a shock?"

"I do not mind speaking of it to you; it is a sort of relief, for I have seen you look surprised when I have started and shuddered at trifles. I do not wish you to think me silly."

"Silly!—do you know that you seem to me the impersonation of tranquil, womanly wisdom?"

A laugh so merry and spontaneous rippled over lip and cheek, and flashed from her eyes, that for an instant Glynn feared he had erred by appearing to exaggerate.

"That you should think so ignorant a girl as I am wise, is too funny," she exclaimed.

"Wisdom is a gift that may be improved, not created by learning," said Glynn; "but as you permit me to ask, what was the terror to which you allude?"

"It was so long ago that my memory of it is mere confusion. When I was three or four years old the blacks came and burnt our house, away in Australia; they killed some people too. Then I remember being on a horse and clinging to my father. I think I was quite out of my mind, for I remember being afraid of my own dear father, and thinking him changed and different from what he used to be. Oh, it is all so confused! Then there was a long voyage and great quiet; yet I used to scream if I were left alone for a moment. Sometimes it seems true that I had two long sea voyages, and that my only comfort was to crouch in my father's arms. Then came a long period—long and peaceful—in the sweet fresh country, where I grew strong and fearless, though I always had panics. I had one the first time I met that gentleman's eyes, and sometimes I feel afraid with Mr. Vincent. I was very happy with Mrs. Kellett; she is the good friend who took care of me till my father put me in the convent. He used to come and see me from time to time, and when I saw how much he loved me I grew to love him with my whole heart. That is all I know about my own life."

"And it is enough. You must banish all sense of fear—life promises to be fair and smooth for you."

"I hope so; but curious thrills of terror steal through me sometimes. I never like to ask my father about that dreadful night. I think my poor mother died then, and he cannot bear to speak of it. It was that fright I suppose that made me a little slow and dull; but thank God I can and do enjoy a great deal."

"It would be a frightful injustice if you could not; and you must throw your fears to the winds. You are formed to win friends; dream only of happiness and affection! May I wait, and escort you to Madame Davilliers'?"

This request was prompted by a strange inexpressible reluctance to leave her alone in her own apartment during her father's absence.

"I am turning driveller," he thought; "am I on the verge of making a fool of myself? Not with my eyes open,—yet I would risk a good deal to insure this fair delicate creature from shock or real danger,—for with such a father, such dubious surroundings, her future is, to say the least, unpromising."

"Oh, yes; I should be very glad if you will come with us, and then you will come and see Madame Davilliers while I am with her? My father will be home on Monday, in the evening. How delightful it will be to have him back again. Ah! he is so good to me. I am sometimes oppressed to think how dearly he loves me. I suppose it is because I was so weak, so nearly imbecile when a child. Shall we go to Madame Davilliers' now? I am quite ready."

"When you like; but first do me a great favor, sing me a song before you go away among a set of strangers, a song all to myself."

Elsie smiled, and turning to the piano at once, complied, choosing a Latin hymn expressive of faith in Divine protection, one of those she was accustomed to sing in her convent school days.

When Glynn had escorted her and Madame Weber to the Davilliers' residence, he walked to the hotel where Mr. and Lady Frances Deering were in the habit of staying, and inquired if Mr. Deering had returned. "No," the waiter said, "nor did they expect monsieur, who had left more than a fortnight ago."

"She must have been mistaken," mused Glynn, as he went on to his own quarters. "Deering could not endure the companionship of such a man as Vincent, and what object could he have in following a girl like Elsie Lambert? She is a sensitive, timid soul, more so than I imagined, yet there are possibilities of heroism in her. A most delightful companion, with fresh discoveries of sheltered nooks and mossy dells of character at every step in our acquaintance. I will not leave Paris until I see her safe under her father's wing again; then, if I have an ounce of common sense left, I will fly!"

Reaching his own room, he found among others a letter from Lady Gethin, asking the real reason of his prolonged stay in Paris. Having a spare half-hour he replied at once:

"I am trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together; I am not sure I shall succeed, but am going to give myself a few days longer, then I shall come and report proceedings. I wonder what solution you will suggest. Till we meet then, I can say no more on the subject. Have you seen the Deerings? Are they both in London? I assure you I long to bring my doubts and suspicions to the test of your experience and acumen.