Francis Laviguerie is sixty years old. He is tall and manly looking. He stoops a little when he walks, as if the mighty intellect in his large head were too heavy a burden. His gray hair, with his keen black eyes, give him a soldierly appearance. In fact, he is a soldier. He has fought all his life for what he considers the truth. His early life was one of poverty and privation, but his abilities were soon recognized, and his thirtieth year found him professor in the College of France, proclaiming himself the disciple of Herbert Spencer, whose doctrines he strictly followed. He has long been a member of the Academy of Sciences, and, since 1867, of the French Academy also.

In private life he is firm, gentle, simple and unostentatious. His whole life has been one long devotion to science and labor. He has known sorrow of all kinds. Twice married, both wives are dead—one after three years of married life; the other, ten months, each having presented him with a daughter.

Germaine and Odette at first were brought up together; but the friends of the philosopher noticed that he showed a great preference for Odette, the youngest, and seemed to ignore Germaine completely. In 1865 Mme. Rozan, a sister of his first wife, happening to come to Paris, begged him to give her the little Germaine—a sickly, nervous child—and he consented gladly in spite of Odette's tears and despair.

The little sisters simply worshiped each other, and during the eleven long years that they had been separated, their devoted love had suffered nothing from absence, that great enemy of human affections. They wrote to each other every day, relating every incident of their lives. They knew each other as intimately as if they had never been separated. One wrote about Vesuvius and the beautiful Adriatic; the other, about the fogs and mud of Paris. They sent volumes to each other, and each could have given the most minute descriptions of the other and her surroundings. However, an abyss separated the two sisters. Mme. Rozan, religious without being bigoted, had educated her niece in her own ideas, and it was the greatest grief of Germaine's life that Odette thought differently. By common consent they avoided the dangerous subject of religion; but Germaine never forgot to pray for her misguided sister.

"Good morning, Corinne," said M. Laviguerie, sitting down in the chair his daughter had vacated. "Odette was with you. She did not run away from me, I hope."

"Oh, no; she simply went to her room to take off her riding-habit."

"Will you excuse me if I read this letter? It was just handed to me."

"Certainly, sir," replied Corinne; "besides, I must retire, myself, as lunch will soon be ready, and I am not dressed for the day." Then, turning to her husband with the air of an empress addressing the meanest of her subjects: "It seems to me, sir, you delay to offer me your arm."

M. Descoutures, always very short, seemed to shrink two or three inches more, and, knocking over a camp-stool in his haste, murmured, "Pardon me, Madame, I thought—"

They always addressed each other in this formal style. The humble M. Descoutures did not remain long absent; merely the five minutes necessary to escort his wife to the door of her rooms and return. When he reappeared upon the terrace, M. Laviguerie had just finished reading his letter. He looked harassed and worried.

"Have you received any bad news, dear friend, in your letter?"

"No bad news; still it is very annoying."

"Corinne's husband" did not seem the same man when alone with his friend. His shyness almost entirely disappeared, and he ventured to talk, taking care to disguise his ideas somewhat in apologetic phrases, wrapping them in cotton, as it were.

"I need some advice," continued Laviguerie, "and I can not do better than to turn to you. During our long friendship, I have often admired the correctness of your judgment, and your common sense, which is never at fault. Doubtless, you have sometimes wondered that I kept my eldest daughter so far away from me. It is strange, I confess, and many have been astonished at it, I suppose. I am obliged now to change this state of affairs. Mme. Rozan is dead, and Germaine writes that she is leaving Naples to come back to her father and sister."

"But I am sure, my dear Laviguerie, that this reunion will give Odette the greatest happiness, and I do not see—"

"Why I called it annoying? I will tell you. You never met my first wife. When I married her, she was a lovely young girl, cultivated and charming. Perhaps I ought to have inquired into the antecedents of the family; but I was in love. I did nothing of the kind, and I was wrong. I soon discovered that my wife was one of those women whose nervous system rules the whole body. At first, I hoped I was mistaken; but a physiologist can never deceive himself long. She would be seized with fits of the deepest depression, morbid despair, followed by floods of tears, or else immoderate laughter. Her character changed little by little, until I no longer dared to take her out with me. When Germaine was born, she seemed to rally for a time, but soon became again a prey to the most violent nervous affection, and, in one of her spasms, died, leaving me a widower, with a little girl who, of course, had inherited the mother's disease. I had a daughter a prey to hysteria, as others have a deformed or a blind child. I married again, as you know; I wanted a home. I will say nothing of my second wife. You know how I loved her—so sweet, so calm, so gentle. She died when Odette was born. Ah! my friend, I should have died of grief, if it had not been for my work."

He stopped a few minutes. The strong man was shaken by these sad memories, as the tempest tosses the oak tree. He continued more slowly:

"For eight years Germaine and Odette grew up side by side, and I watched them with the most searching eyes. I soon found in Germaine the frightful symptoms of her mother's disease. She was excessively nervous and sensitive, so that when her aunt asked for her, it was with great satisfaction I consented. I had ceased to love her. It was cruel and selfish of me, I know; but I am only a man, and subject to the same faults and failings as the meanest of them!"

"And now Germaine is coming home," replied M. Descoutures, "permit me to say, with the greatest respect, that I think you did wrong. But what is past is past. To-day, your duty—if I may venture to say that word to a man like you—is to receive your daughter as if everything were all right. You need not fear that Odette could possibly become nervous by living with her. Odette is too full of vitality, and—" M. Descoutures stopped short. Corinne had appeared, and he never spoke more than was absolutely necessary, when she was near.

Corinne had painted her cheeks as red as those dolls that speak when they are pressed in the stomach. Her hair fell over her shoulders like the blonde locks of some little twelve-year-old, or the drooping branches of a weeping willow.

She was beaming with happiness. Her heart was beating fast for that Paul Frager of whom she had been speaking to Odette. She had always supposed his frequent visits to the villa had been on Odette's account. But, as she learned this to have been a mistake, there was no longer any room for doubt—she, Corinne, was the beloved object of his affections.

Almost at the same time Odette returned, simply dressed as usual, looking like a beautiful Amazon with her helmet of sparkling gold.

She kissed her father, shook hands with M. Descoutures, and cried cheerfully, "Are we never to have any lunch? I am famishing."

Laviguerie was still harassed by Germaine's near arrival. However, nothing could be done to prevent it. As they were passing into the lunch room, he detained Odette a few minutes. "My dear child," he said, "you have not heard from your sister for several days, I believe. Has it not seemed strange to you?" Odette grew pale, and said anxiously:

"Is she sick?"

"No! but a great sorrow has befallen her. Mme. Rozan is dead."

"Her aunt is dead? But then she will come to us?"

"Yes; this evening."

Odette threw her arms around her father's neck. "She is coming back! Oh! how happy I am! I wanted her every minute and every hour. Let me kiss you again for the glorious news!" And she embraced him a third time with all the grace and roguishness of a spoiled child. Then, running into the dining-room, she danced up to her friends, saying: "Germaine is coming! She is coming this evening! We will all go to the depot to meet her!"

M. Laviguerie came in behind his daughter, silent and sad. "You know, father, there is a room next to mine that she can have. We have been separated so long that now we must be together all the time." Laviguerie looked on, sadly smiling at his daughter's happiness. Putting her arms around his neck, she continued: "Do you not like to see me so happy? Are you afraid that I shall love Germaine more than I do you? You need not fear. I have always loved Germaine the most, and yet had plenty of love for my dear father."

Laviguerie took his daughter in his arms and, kissing her brow, simply said: "You have a loving heart, dear child."

Lunch passed off gayly. Nothing is more contagious than joy or sadness. Which of us has not experienced the effect of a hearty laugh? Odette chatted merrily on about her plans for the future. She would make Germaine so happy; they would have so much to see together, and then they must make plans to marry off our "dear little Germaine"—not to any of the old Academy professors, but to some nice, interesting young gentleman.

No one interrupted Odette. Her father was recalling the misery of his first marriage. M. Descoutures was enjoying her charming and gay vivacity; while Corinne was dreaming of her conquest. Happy Corinne! As usual, she was imagining a love scene. This time, it was Paul Frager at her feet, his eyes cast down, confessing his passion. She would reply: "Poor, dear boy," and imprint a chaste kiss on his brow.

Having brought things to so satisfactory a conclusion, Corinne deigned to smile and join in the merry conversation.