The "venerable Mme. Bricourt" is a round, plump little old woman. Her face is so full of wrinkles that it looks like a last year's apple, still clinging to the branch. She is an artist in her way, as she possesses the talent of saying the cruelest things about her friends, while apparently praising them; and more than all, shows a gentle sympathy to them that appeals to their hearts, so that they confide all their secrets to her.

She wished her son to marry Odette, solely because M. Laviguerie was one of the lions of the day; and, as nothing would be refused to such a celebrated man, member of two academies, Mme. Bricourt thought that her son might attain to some high office as his son-in-law. At present he is merely a civil engineer.

As to this "admirable son," he was as stupid as he was big and awkward, which is saying a great deal. Mme. Bricourt soon recognized his lack of refinement and intellect, and, by a stroke of genius, dubbed him "My admirable son." This title imposed on her friends as she expected, and, seeing its success, Amable adopted the same tone in speaking of his mother; so that soon "the venerable Mme. Bricourt" became an established authority on all subjects.

She was peacefully reading by the window this afternoon, when Corinne was announced. Mme. Descoutures was looking for an ally, still furious from her late discomfiture.

"You look as sweet as a peach, my dear child," said Mme. Bricourt, as they kissed each other. As soon as Mme. Bricourt discovered the faults and foibles of her friends, she knew how to play upon them as skillfully as a gypsy on her guitar. So she was always paying Corinne compliments on her beauty, or the wonderful amount of admiration she received; even going so far as to call her "my dear child." Could anything be more delicately flattering?

"What lucky chance brought you here to-day?"

"I am come to invite you to dine with us this evening."

"With the greatest pleasure."

"I hope your son will accompany you."

The face of "the venerable Mme. Bricourt" was shaded by an expression of sad resignation.

"You know, my dear child, that my son is such an admirable worker. From morning to night he is buried in his business, and I am afraid he will wear himself out before long. He left this morning for Toulon, to find an important reference in some book in the public library."

To tell the truth, Amable Bricourt had gone to Toulon to spend the day with some friends in a billiard-saloon.

Corinne resumed: "We shall all regret his absence very much, particularly as we are celebrating to-night the arrival of Mr. Laviguerie's oldest daughter, as well as Odette's engagement."

"Is Odette going to be married?"

"To M. Paul Frager. It is the very latest news. Her father was just telling me the arrangement suited him in every respect."

"It really is a very excellent match, I should say," Mme. Bricourt continued, in her most dove-like tones. "Odette is a remarkably fine girl. It is a great pity she has been so badly brought up. Why, my son, of course, knows almost everything; but there are certain things that Odette is perfectly familiar with, that I doubt if he ever heard of. But she is pretty. I know some people say she does not know how to dress, and that her features are not perfectly regular; but still, she is pretty. It is not beauty. Her mouth is too large, and her ears are not set on right; but still, she is pretty."

Imagine Corinne's delight when she saw from these remarks that Mme. Bricourt was on her side!

"As for M. Frager," continued Mme. Bricourt, sweetly, "I do not know him well enough to pass judgment on him. He ought to be something remarkable, to marry the daughter of such a distinguished man as Laviguerie. But, to tell the truth, I do not think he will turn out well. He has no business, you know; and, when a young man has no business—I am thinking of the way in which my admirable son passes his time! Why does Paul Frager live alone? Why will his family have nothing to do with him? The future alone will answer these questions, and let us hope that they will be favorably answered."

She was interrupted by a carriage driving rapidly and noisily past. She leaned out of the window, bowing and smiling to some one, saying: "The pretty dear!"

"The pretty dear" was none other than Odette, driving with her father to meet Germaine at the depot.

Odette was beaming with joy at the thought of her darling sister, so soon to be with her. Her important interview with Paul had sobered her for awhile; but, now, she was only thinking of how happy she was. Her head was full of plans for the amusement of "darling Germaine," and she chattered on to her father, the picture of hope and happiness. Laviguerie said, "You are exquisitely lovely to-day, my child;" and, as she said gayly, "Just wait till you have seen Germaine—she will eclipse me and every body else!" the philosopher felt a jealous pang as he thought, "How she worships her!"

Odette had hastened their starting to such an extent that they had now over half an hour to wait. Her father sat down quietly in the shade of the little white station, while Odette walked impatiently up and down the platform, asking the men around anxiously, if the train was not late—consulting her watch a dozen times at least, and comparing it with the big clock over the door. Finally, she said to herself, she would walk six times around the building, and had just accomplished the third circuit, when she heard the shrill whistle of the locomotive. She sprang to the edge of the platform, and looked eagerly down the track. She saw the train far away, skirting the shore of the Mediterranean, with its white plume of steam floating in the air. These three or four minutes seemed an eternity. Finally, the train stopped before her, a door opened, and a young lady stepped out, followed by her waiting-maid.

The young traveler had no time to look around her before Odette was embracing her; they cried "Odette!" "Germaine!" and crying and laughing at the same time, they embraced again and again. M. Laviguerie looked on, more affected than he would have supposed possible. Germaine had changed so completely from the delicate, nervous child he remembered. Her black, abundant hair was drawn back from her broad, noble brow, where purity and dignity seemed to reign. She had grown tall, was very finely proportioned, and her large, gray eyes only added to the general impression of sincerity and sweet refinement.

The two sisters were lost in their examination and admiration of each other,—they paid no attention to the train steaming past, to the baggage piled up around them, nor to M. Laviguerie standing impatiently near them. He finally interrupted them by saying, "Isn't it my turn now?" and as Germaine came to him, he kissed her almost affectionately, then leading them to the carriage, he left them, saying, "I will walk home, after sending your maid and your luggage in the omnibus."

The sisters were alone in the carriage. They only stopped embracing to embrace again,—they had so many years to make up! At last, Odette said, "Dear Germaine, you are so beautiful! Your photographs never showed the lovely soul looking out through your eyes! Oh! if you only knew how happy I am."

And as Germaine sighed, "I know you are sad over Mme. Rozan's death—forgive me, please, for seeming to rejoice at what is your sorrow!"

"There is nothing to forgive, my darling Odette," replied Germaine. "But you know, for eleven years, Mme. Rozan has been the kindest, sweetest, most loving and devoted of mothers to me." And leaning her head against Odette's shoulder, she wept softly, while Odette caressed her tenderly. They soon drove up the avenue to the villa, and Germaine tried to control her emotion, as she saw that it grieved her sister, and besides, she was to meet strangers at the house. Odette smiled and said, "You will soon have the pleasure of being introduced to M. and Mme. Descoutures. That will cheer you up somewhat; and to add to your happiness, you will meet the 'venerable Mme. Bricourt' and her 'admirable son.'"

Germaine could not help smiling as she replied, "I know them now, from your descriptions, as well as if I had been living here with you." They entered the house. Corinne met them smiling, and appearing to admire Germaine exceedingly; as they passed through the drawing-room, Germaine noticed a small gentleman bowing to her in the shadow of the curtains. She answered his salutation, but Corinne said, naÏvely, "Oh, never mind him, that is only my husband." This was the introduction of the master of the house to the oldest daughter of his most intimate friend.

When Odette and Germaine were finally alone in their room, Odette locked the doors, and seating her sister on the sofa, she sat down at her feet, on the carpet. "Now, darling," she commenced, "how much we have to tell each other! One can not write about everything, you know. With your wonderful beauty you must have set many a heart on fire. I have always heard, too, the Italians were very inflammable."

"I never went into society at all, you know."

"That does not make any difference. No matter if you were shut up in a tower, like the princess in the fairy-tale—some handsome young stranger would find you out."

Germaine blushed—Odette clapped her hands with delight and cried, "Ah, ha! Am I not right?"

"Little goose!" Germaine replied, smilingly.

"I don't care if I am a goose, I am right all the same, or you would not blush so. Is he blonde or brunette?"

"Very dark. However, there is no romance at all, only a very ordinary incident; but as my life was so quiet and retired, I magnified somewhat a very simple affair."

"Tell me your 'ordinary incident,' I am all attention."

"Well, then, once upon a time (two years ago), my aunt and I were taking a walk in the country, when two beggars, covered with dirty rags, came toward us, and began to beg. We were very much frightened at their threatening gestures, and gave them all the money we had with us. Then one pointed to my ear-rings, saying they were very pretty. I understood him, and taking them off, handed them to him. In short, they took every bit of jewelry from us, and were turning to leave, when a young man, who, it seems, had been watching us from a little hill near by, suddenly sprang down upon them, and, belaboring them with his iron walking-stick, forced them to return to us not only the jewelry they had taken, but the money as well; and begged to be allowed to escort us home. I had time then to look at him, and saw that he was tall, handsome, and even in his simple linen suit exceedingly distinguished looking. We were nearly home when our protector uttered a cry of pain and fell at our feet. The wretched beggars, furious at losing their booty, had followed us at a distance and thrown a large stone, which had struck the young man on the shoulder, making a painful wound. With my assistance, our new friend managed to drag himself to our house."

Odette burst out laughing. "Is that what you call an 'ordinary incident?' Italy must be a queer place if it is. But tell me, how long did your 'fairy prince,' your 'protector,' your 'new friend,' stay at your house?"

"Two days."

"And since then?"

"I have never seen him."

"Did he never write to you?"

"A simple letter of thanks for our hospitality."

"Well, any way, I hope he said good-bye in a proper heart-broken manner, with tears in his eyes, etc."

"Not in the least."

"But you, at least, were miserable?"

Germaine let her beautiful liquid eyes rest on her sister's face, as she quietly replied "Yes."

"Then you love a young man whom you never saw but those two days, whom you hardly know, and you have never tried to meet him again."

"I do not know if I love him. I think not, for it would be ridiculous to fall in love so quickly as that. But when I think of him, it is with the most inexpressible tenderness. Even now I have only to shut my eyes to see him as plainly as ever. Can you imagine a flower whose perfume would remain, even after the flower had long since withered away? He passed me by. I looked at him, I listened to his voice, and I can not forget. That is all."

"Now, dear," said Odette, "confess that, in coming to France, you had the hope of some day meeting again your 'protector.'"

"I do not know about that; but I had one aim and object in coming here, that I am sure of; and that is your conversion to Christianity."

Odette started; then taking her sister's hand and trying to speak as tenderly as before: "Do you not remember my wish never to discuss religion?"

"I remember it; but I shall never agree to it. It would be a crime if I should! My poor blind sister, my greatest happiness on earth is the hope of opening your eyes to the Light some day."

But as they loved each other too much to say any thing wounding, they left the subject immediately, and Germaine continued: "Now I have told you every thing, I must ask you the same questions you asked me. Tell me now about your love affairs."

The line in Odette's forehead deepened as she replied: "I have nothing of the kind to tell you; not even a two-day romance like yours. I am going to be married, that's all."

"You are going to be married! and never told me!"

"It has only been settled to-day."

"Do you love him very, very much?" whispered Germaine, leaning caressingly toward her sister.

Odette replied, without committing herself, and yet so as to satisfy Germaine. "He is worthy of the most tender devotion. He is kind, manly and good. He is tall, dark, twenty-two years old, and his name is Paul Frager. There! I have answered all your questions beforehand. Heavens! it is striking four—dinner-time—and we are not dressed. Get ready as quickly as you can, for I must take the scolding for it."

No sooner was the door closed behind Odette, who had hurried off without observing her sister's evident agitation, than Germaine, turning the key in the lock, threw herself on the sofa in the most bitter despair. She congratulated herself, however, that she had not happened to name the hero of her little romance, for it was Paul Frager! And Paul Frager was engaged to her sister! Her tears fell fast, and bitter sobs convulsed her whole frame. She saw him before her as clearly and distinctly as if she were still at Naples, waiting upon the wounded man. And she would see him again to-night; and Odette was going to marry him! And Odette loved him, of course. Had she not said so just now?

She was roused from her grief by the first dinner-bell. Hurrying to dress, she succeeded in partly driving away her sorrow. When Odette returned she was ready to accompany her down stairs, and they entered the drawing-room together. No painter could have imagined a more charming picture than these two lovely girls presented. The complete dissimilarity between them heightened their rare beauty. Mme. Bricourt had only sincere expressions of admiration for them. A new and startling plan was maturing in her brain. She wished her son to marry a daughter of the great Laviguerie, and if she could not have one, was prepared to give chase to the other, so she and Mme. Descoutures overwhelmed poor Germaine with a flood of compliments. At last, to change the subject, Germaine ventured to make some remark to Mme. Bricourt about her "admirable son." That put an end to all other conversation, as the "venerable mother" never stopped, when once started on that subject. Corinne apologized when dessert was served, saying, "I beg ten thousand pardons for interrupting you, dear friend, but I must order dinner hurried a little, as we expect, immediately afterwards, to see M. Frager, with his father and mother, M. and Mme. Claude Sirvin."

Odette and Germaine both became deadly pale, and to conceal their emotion, proposed an adjournment to the terrace.