Count Tristan was about to hand Bertha into the carriage which the countess had entered, when the young girl paused, with her tiny foot upon the step. She shrank from a discussion with her aunt who was in a high state of indignation. Madame de Gramont's wrath was not only directed against Gaston de Bois, but she was exasperated by Bertha's interference just when the haughty lady had been on the point of making him feel that he would no longer be ranked among the number of her friends and welcome visitors. While Bertha's foot still rested upon the step, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Gaston standing beside Maurice. Her decision was made. She looked into the carriage and said,—

"You will have the kindness to excuse me from accompanying you, aunt; I will take advantage of the beautiful day and walk home with Maurice."

Having uttered these words, she drew back quickly and tripped away before the answer of the countess could reach her. Maurice walked on one side of her, and what was more natural than that Gaston should occupy the place on the other side?

For a brief space all three pursued their way in silence, then Bertha made an effort to converse. Maurice answered in monosyllables and those were followed by deep sighs. Gaston seemed to be hardly more master of language, though his taciturnity had a different origin; it was occasioned by the unexpected delight of finding himself walking beside Bertha, who constantly lifted her sweet face inquiringly to his, as though to ask why he had no words.

Maurice was in a perplexed state of mind which caused him a nervous longing for entire seclusion. Even sympathy, sympathy from those who were as dear to him as Bertha and Gaston, jarred upon his highly-strung nerves.

All at once, he stopped and said,—

"Gaston, I will leave you to conduct Bertha home; I fancy you will not object to the trust," and trying to simulate a smile, he walked away.

Gaston, left alone with Bertha, quickly regained his power of speech. They were passing the Capitol; how lovely the grounds looked in their spring attire! The day, too, was delicious. The opportunity of seeing Bertha alone was a happiness that might not soon return.

"These grounds are Mademoiselle Madeleine's favorite promenade," remarked M. de Bois. "Have you ever seen them?"

Bertha made no reply, but she moved toward the gate and they entered. A short silence ensued, then she said abruptly, "What an heroic character is Madeleine's!"

"A character," returned Gaston, tenderly, "which exerts a holy influence upon all with whom she is thrown in contact, and works more good, teaches more truth by the example of a patient, noble, holy life than could be taught by a thousand sermons from the most eloquent lips." He paused, and then continued in a tone of deep feeling, "I may well say so! I shudder to think what a weak, useless, self-centred being I should have been but for her agency."

"You seem far happier," replied Bertha, smiling archly, "than you did in Brittany! And this change was wrought by"—

"Mademoiselle Madeleine! It was she who made me feel that we are all too ready with our peevish outcries against the beautiful world in which we have been placed; too ready to complain that all is sadness and sorrow and disappointment, when the gloom exists within ourselves, not without us; it is from ourselves the misty darkness springs; it is we ourselves who have lost, or who have never possessed, the secret of being happy, and we exclaim that there is no happiness on the face of the globe! It is we ourselves who are 'flat, stale, and unprofitable,' not our neighbors; though we are sure to charge them with the dulness and insipidity for which we, alone, are responsible."

Bertha answered, "One secret of Madeleine's cheerfulness is her unquenchable hope. Even in her saddest moments, the light of hope never appeared to be extinguished. It shone about her almost like a visible halo, and illumined all her present and her future. Have you not remarked the strength of this characteristic?"

"That I have!" he replied with warmth. "And it forced upon my conviction the truth of the poet's words that 'hope and wisdom are akin'; that it is always wise to hope, and the most wise, because those who have most faith, ever hope most. She taught me to hope when I was plunged in the depths of despair!"

Bertha blushed suddenly, as though those fervently-uttered words had awakened some suggestion which could not be framed into language.

"This seat is shady and retired, and commands a fine view of the garden," remarked Gaston, pausing. There was an invitation in his accents.

Bertha, half unconsciously seated herself, and Gaston did the same. Then came another pause, a longer one than before; it was broken by Bertha, who exclaimed,—

"You defended Madeleine nobly and courageously! and how I thanked you!"

"I only did her justice, or, rather, I did her far less than justice," returned Gaston.

"Yet few men would have dared to say what you did in my aunt's presence."

"Could any man who had known Mademoiselle Madeleine as intimately as I have had the honor of knowing her, through these four last painful years of her life, could any man who had learned to reverence her as I reverence her, have said less?"

"But my aunt, by her towering pride, awes people out of what they ought to do, and what they want to do; at least, she does me; and therefore,—therefore I honored you all the more when I saw you had the courage to tell her harsh truths, while pleading Madeleine's cause so eloquently."

Gaston was much moved by these unanticipated and warmly uttered commendations. He tried to speak, but once again relapsed into his old habit of stammering.

"Your praises are most pre—pre—pre"—

Bertha finished his sentence as in by-gone days. "Precious, are they indeed? I am glad! I am truly glad that they are precious."

M. de Bois, notwithstanding the happiness communicated by this frank declaration, could make no reply. What could he answer? And what right had he to give too delightful an interpretation to the chance expressions of the lovely being who sat there before him, uttering words in her ingenuous simplicity, which would have inspired a bolder, more self-confident man, with the certainty that she regarded him with partial eyes.

His gaze was riveted upon the ground, and so was hers. Neither spoke. How long they would have sat thus, each looking for some movement to be made by the other, is problematical. The double reverie was broken by a well-known voice, which cried out,—

"Ah, M. de Bois, you are the very man I wanted to see. Good-morning, Mademoiselle de Merrivale."

Lord Linden and his sister, Lady Augusta, stood before them. M. de Bois instantly rose, and Bertha invited Lady Augusta to take the vacant place. Lord Linden had already seized Gaston's arm, and drawn him aside.

"My dear fellow," began the nobleman, "Do you know that I have been vainly seeking you for a couple of days! I am in a most awkward predicament; but I suppress particulars to make a long story short; in a word, I have discovered the fair unknown! I expected,—you know what sort of woman I expected to find."

"Perfectly," answered Gaston, laughing, "a walking angel, minus the traditional wings. I remember your description. Perhaps the lady grows more earthly upon a better acquaintance?"

"No, not by any means. I found her more enchanting than ever; but hang it, unless you had seen her, you could not comprehend how I could have made such a confounded mistake. This lovely being is—is—is—don't prepare to laugh. I shall be tempted to knock you down if you do, for really my feelings are so much interested that I could not bear even a friend's ridicule."

"Well, go on," urged M. de Bois. "The lady in question is,—not an angel, unless it be a fallen one; that I understand; good; then what is she?"

"A mantua-maker!" exclaimed Lord Linden, in accents of deep mortification.

Well might he have been startled by the change that came over Gaston's countenance; the merriment by which it had been lighted up suddenly vanished; he looked aghast, astounded, and his features worked as though with ill-suppressed rage.

"I see you are amazed: I thought you would be! You did not take me for such a greenhorn! But, in spite of her trade,—her profession, as it is considerately called in this country,—she is the most peerless creature; any man might have been duped."

"And her name?" inquired Gaston, in an agitated voice, though he hardly needed the confirmation to his fears contained in Lord Linden's answer.

"Mademoiselle Melanie!"

"Good heavens! how unfortunate!" exclaimed Gaston, not knowing what he was saying.

"Unfortunate," repeated Lord Linden; "you may well say that. But as marrying her is out of the question, there may possibly be an alternative"—

"What alternative? What do you mean?" demanded Gaston, turning upon him fiercely.

"It does not strike me that my meaning is so difficult to divine," replied the other, lightly. "When a woman is not in a position to become the wife of a man who has fallen desperately in love with her, there is only one thing else that he will very naturally seek to"—

"Forbear, my lord! I cannot listen to such language," cried Gaston, angrily. "You could not insult a pure woman, no matter in what station you found her, by such a suggestion. I will not believe you capable of such baseness."

Lord Linden looked at him in questioning amazement; then answered, somewhat scornfully,—

"Really, I was not aware that instances of the kind were so rare, or that your punctilious morality would be so terribly shocked by an every-day occurrence. If the lovely creature herself consents to my proposition, I consider that the arrangement will be a very fair one."

"Consents?" echoed Gaston, lashed into fury. "Do you know of whom you are speaking? This Mademoiselle Melanie is one of the noblest,—that is to say, one of the most noble-minded, and one of the most chaste of women."

"You have heard of her then? Perhaps seen her?" inquired Lord Linden, eagerly. "As for her vaunted chastity, that is neither here nor there,—that may or may not be fictitious. I have heard from the best authority that she receives the private visits of titled admirers, whose attentions can hardly be of a nature very different from mine. You see, it is fair game, and if I succeed"—

"For Heaven's sake stop!" said Gaston, losing all control of his temper. Then reflecting that this very energy in defending her might compromise Madeleine, he said, more calmly, "I beg your lordship to pause before you insult Mademoiselle Melanie. I know something of her history. She bears an unblemished name; she has a highly sensitive, a most delicate and refined nature. Could she deem it possible that any man entertained toward her such sentiments as those to which you have just given utterance, it would almost kill her."

Lord Linden's lips curled sarcastically, but he did not feel disposed to communicate how completely Mademoiselle Melanie was already aware of those sentiments. He now essayed to put an end to the conversation by saying,—

"I shall bear your remarks in mind; though the accounts we have heard of the fair mantua-maker differ materially."

"Who has dared to slander her?" demanded Gaston, with an air which seemed to assert his right to ask the question.

"I have not said that she has been slandered. I see we are not likely to understand each other; let us join the ladies."

As he spoke, he walked toward Lady Augusta and Bertha. His sister rose and made her adieu.

When Lord Linden and Lady Augusta had passed on, Gaston was surprised to see that Bertha did not appear desirous of returning to the hotel. She sat still, and, when he approached her, drew her dress slightly aside, as though to make room for him to resume his seat. Could he do otherwise than comply? She sat with her head bent down. The shining ringlets falling in rich, golden showers, partly concealed her face. She was tracing letters upon the gravel-walk with her parasol. Gaston was too much moved by his painful conversation with Lord Linden to start any indifferent topic; and Bertha's manner, so different from her usual frank, lively bearing, made it still more difficult for him to know how to accost her.

At last, without raising her eyes, she said, "You and Lord Linden were having a very animated discussion. At one time I began to be afraid that you were quarrelling."

"We certainly never differed more. I doubt if we shall ever be friends again."

This assertion was uttered so earnestly that Bertha involuntarily looked up into Gaston's face. It was flushed by his recent anger, and the expression of his countenance betokened perplexity mingled with vexation.

What woman ever saw the man she loved out of temper without seeking to pour oil upon the troubled waters, even at the risk of being charged with her sex's constitutional curiosity? for an attempt to soothe includes a desire to fathom the secret cause of annoyance. If there be women who are not stirred by impulses of this kind they are cast in moulds the very opposite to that of Bertha.

She said, in a soft and winning tone, "Has he done you wrong?"

"He has grossly wronged one whom I esteem more highly, perhaps, than any woman,—any being living," answered Gaston, firing up at the recollection of Lord Linden's insinuations; then he corrected himself. "I should have said any—any oth—oth—other—but"—

"It was a woman—a lady, then, whom he wronged?" inquired Bertha, betraying redoubled interest at this inadvertent admission.

Gaston perceived that he had said too much; but, in adding nothing more, he did not extricate himself from the difficulty. His silence could only be interpreted into an affirmative.

"And one whom you esteem more highly than all others?" persisted Bertha. "Whom do you esteem so highly as Madeleine? Surely it could not have been Madeleine? Lord Linden did not speak disrespectfully of Madeleine?"

Gaston had gone too far for concealment. "He spoke of Mademoiselle Melanie, the mantua-maker; but I warrant I have silenced him!"

"Madeleine is very happy in the possession of such a true friend as you are! one upon whom she can always lean,—always depend,—one who can never fail her! Yes, she is very, very happy! When I heard you defending her before my aunt, I said to myself, 'Oh that I had such a friend!'"

Would not Gaston de Bois have been the dullest of mortals if those words had failed to infuse a sudden courage into his heart?

He replied with impetuous ardor, "Would—would that you could be induced to accept the same friend as your own! Would that he might dare to hope that some day, however distant, you would grant him a nearer, dearer title! Would that he might believe such a joy possible!"

Bertha spoke no word, made no movement, but sat with her eyes bent on the ground. Her manner emboldened Gaston to seize her hand; she did not withdraw it from his clasp; then he comprehended his joy, and poured out the history of his long-concealed passion with a tender eloquence of which he never imagined himself capable.

If, when he awoke that morning from a dream in which Bertha's lovely countenance was vividly pictured, some prophetic voice had whispered that ere the sun went down he would have uttered such language, and she have listened to it, he would not have believed the verification of that delightful prediction within the bounds of possibility. Yet, when the happy pair left the capital grounds to return to the hotel, Gaston walked by the side of his betrothed bride.

It is true that the wealthy heiress had lured on her self-distrusting lover to make a declaration which he had not contemplated; but who will charge her with unmaidenly conduct? The most modest of women are daily doing, unaware, what Bertha did somewhat more consciously. Shakespeare, who read the hearts of women with the penetrating eyes of a seer, and who never painted a heroine who was not the type of a class, pictured no rare or imaginary order of being in his beauteous Desdemona,—

who was yet "half the wooer." And there is no lack of men who can testify (in spite of the feminine denial which we anticipate) that they owe their happiness (or misery) to some gentle, timid girl who was nevertheless "half the wooer."