If a Parisian philosopher, animated by the love of that wisdom which is deducible by philosophic methods from the study of mankind, had emerged from his abode, on a certain summer evening, in quest of the solution of that great riddle, Why is this thus? and, seeking an answer, had scanned the visages of the passers upon the Boulevard, he would, perhaps, have noticed the face and bearing of a man who strolled alone and listless; and, it being a fine evening of early summer, at an hour when, philosophers having dined, are ruminative, he might have fallen into speculation, and asking himself the meaning of this man's face, would, perhaps, have deduced discontent, becoming habitual and tending toward cynicism; and if a philosopher of the weeping, rather than the laughing variety, he would have mourned over the atom of humanity, beneath whose careworn lines and shadows of dissatisfaction there lay forgotten noble promise. And, to sum up the philosophic conclusions (for, like other philosophers, our hypothetical lover of wisdom is growing tiresome) he, being aware of the cause of much mundane misery, might have decided that the man had lost money, and would have been wrong, for the man was one whom financial loss could hardly touch. The Great Serpent might refuse to yield for weeks, aye forever, and Mark Claghorn would have been content. In truth, its annual product was a burden heavier than he thought he ought, in fairness, to be called upon to bear. He liked companionship, being naturally well disposed toward his fellows, yet, as he said to himself, the loneliness of this evening stroll in the centre of mirth and good fellowship had its reason in his wealth. A man such as he, so he told himself, is forced, in the nature of things, to purchase all the joys of life, and being purchased they had but slight attraction for him; thus ordinarily he was solitary and somewhat given to brooding, though wise enough to utter no complaint on a score wherein he certainly would have found but slight sympathy.

He strolled on, paying little heed to any, except when occasionally the clank of a sabre or the faint jingle of a spur signified a cavalryman in the vicinity; then he would glance at the cavalryman, and with a quickly satisfied curiosity, pass on, listless as before.

He entered a cafe, and calling for a "bock," lit a cigar and proceeded to seek distraction in tobacco and beer, while looking over the pages of the "Vie Parisienne," but apparently found no amusement in that very Gallic periodical. At last he drew a letter from his pocket. "Little Paula," he muttered, as he opened the sheet, and his tone was kindly, if not tender. "I suppose, in the end, my mother will see the fulfilment of the wish she thinks so carefully concealed," he muttered, and then, as if to find encouragement to filial duty in the letter itself, he commenced to read, and was thus engaged when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and heard the exclamation, "Claghorn!" He looked up and, rising, accepted the outstretched hand of Adolphe de Fleury.

"I was not sure whether it was you or your ghost," said Adolphe. "When did you leave America?"

"Over a year since," replied Mark; then, unmindful of the look of surprise in the face of his companion, he added: "I hoped I might meet you. I am only here for a few hours, and the opportunity to congratulate you——"

"To congratulate! May I ask why I am to be congratulated?" interrupted the lieutenant.

"Usually a newly married man; or one about to be——"

"Claghorn, you can hardly—do you mean that you believed me married?"

"Married, or about to be. I heard from the Marquise while at St. Petersburg——"

"And I have suspected you! Know, my dear fellow, though I had rather you heard it from somebody else, that I am very far from married. I am jilted; abandoned by our fair but cruel cousin, who has fled from my mother's protection and taken refuge among the Yankees."

"Do you mean that Natalie is in America?"

"Just that, mon cher, and with her Berthe of the wonderful eyes."

Mark's innocence of all knowledge of the fact stated was evident in his face. He was astounded; at the same time a sense of joy swept across his soul. He looked hastily at his watch; it was too late to call upon the Marquise, unless, indeed, she had company, in which case he would not be able to see her alone. But, looking at his watch inspired him with an excuse to plead an appointment, which he did, and left his companion.

The next day he called upon Madame de Fleury, and on his return to his hotel, he wrote the following letter:

"My Dear Cousin Natalie—Last night I arrived here direct from St. Petersburg, being merely a bird of passage, and on my way to London. I had expected to be there by this time, but after meeting Adolphe de Fleury, I deferred my departure until I could see the Marquise. Doubtless, my letters in London will convey the information which has been imparted by her. To say that I was surprised to hear that you had gone to America hardly expresses my feeling; but surprise is cast into the shade by gratification. Now that your reasons for the step you have taken have been so freely disclosed to me by Madame de Fleury (who insisted upon reading to me passages from your letters), I hope you will not regard it as intrusive in me if I express my admiration of your independence and complete approbation of your conduct. You are in spirit a true American, and I congratulate both you and our country upon the fact. Do you remember the day I said 'good-bye' to you? Had you then any inkling of the true reason for my adieu? Your father had just informed me that since girlhood you had been the betrothed of Adolphe de Fleury. Monsieur Claghorn at the time assured me that had not this been the case I should have had his good wishes in regard to the aspirations I had just laid before him. I have never laid those aspirations before you, nor can I do so adequately in a letter; nor at this time, when so long a period has elapsed since I last saw you. What I have to say must be said in person, and so unsatisfactory is this method of addressing you on the subject that I may not send this letter.

"But, if you receive it, understand why I write it. It seems, perhaps, laughable—though it does not seem so to me—that I should be haunted by a terror which darkens the new hope that has arisen within me. You are thousands of miles away. True, it is not easily conceivable that you may become lost to me in so brief a residence in America, yet the idea is constantly with me. I blame that which I then believed the honorable reticence which I ought to maintain toward you after my interview with your father, and having heard his assurances of intentions, which I, of course, supposed were approved by you. Had I shown you the least glimpse of a sentiment which it cost me much to conceal, I might now be freed from the dread which oppresses me. I am even tempted to send you a telegraphic message; yet I picture you reading such a message and shrink from seeming ridiculous in your eyes. As to this letter, I am impelled to say as much as I have said while that which I desire to say is plainly enough indicated. I had supposed it possible to disclose and yet conceal it. But the letter is wiser than I intended it to be. My most ardent hope is that within a few days after its receipt you will listen to all that is here omitted.

"Faithfully,

"Mark Claghorn."

He sent the letter, unsatisfactory and feeble as he knew it to be. He chafed at the necessity of deferring his departure for America; but the Great Serpent was importunate, and even for love a man cannot disregard the claims of others. Engagements connected with the mine, made long since, must receive attention before he could leave Europe.

But, during the intervals of business, even pending its details, he was hourly tempted to send a dispatch and be ridiculous. But he refrained. He sailed for America four days after sending the letter. He had not been absurd; his dignity was saved. Who that is wise in a wise generation listens to intuitions?