"araba" that night, and, without one word of
adieu, set out for Krim.

    *       *      *      *       *
    *       *      *      *       *

It was about two years after this—my father
had died in the interval, leaving me a small but
sufficient fortune to live on, and I had just
arrived in Paris, after a long desultory ramble
through the east of Europe—I was standing
one morning early in one of the small alleys of
the Champs Elysées, watching with half listless
curiosity the various grooms as they passed to
exercise their horses in the Bois de Boulogne.
Group after group passed me of those magnificent
animals in which Paris is now more than
the rival of London, and at length I was struck
by the appearance of a very smartly-dressed
groom, who led along beside him a small-sized
horse, completely sheeted and shrouded from
view. Believing that this must prove some
creature of rare beauty, an Arab of purest
descent, I followed them as they went, and at last
overtook them.

The groom was English, and by my offer of a
cigar, somewhat better than the one he was
smoking, he was very willing to satisfy my
curiosity,

"I suppose he has Arab blood in him,"
said he, half contemptuously; "but he's forty
years old now if he's a day. What they keep
him for I don't know, but they make as much
work about him as if he was a Christian; and,
as for myself, I have nothing else to do than
walk him twice a day to his exercise, and take
care that his oats are well bruised and mixed
with linseed, for he hasn't a tooth left."

"I suppose his master is some very rich man,
who can afford himself a caprice like this."

"For the matter of money, he has enough of
it. He is the Prince Ernest Maximilian of
Würtemberg, and, except the Emperor, has the best
stable in all Paris. But I don't think that he
cares much for the old horse; it's the Princess
likes him, and she constantly drives out to the
wood here, and when we come to a quiet spot,
where there are no strangers, she makes me
take off all the body-clothes and the hoods, and
she'll get out of the carriage and pat him. And
he knows her, that he does! and lifts up that
old leg of his when she comes towards him, and
tries to whinny, too. But here she comes now,
and it won't do if I'm seen talking to you, so
just drop behind, sir, and never notice me."

I crossed the road, and had but reached
the opposite pathway, when a carriage stopped,
and the old horse drew up beside it. After a
word or two, the groom took off the hood, and
there was Blondel! But my amazement was lost
in the greater shock, that the Princess, whose
jewelled hand held out the sugar to him, was no
other than Catinka!

I cannot say with what motive I was
impelled—perhaps the action was too quick for
either—but I drew nigh to the carriage, and raising
my hat respectfully, asked if her highness
would deign to remember an old acquaintance.

"I am unfortunate enough, sir, not to be able
to recal you," said she, in most perfect
Parisian French.

"My name you may have forgotten,
madame, but scarcely so either our first meeting
at Schaffhausen, or our last at Bregenz."

"These are all riddles to me, sir; and I am
sure you are too well bred to persist in an
error after you have recognised it to be such."
With a cold smile and a haughty bow, she
motioned the coachman to drive on, and I saw her
no more.

Stung to the very quick, but yet not without
a misgiving that I might be possibly mistaken, I
hurried to the police department, where the list
of strangers was preserved. By sending in my
card I was admitted to see one of the chiefs of
the department, who politely informed me that
the princess was totally unknown as to family,
and not included in the Gotha Almanack.

"May I ask," said he, as I prepared to
retire, "if this letter here—it has been with us
for more than a year—is for your address? It
came with an enclosure covering any possible
expense in reaching your address, and has lain
here ever since."

"Yes," said I, "my name is Algernon Sydney
Potts."

Strange are the changes and vicissitudes of
life! Just as I stood there, shocked and
overwhelmed with one trait of cold ingratitude, I
found a letter from Kate (she who was once
Kate Herbert), telling me how they had sent
messengers after me through Europe, and
begging, if these lines should ever reach me, to
come to them in Wales. "My father loves you,
my mother longs to know you, and none can be
more eager to thank you than your friend Kate
Whalley."

I set off for England that night—I left for
Wales the next morning—and I have never
quitted it since that day.

THE END OF A DAY'S RIDE: A LIFE'S ROMANCE.

MR. CHARLES DICKENS
Will read on THURSDAY EVENING, March 28th, at ST.
JAMES'S HALL, Piccadilly, his
CHRISTMAS CAROL AND THE TRIAL
FROM PICKWICK.

On WEDNESDAY, 27th March, will be published,
price 5s. 6d., bound in cloth,
THE FOURTH VOLUME
OF
ALL THE YEAR ROUND.
Containing from Nos. 77 to 100, both inclusive, and
the Extra Double Number for Christmas.
The preceding Volumes are always to be had.

THE END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.