bright and gay and holiday-like, so fashionable,
too, and rising every year into greater
request.

Yet coming the grim enemy was, steadily
and surely. Now at Paris, now nearer; now
at Rouen, raging there among the old houses
and streets; now at Havre, and then we begin
to turn pale, in spite of the ball.

In half an hour it was known all over the
town; up narrow streets—down to the port.
Lights began to twinkle in the windows, for
people were roused from their beds to hear the
dreadful news. Down on the pier, the fishing-
boats were going out, but did not put to sea,
the fishermen standing in a crowd, talking it
over in whispers again. It was a far more awful
thing in its proportions then, than it has since
been. The fishermen were considered happy
that they could go on board, and sail away,
with the sea between; there was impunity;
many wished they were fishermen. Before two
hours the chief of the police—surely a sacred
person—was the next seized; before morning
there were half a dozen. There could be no
mistake, as some had fondly hoped. Every
hour it seemed to multiply. Some, looking
down into the street, saw people rushing by to
fetch the doctor.

It was in this dreadful trial that Doctor
Macan was proved in the fire—weighed in the
balance, and not found wanting. That upper
crust of carelessness, talk, punch, private
censures, grumbling, all fell off, as it were, and
there he was revealed, a true and clever, zealous
man, posting from house to house, and bedside
to bedside; not vanquishing—for no one could
hope to do that—but alleviating. Had he been
cut off during that crisis in his duty, they would
have set up a statue to him, as they did at
Marseilles to the bishop, who was zealous in the
same good cause.

Harco was in a mortal fright, and grew quite
low-spirited. "I know it'll catch me," he said,
despondingly. "I am as courageous as any
man living. Put me in front of a cannon, and
see how I'll behave. But of this sort of thing
I'd always a morbid terror, from that high.
Just one touch here, light as a feather," added
Harco, laying his finger on what Doctor Macan
would have called Th' Appygasthrum, "and
I'm gone, Lulu, pet, never to stand up and
address a jury again. No, no, I go back in the
very next boat, the same day and hour, or no
one goes."

The difficulty of all the colony was his
difficulty also. It was easy to get on board the
English boat; but the claims of the trusting,
easy, suffering class, who were ungratefully
called the "Dieppe cormorants," were in the
way. Some of the sober, sensible French
looked grave. Mr. Penny, the clergyman, used
the coming scourge freely as a text for sermons,
and warned his congregation that "they should
set their house in order."

Meanwhile Mr. Dacres had returned from the
Ball, his Lulu on his arm. The dawn was
breaking. The lamps, hanging from the cords
over their street, looked as pale and faded as
many of the ladies did.

Lulu was sad; she was thinking of taking
that favourable opportunity of breaking to him
what she and Vivian had determined on.
Perhaps he would have received the information
calmly and hopefully, and said it might be
for the best; where was the use of hurry?
Now was her opportunity; for dear Harco, a
little inspired, we must admit, broke into one
of his high keys again.

"Such a night, my dear, and that gentlemanly
Trotter! Nothing could be more handsome in
a Scotchman. Stood a supper—no less—best
wines that Chabot could give. That's what I
like; and sang him my old song, dear. Never
was in better voice. What in the name of——-
is that?"

Some one was at the door; some one was
coming up-stairs hurriedly, three steps at a
time; some one had bounded into the room.
A bright and a happy face.

"My dearest girl, such a piece of news!
You know the difficulties I was talking of.
Well, while we were at the ball, a letter came
to my house—oh, such a joyful letter! All has
passed away, and we shall be married to-morrow
—to-day, if we like."

"My own brave Vivian, I always said you
were a true-hearted man—true and bright as
steel." Mr. Dacres wrung him by the hand,
firmly believing he had said so: the truth
being, he had often expressed the most hearty
doubts as to his fidelity. "And what is all this
now?" he said, insinuatingly.

"A secret—the old secret," said Vivian,
smiling, "and which I must keep to myself a
little longer, unless Lucy insists."

The delighted Lucy shook her head. "No,
no. It shall be yours."

"We'll fix to-morrow—eh?" said Dacres.
"I'll see Penny at once, and have a little snug
breakfast from Chabot's—eh, witch? But it's
time now we were all in our beds. My legs are
calling out, 'Bed, bed!' Good night."

Vivian smiled, and Lucy laughed. Before
they parted, she found time to tell what they
had heard about West.

"That is the only thing that disturbs me.
I fear I have been very cruel and unkind.
Perhaps we have mistaken him altogether."

"By-and-by," said he, "we will find all this
out. Those bright eyes want their rest."

Then Vivian went away happy, and walked
across in the pale daybreak. By its light almost
he could read the letter that had brought such a
deliverance. It was very short. It ran:

"Sir. I am directed by Dr. Favre to inform
you that Madame Marie Vivian expired this
morning, at nine o'clock. Awaiting your further
instructions,
"I am, Sir, with the highest consideration,
                                      "JULES FAVRE."

"P.S.—I send this by special messenger."

"I should be grieved," he said, half to