was full of his plans and hopes. He didn't
say a word about—about me—then. After
he was gone, I don't mind owning that I felt
much depressed. I was glad of his good
prospects, really glad; and yet the idea of his going
away all that distance, set me thinking how all
those to whom I was attached, had other and
stronger ties in the world—how the girls I had
loved and taught grew up and passed out of
my ken, generation after generation, vanishing
away to be bright and pretty and clever in their
distant homes, without a thought of their poor
schoolmistress growing old by herself in her
solitude. And I could not help thinking how
other women took root, as it were, in the world,
and bore fruit, and nourished into a green old
age; whilst I stood alone, like some cold bare
rock that had no beauty and little use, and must
some day topple down and lie unregretted where
it falls. I worked myself into such a dismal
desolate frame of mind—more shame for me!
—that I sat huddled up by the fire, crying and
sobbing like a fool, when my little servant Kate
came bouncing into the room—you remember,
Philosophy, my love, that we never could teach
her to knock at the door—and brought me a great
square letter, sealed with a coat of arms as big
as a cheese-plate. It was from De Beauguet, of
course. I'm not going to repeat it to you, don't
be afraid, though I do know it by heart"—
here a faint pink flush came over Miss Wokenham's
delicate pale face—"but I may say it
was a good letter, a very good letter. He said
he felt alone in the world. He had been exiled
from his country and all he held dear in it, for
so many years, that France was more like a
beautiful dream to him than a reality. He
said a great deal more than he need have done
about generous kindness and delicate sympathy
on the part of your humble servant. I'm not
going to pretend that I was not gratified; but
he gave me more than my due, ten thousand
times over. And then at last he said that if I
would—there!—would cast in my lot with his,
and go abroad with him, he would undertake
that I should never repent my confidence. I
took a week to consider about it, though I
think—upon my word I am not sure—that my
mind was made up from the first. And the
end of it is that I've promised Lewis to take
him for better, for worse, and to be a faithful
kind companion to him, as well as I know
how, so long as I have life and strength, and
longer!"

After that day Miss Wokenham was a great
deal at the Gable House. She had many
preparations to make, and not too much time to get
ready in. They were to be married in Liverpool,
and to sail from that port in a merchantman
bound for Quebec. Monsieur de Beauguet
had arranged all that. My aunt was a
perfect mistress of the craft of needlework, and
Anna and I were fairly creditable scholars of so
accomplished a teacher. So we all three were
able to be useful to our old friend, and were
happy to be allowed to help in the preparation
of her wardrobe. The year was drawing to a
close by this time, and we stitched our way
through the very core of the winter. Anna was
a better sempstress than I, and her rapid fingers
did good service in the manufacture of caps and
aprons, and such other sober decorations as
Miss Wokenham thought becoming her years.
I worked neatly, but slowly; and our shrewd
little bride elect was wont to say, "You're both
dear, kind children; but, on a stitching
emergency, give me Anna! Philosophy, with the
very best intentions, stops at every cross-road to
deliberate which turning she shall take. Will-
o'-the-wisp keeps moving and does get over the
ground, even though it be after a somewhat zig-
zag fashion."

One cold bleak day we had all been busy in
the morning-room from an early hour. When,
in the sudden dusk, Miss Wokenham folded up
her work and prepared to go homeward, my
aunt stopped her, and insisted that she should
stay to take tea and see my uncle.

"Horace will be here too, by-and-by," said
Aunt Gough:"—young Mr. Lee, that is; but
he seems so much one of us now, that I give
the lad his Christian name as natural as
possible. And both of them will be so glad to
see you."

"I should like to stay very much, but—but
M'sieu' is to walk and meet me this evening,
on the way home, and perhaps he'd be
disappointed if I was not there."

"Perhaps he would?" echoed Aunt Gough.
"Why, of course he would. But I will send
some one to him with my respects, to say that
you are here, and that I expect him to tea, if
he will do us the pleasure of coming without
ceremony."

Thus tempted, Miss Wokenham remained;
and in due time "M'sieu'" arrived. We
had seen him since the announcement of his
engagement to our old schoolmistress, he having
made a formal visit to my aunt, and having been
presented by his affianced with all due observance
and punctilio. But on this occasion he came
on a more intimate footing, and without the
panoply of etiquette and ceremony which it had
pleased him to assume at first. "M'sieu'," without
his mail of proof, was a very genial simple
creature, with more of youthful freshness and
romantic chivalry than I have often seen
remaining in dashing cavaliers of half his years.
He was a handsome man of fifty, with high
clear-cut features, a florid skin, and the bluest
of blue eyes.

"I take it very kind of you, Mr. Bogie,"
said my aunt, thus pronouncing his patronymic
in all simplicity and good faith: "very kind,
that you should have come to us in this friendly
way, and I hope you'll be able to make yourself
comfortable among us,"

M'sieu' was at home in a minute.

"Ah, Elise!" said he, sitting cozily beside
Miss Wokenham in the glow of the firelight,
"dese is de scenes dat makes us ruggerret to
leave England."

"Yes, indeed," she replied; "I can't
commend your grammar, but your sentiment is