because many of the thoughts could not be
said in English."

*' Then I suppose you are two famous
French scholars."

"Oh yes! Papa always speaks to us in
French; it is our own language."

But with all their devotion to their father
and to his country, they were most affectionate
dutiful daughters to their mother. They
were her companions, her comforts in the
pleasant household labours; most practical,
useful young women. But in a privacy not
the less sacred, because it was understood
rather than prescribed, they kept all the
enthusiasm, all the romance of their nature
for their father. They were the confidantes
of that poor exile's yearnings for France; the
eager listeners for what he chose to tell them
of his early days. His words wrought up
Susan to make the resolution that, if ever she
felt herself free from home duties and
responsibilities, she would become a Sister of
Charity, like Anne-Marguerite de Chalabre,
her father's great-aunt, and model of woman's
sanctity. As for Aimée, come what might,
she never would leave her father; and that
was all she was clear about in picturing her
future.

Three years ago I was in Paris. An
English friend of mine who lives there—English
by birth, but married to a German
professor, and very French in manners and ways
—asked me to come to her house one evening.
I was far from well, and disinclined to
stir out.

"Oh, but come!" said she. " I have a good
reason; really a tempting reason. Perhaps
this very evening a piece of poetical justice
will be done in my salon. A living romance!
Now, can you resist?"

"What is it?" said I; for she was rather
in the habit of exaggerating trifles into
romances.

"A young lady is coming; not in the first
youth, but still young, very pretty; daughter
of a French emigré, whom my husband knew
in Belgium, and who has lived in England
ever since."

"I beg your pardon, but what is her
name?" interrupted I, roused to interest.

"De Chalabre. Do you know her?"

"Yes; I am much interested in her. I
will gladly come to meet her. How long has
she been in Paris? Is it Susan or Aimée?"

"Now I am not to be baulked of the pleasure
of telling you my romance; my hoped-for
bit of poetical justice. You must be
patient, and you will have answers to all
your questions."

I sank back in my easy chair. Some of my
friends are rather long-winded, and it is as
well to be settled in a comfortable position
before they begin to talk.

"I told you a minute ago, that my husband
had become acquainted with M. de
Chalabre in Belgium, in eighteen hundred and
fifteen. They have kept up a correspondence
ever since; not a very brisk one, it is true,
for M. de Chalabre was a French master in
England, and my husband a professor in
Paris; but still they managed to let each
other know how they were going on, and
what they were doing, once, if not twice every
year. For myself, I never saw M. de Chalabre."

"I know him well," said I. "I have known
him all my life."

"A year ago his wife died (she was an
Englishwoman); she had had a long and
suffering illness; and his eldest daughter had
devoted herself to her with the patient sweetness
of an angel, as he told us, and I can well
believe. But after her mother's death, the
world, it seems became distasteful to her;
she had been inured to the half-lights, the
hushed voices, the constant thought for others
required in a sick room, and the noise and
rough bustle of healthy people jarred upon
her. So she pleaded with her father to allow
her to become a Sister of Charity. She told
him that he would have given a welcome to
any suitor who came to offer to marry her,
and bear her away from her home, and her
father and sister; and now, when she was
called by Religion, would he grudge to part
with her? He gave his consent, if not his
full approbation; and he wrote to my
husband to beg me to receive her here, while we
sought out a convent into which she could be
received. She has been with me two months,
and endeared herself to me unspeakably; she
goes home next week, unless"—

"But, I beg your pardon; did you not say
she wished to become a Sister of Charity?"

"It is true; but she was too old to be
admitted into their order. She is eight-
and-twenty. It has been a grievous
disappointment to her; she has borne it very
patiently and meekly, but I can see how
deeply she has felt it. And now for my
romance. My husband had a pupil some
ten years ago, a M. du Fay, a clever scientific
young man, one of the first merchants of
Rouen. His grandfather purchased M. de
Chalabre's ancestral estate. The present
M. du Fay came on business to Paris two or
three days ago, and invited my husband to a
little dinner; and somehow this story of
Suzette Chalabre came out, in consequence
of inquiries my husband was making for an
escort to take her to England. M. du Fay
seemed interested with the story; and asked
my husband if he might pay his respects to
me, some evening when Suzette should be in,
—and so is coming to night, he and a friend
of his, who was at the dinner party the other
day; will you come?"

I went, more in the hope of seeing Susan
Chalabre, and hearing some news about my
early home, than with any expectation of
'' poetical justice." And in that I was right;
and yet I was wrong. Susan Chalabre was a
grave, gentle woman, of an enthusiastic and
devoted appearance, not unlike that portrait