nearly ten o'clock. On his condescending visits,
the vigils of the Marais were prolonged until
eleven, and it now occurred to him that he might
join the ladies. "There will be that stupid old
abbé prosing away as usual," he remarked with
a yawn, "but I suppose I must endure him."
Presently a bitter smile came over him at the
thought that he had spoken of Lily as one of the
"ladies." Who was the little thing? He would
ask Vieux Sablons.

"A protégée of Madame la Baronne," replied
the servitor, with a low bow.

"Charity, I suppose?" continued the young
man.

"The usual charity and benevolence of Madame
la Baronne," replied Thomas, laying respectful
emphasis on the words.

"Ah! my good aunt does not consider that
her charity has a tendency to eat her natural
heirs out of house and home. Upon my word,
her house is a receptacle for the lame, the halt,
and the blind. I do believe that half the people
who come here are no better than a pack of old
paupers. My friends call this place the Dépôt de
Mendicité. Who is that Babette, for instance?"

"Charity," repeated Vieux Sablons, "but a
very excellent and faithful servant."

"As you also deem yourself, no doubt, my
most exemplary Vieux Sablons," said Edgar, as
he lazily rose. "I wonder where my aunt picked
up that little English girl? Do you know?"

"No, sir," responded the ex-contractor, telling,
with the purest intentions, a deliberate falsehood.

"Out of the gutter, I presume. My aunt is
not particular. She prefers rags to ermine. The
little thing is passable. What do you think, hey?"

"Monsieur is good enough to say so."

"She is more than passable, most respectable
fox. Is there any kissing allowed in the pantry?"

"I respect my mistress and benefactress, I
respect youth and innocence, and I respect
myself," said the old man, in a low voice.

"The first we know all about; it is an old story.
The second is youth and innocence's affair. The
third concerns yourself, and is no very important
matter. Well, I will go and see the little thing,
and draw her out. Upon my honour, she is a
great deal more than passable."

And, flinging his napkin on the table, he
condescended to stroll into the drawing-room.

"Monsieur Edgar Greyfaunt," muttered the
old servant, as he clattered to and fro with the
paraphernalia of the table, putting everything in
its place in cupboard and pantry, "you are a
gentilhomme; and the grand-nephew of my
beloved mistress; and clever, and handsome, and
very fashionable; but, upon my word, I think
you have no more heart than this empty bottle."

He was holding the flask of Chambertin in his
hand. There was just a drain of the rare old
wine left, and he poured it into a glass and
drank it off, and smacked his thin old lips.
Although but dregs the dram was generous, and
gave him courage for a bolder thought.

"And, upon my word, Monsieur Edgar
Greyfaunt," he concluded, "my private opinion is,
that you are a very finished scoundrel, and will
come to a bad end."

A little after eleven o'clock, the Prince lighted
a cigar, and went down to the Café Anglais.

"How much money has he asked you for?"
said the abbé, as the door closed behind Edgar.

"Five thousand francs," replied the baroness,
putting her handkerchief to her eyes. "Poor
dear fellow, he says he will be ruined if I cannot
raise that sum by Tuesday next. Dear abbé,
you must go to-morrow to my notary."

"And you have but ten thousand francs a year.
Madame la Baronne, this misguided youth will
be the ruin of you."

The Abbé Chatain was pacing the room with
long soft strides, but a most melancholy visage.

"Let him  be ruined," he resumed, halting.
"Better that he should suffer than you, than
your widows and orphans, than your beggars and
penitents. Let him suffer. It may do him good."

Lily did not hear this lugubrious conversation.
She was in bed. By the time the abbé had
departed, she was asleep, dreaming of Edgar
Greyfaunt.

CHAPTER XXXIV. POOR LITTLE LILY.

WOE for the little woman!—for she was a
woman, now. She woke up the next morning,
and she loved the Scapegrace.

Had any one come to her, and said, "Lily,
you are in love," she would, with pretty earnestness,
have repudiated the charge. She would
have pleaded that she knew nothing about love;
that she had read but few love-tales, and heard
but few persons talk about love; that she had
been Quite Alone all her life, and, in default
(until very recently) of there being any one to
love her, was ignorant of the precise manner in
which affection, although directed towards
another object, should be repudiated.

Woe for the little woman! She loved the
Scapegrace nevertheless.

Love came to her as no smirking Cupid with
purple wings to fetter her with shackles made
from wreaths of roses. Love was no powdered
shepherd, as in the tapestries in the baroness's
chamber, with flowers in his wig, and ribbons to
his crook. Love came silently, and sat over
against her little bed, and said, " I am here; and,
henceforth, you must be my slave and
bond-servant."

She was too weak to battle with him. She was
too candid to deny him. She was too good to tell
a lie to herself, and call love liking. She acknowledged
him, bowed down before him, and gave
herself up to him, a submissive truthful captive.

It seemed to be a love to which there had been
no beginning, and to which there could be no
end. Marriage—the thought never entered her
head. Passion—she knew not what passion was.
To be beloved again—she never nurtured a
hope that he whom she loved would ever
return her love, or even know of it. It was
more the sublime side of the love of a child