hat she was saying to herself that to be able to drag
such a train over a polished floor was a felicity worth any price. Her
reflections, at any rate, were disturbed by the advent of Newman and
his companion. She glanced at them quickly, and then, coloring a little,
rose and stood before her easel.

"I came here on purpose to see you," said Newman in his bad French,
offering to shake hands. And then, like a good American, he introduced
Valentin formally: "Allow me to make you acquainted with the Comte
Valentin de Bellegarde."

Valentin made a bow which must have seemed to Mademoiselle Noemie
quite in harmony with the impressiveness of his title, but the graceful
brevity of her own response made no concession to underbred surprise.
She turned to Newman, putting up her hands to her hair and smoothing its
delicately-felt roughness. Then, rapidly, she turned the canvas that was
on her easel over upon its face. "You have not forgotten me?" she asked.

"I shall never forget you," said Newman. "You may be sure of that."

"Oh," said the young girl, "there are a great many different ways
of remembering a person." And she looked straight at Valentin de
Bellegarde, who was looking at her as a gentleman may when a "verdict"
is expected of him.

"Have you painted anything for me?" said Newman. "Have you been
industrious?"

"No, I have done nothing." And taking up her palette, she began to mix
her colors at hazard.

"But your father tells me you have come here constantly."

"I have nowhere else to go! Here, all summer, it was cool, at least."

"Being here, then," said Newman, "you might have tried something."

"I told you before," she answered, softly, "that I don't know how to
paint."

"But you have something charming on your easel, now," said Valentin, "if
you would only let me see it."

She spread out her two hands, with the fingers expanded, over the back
of the canvas--those hands which Newman had called pretty, and which, in
spite of several paint-stains, Valentin could now admire. "My painting
is not charming," she said.

"It is the only thing about you that is not, then, mademoiselle," quoth
Valentin, gallantly.

She took up her little canvas and silently passed it to him. He looked
at it, and in a moment she said, "I am sure you are a judge."

"Yes," he answered, "I am."

"You know, then, that that is very bad."

"Mon Dieu," said Valentin, shrugging his shoulders "let us distinguish."

"You know that I