sted in another way--
desirous of having one more look at the young Creole, Besancon.

My desire, then, was gratified. I saw the lady at last. She had come
out of her state-room, and was moving around the saloon, graceful and
gay. She was now unbonneted, and her rich golden tresses were arranged
_a la Chinoise_--a Creole fashion as well. The thick masses, coiled
into a large "club" at the back of the head, denoted the luxuriance of
her hair: and the style of coiffure, displaying her noble forehead and
finely-formed neck, became her well. Fair hair with blonde complexion,
although rare among the Creoles, is sometimes met with. Dark hair with
a brunette skin is the rule, to which Eugenie Besancon was a remarkable
exception.

Her features expressed gaiety, approaching to volatility; yet one could
not help feeling that there was firmness of character _en perdu_. Her
figure was beyond criticism; and the face, if not strikingly beautiful
was one that you could not look upon without emotions of pleasure.

She appeared to know some of her fellow-passengers--at least she was
conversing with them in a style of easy freedom. Women, however, rarely
exhibit embarrassment among themselves; women of French race, never.

One thing I observed--her cabin companions appeared to regard her with
deference. Perhaps they had already learnt that the handsome carriage
and horses belonged to her. That was very, very likely!

I continued to gaze upon this interesting lady. Girl I cannot call her,
for although young enough, she had the air of a woman--a woman of
experience. She appeared quite at ease; seemed mistress of herself, and
indeed of everything else.

"What an air of _insouciance_," thought I. "That woman is not in love!"

I cannot tell why I should have made these reflections, or why the
thought pleased me; but certainly it did. Why? She was nothing to me--
she was far above me. I dared scarce look upon her. I regarded her as
some superior being, and with timid stolen glances, as I would regard
beauty in a church. Ho! she was nothing to me. In another hour it
would be night, and she was to land in the night; I should never see her
again! I should think of her though for an hour or two, perhaps for a
day--the longer that was now foolish enough to sit gazing upon her! I
was weaving a net for myself--a little agony that might last for some
time after she was gone.

I had formed a resolution to withdraw from the