ctically equivalent to the most vigorous
attraction. What one knows the other is but half aware of; neither
knowledge nor ignorance being mutual, there is a scintillation of
exchange, from opposing vantage grounds, followed by harmless snaps of
thunder. Culture and refinement take on airs--it is the deepest
artificial instinct of enlightenment to pose--in the presence of
naturalness; and there is a certain style of ignorance which
attitudinizes before the gate of knowledge. The return to nature has
always been the dream of the conventionalized soul, while the simple
Arcadian is forever longing for the maddening honey of sophistication.

Innate jealousies strike together like flint and steel dashing off
sparks by which nearly everything that life can warm its core withal is
kindled and kept burning. What I envy in my friend I store for my best
use. I thrust and parry, not to kill, but to learn my adversary's
superior feints and guards. And this hint of sword play leads back to
what so greatly surprised and puzzled Beverley one day when he chanced
to be examining the pair of colechemardes on the wall.

He took one down, and handling it with the indescribable facility
possible to none save a practical swordsman, remarked:

"There's a world of fascination in these things; I like nothing better
than a bout at fencing. Does your father practice the art?"

"I have no father, no mother," she quickly said; "but good Papa
Roussillon does like a little exercise with the colechemarde."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it, I shall ask to teach him a trick or two,"
Beverley responded in the lightest mood. "When will he return from the
woods?"

"I can't tell you; he's very irregular in such matters," she said.
Then, with a smile half banter and half challenge, she added; "if you
are really dying for some exercise, you shall not have to wait for him
to come home, I assure you, Monsieur Beverley."

"Oh, it's Monsieur de Ronville, perhaps, that you will offer up as a
victim to my skill and address," he slyly returned; for he was
suspecting that a love affair in some stage of progress lay between her
and Rene.

She blushed violently, but quickly overcoming a combined rush of
surprise and anger, added with an emphasis as charming as it was
unexpected.

"I myself am, perhaps, swordsman enough to satisfy the impudence and
vanity of Monsieur Beverley, Lieutenant in the American army."

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle; forgive me, I beg of you,"