he was weak of will, merely passive in
endurance, and quite without energy. He had a graceful, fanciful, but
almost weak intellect. I mean, it just bordered on mental deficiency;
and at times his dreamy eyes took a wildness that was said to make him
painfully like his mother in her last days. He was an absurd but
gracefully romantic idea of his family consequence. He was very
handsome, and very like the miniature of the late Duke. It was most
desirable that his cousin should not meet him, especially as she was of
the sentimental age of seventeen. So Mrs. Janet Vandaleur hastened their
return from London to their small property in Scotland.

But there was no law to hinder Monsieur de Vandaleur from making a
Scotch tour.

One summer's afternoon, when she had just finished the making of some
preserves, Miss Vandaleur strolled down through a little wood behind the
house towards a favourite beck that ran in a gorge below. She was
singing an old French song in praise of the beauty of a fair lady of the
de Vandaleurs of olden time. As she finished the first verse, a voice
from a short distance took up the refrain--

"Victoire de Vandaleur! Victoire! Victoire!"

It was her own name as well as that of her ancestress, and she blushed
as her eyes met those of a strange young gentleman, with a sketch-book
in his hand, and a French poodle at his heels.

"Place aux dames!" said the stranger. On which the white poodle sat up,
and his master bowed till his head nearly touched the ground.

They had met once as children, which was introduction enough in the
circumstances. Here, at last, for Victoire, was the embodiment of all
her dreams of the de Vandaleur race. He was personally so like the
miniature, that he might have been the old Duke. He was the young one,
as even her mother allowed. For him, he found a companion whose birth
did not jar on his aristocratic prejudices, and whose strong character
was bone and marrow to his weak one. Before they reached the house Mrs.
Janet's precautions were vain.

She grew fond of the lad in spite of herself. The romantic side of her
sympathized with his history. He was an orphan, and she had a mother's
heart. In the direct line he was a Duke, and she was a Scotchwoman. He
freely consented to settle every penny he had upon his wife, and, as his
mother-in-law justly remarked, "Many a cannier man wouldn't just have
done that."

In fine, the young people were married with not more than the