y not?"

"Oh, accent, manner, tone, idiom, and a hundred other things. Why, of
course, you know as well as I that an American lady is as different
from an English as a French or a German lady is. They may be all
equally ladies, but each nation has its own peculiarities."

"Is she Canadian?"

"Possibly. It is not always easy to tell a Canadian lady from an
English. They imitate us out there a good deal. I could tell in the
majority of cases, but there are many who can not be distinguished
from us very easily. And Ethel may be one."

"Why mayn't she be English?"

"She may be. It's impossible to perceive any difference."

"Have you ever made any inquiries about her in England?"

"No; I've not been in England much, and from the way she talked to me
I concluded that her home was in Canada."

"Was her father an Englishman?"

"I really don't know."

"Couldn't you find out?"

"No. You see he had but recently moved to Montreal, like Willoughby;
and I could not find any people who were acquainted with him."

"He may have been English all the time."

"Yes."

"And she too."

"By Jove!"

"And she may be in England now."

Hawbury started to his feet, and stared in silence at his friend for
several minutes.

"By Jove!" he cried; "if I thought that, I swear I'd start for home
this evening, and hunt about every where for the representatives of
the Orne family. But no--surely it can't be possible."

"Were you in London last season?"

"No."

"Well, how do you know but that she was there?"

"By Jove!"

"And the belle of the season, too?"

"She would be if she were there, by Jove!"

"Yes, if there wasn't another present that I wot of."

"Well, we won't argue about that; besides, I haven't come to the point
yet."

"The point?"

"Yes, the real reason why I'm here, when I'm wanted home."

"The real reason? Why, haven't you been telling it to me all along?"

"Well, no; I haven't got to the point yet."

"Drive on, then, old man."

"Well, you know," continued Hawbury, "after hunting all through Canada
I gave up in despair, and concluded that Ethel was lost to me, at
least for the present. That was only about six or seven months ago. So
I went home, and spent a month in a shooting-box on the Highlands;
then I went to Ireland to visit a friend; and then to London. While
there I got a long letter from my mother. The good soul was convinced
that I was wasting my life; she urged me to settle down, and final