n, a faithful
friend and an honorable gentleman.

The train flew on.

As the afternoon wore away the storm increased. The trees rocked in the
high wind, and the ceaseless sleet beat against the windows. Miss
Bourdon had a novel in her satchel, an English novel, and she perused a
few pages of this work at intervals, and watched the storm-blotted
landscape flitting by. She made small French remarks to Frollo, and she
refreshed herself with apples, ginger-bread and dyspeptic confectionery.
But, all these recreations palling after a time, and as the darkness of
the stormy March day closed, drowsiness came, and leaning her head
against the window, the young lady fell asleep.

Mr. Gilbert could watch her now to his heart's content, and he did watch
her with an interest all-absorbing, and utterly beyond his
comprehension. He laid his railway rug lightly over her, and shielded
her from all other male eyes, with jealous care. What was it that
charmed him about this French girl?

He could no more have told you then than he could ever have told you
afterward. It was written, it was Kismet; his fate had come to him as it
comes to all, in unlooked-for form. She looked, the poetic simile came
to the unpoetical mind of the lawyer--like a folded rose, the sweetness
and bloom yet unbrushed from the leaves.

Mademoiselle did not awake until the train stopped; then she opened her
eyes bewildered. But Mr. Gilbert gathered up the boxes and bundles, drew
her hand under his arm, and led her out of the cars, and up to the big
noisy hotel, where they were to stop for the night. Miss Bourdon took
her supper seated beside her friend, at the long crowded table, and was
dazzled, and delighted. It was all so new to her; and at seventeen,
novelty is delight. After supper her protector gave her into the hands
of a chambermaid, told her at what hour they started next morning, bade
her good-night, and dismissed her.

Were Richard Gilbert's dreams that night haunted by the vision of a
dark, soft face, two dark tender eyes, and the smile of an angel?
Richard Gilbert only knows. But this is certain: when Mademoiselle
Bourdon descended the stairs next morning he was standing at the
dining-room door awaiting her, and his calm eyes lit up, as few had ever
seen them light in his life. He led her into breakfast, and watched her
hearty, school-girl morning appetite with pleasure. Then, there being
half-an-hour to spare before the train started, he propose