like the eyes of a startled bird. She stood there, laden
with bundles, bandboxes, and reticules, and holding a little blinking
spaniel by a string.

Every seat was filled, no one seemed disposed to dispossess themselves,
even for the accommodation of youth and beauty. Only for six seconds,
though; then Richard Gilbert, rose up, and quietly, and, as a matter of
course, offered his seat to the young lady. She smiled--what a smile it
was, what a bright little row of teeth it showed, dimpled, blushed--the
loveliest rose-pink blush in the world, hesitated, and spoke:

"But, monsieur!" in excellent English, set to a delicious French accent.
"But, monsieur will have no place."

"Monsieur will do very well. Oblige me, mademoiselle, by taking this
seat."

"Monsieur is very good. Thanks."

She fluttered down into the seat, and Mr. Gilbert disposed of the many
bundles and boxes and bags on the rack overhead. He was smiling a little
to himself as he did so; the _role_ of lady's man was quite a new one in
this gentleman's cast in the great play of Life. The grumpy old farmer,
with a grunt of disapprobation, edged still further up to the window.

"Monsieur can sit on the arm of the seat," suggests the young lady,
glancing up with a pretty girl's glance--half shy, half coquettish; "it
is so very fatiguing to stand."

Monsieur avails himself of the offer immediately, and finds he is in an
excellent position to examine that very charming face. But he does not
examine it: he is not one of your light-minded, mustache-growing,
frivolous-headed youths of three-or-four-and-twenty, to whom the smiling
face of a pretty girl is the most fascinating object under heaven.

Mr. Gilbert casts one look, only one, then draws forth the _True
Witness_ and buries himself in the leading article. The last bell rings,
the whistle shrieks, a plunge, a snort, and they are rushing madly off
into the wild March morning. The young lady looks about her, the grumpy
farmer is between her and the window, the window is all blurred and
blotted; Mr. Gilbert is fathoms deep in his paper. She gives a little
sigh, then lifts her small dog up in her lap, and begins an animated
conversation with him in French. Frollo understands Canadian French,
certainly not a word of English, and he blinks his watery eyes, and
listens sagaciously to it all. The farmer looks askance, and grunts like
one of his own pigs; the lawyer, from behind his printed sheet, finds
the words d