that is a speech that ought to
have come out of my middle-aged lips. What an odd girl you are,
Crystal; you never seem to care for mixing with young people; and yet
it is only natural at your age. You are a terrible misanthrope. I do
believe you would rather not dine at the _table d'hote_, only you are
ashamed to say so."

"I have no right to inflict my misanthropy on you, dear Miss Campion;
as it is, you are far too indulgent to my morose moods."

"Morose fiddlesticks," was the energetic reply. "But, there, I do like
young people to enjoy themselves like young people. Why, if I had your
youth and good looks; well"--with a change of tone sufficiently
explicit--"it is no use trying to make you conceited; and yet that
handsome young American--wasn't he a colonel?--tried to make himself
as pleasant as he could."

"Did he?" was the somewhat indifferent answer; at which Miss Campion
shook her head in an exasperated way.

"Oh, it is no use talking to you," with good-natured impatience.
"English or American, old, ugly, or handsome, they are all the same to
you; and of course, by the natural laws of contradiction, the absurd
creatures are all bent on making you fall in love with them. Now that
colonel, Crystal, I can't think what fault you could find with him; he
was manly, gentlemanly, and as good-looking as a man ought to be."

"I do not care for good-looking men."

"Or for plain ones, either, my dear. I expect you are romantic,
Crystal, and have an ideal of your own."

"And if I answer, yes," returned the girl, quickly, "will you leave
off teasing me about all those stupid men? If you knew how I hate
it--how I despise them all."

"All but the ideal," observed Miss Campion, archly; but she took the
girl's hand in hers, and her shrewd, clever face softened. "You must
forgive an impertinent old maid, my dear. Perhaps she had her story
too, who knows. And so you have your ideal, my poor, dear child; and
the ideal has not made you a happy woman. It never does," in a low
voice.

"Dear Miss Campion," returned Crystal, with a blush; "if I am unhappy,
it is only through my own fault; no one else is to blame, and--and--it
is not as you think. It is true I once knew a good man, who has made
every other man seem puny and insignificant beside him; but that is
because he was so good and there was no other reason."

"No other reason, except your love for him," observed the elder woman,
stroking her hand gently. "I have long su