trust."

"Jean de Ternant is the French minister, but he will hardly be likely to
oblige a _ci-devant_ vicomte. They talk of a new one. Give it to me; I
will see that it goes by safe hands." With this he rose and added: "Mrs.
Wynne will have the honor to call on the vicomtesse, and we shall be at
her service."

"Thank you," said De Courval, a little overcome by his kindness. "My
mother is in mourning, sir. She will, I fear, be unwilling to visit."

"Then my wife will come again. We may leave two good women to settle
that; and now I must let you go." Then, seeing that De Courval lingered,
he added, "Is there anything else?"

"Only a word of thanks, and may I ask why you are so good to us? I
am--sadly unused to kindness. There was not much of it in England."

Wynne smiled. "I have heard a little about you--some things I
liked--from my correspondents in Bristol and London; and, Vicomte, my
mother was French. When you visit us at Merion you shall see her picture
Stuart made for me from a miniature, and then you will understand why my
heart goes out to all French people. But they are not easy to help,
these unlucky nobles who will neither beg nor do a man's work. Oh, you
will see them, and I, too, more and more, I fear. Good morning."

With this the young man walked thoughtfully away. Hugh Wynne watched him
for a moment, and said to himself, "A good deal of a man, that; Schmidt
is right." And then, having seen much of men in war and peace, "there
must be another side to him, as there was to me. I doubt he is all
meekness. I must say a word to Mary Swanwick," and he remembered certain
comments his wife had made on Margaret's budding beauty. Then he went
in.

The thoughts of the young man were far from women. He went along the
road beside Dock Creek, and stood a moment on the bridge, amused at the
busy throng of which he was now to become a part. On the west side of
Second Street a noisy crowd at a shop door excited his curiosity.

"What is that?" he asked a passing mechanic. "I am a stranger here."

"Oh, that's a vandoo of lottery shares. The odd numbers sell high,
specially the threes. That's what they're after."

"Thank you," said De Courval, and then, as he drew nearer, exclaimed,
"_Mon Dieu!_" The auctioneer was perched on a barrel. Just below him
stood a young Frenchman eagerly bidding on the coveted number 33. Not
until De Courval was beside him was he disillusioned. It was not
Carteaux, nor was the man, on n