ex-governor about finding a purchaser.
Her route was not by the avenue of oaks, but around by a northern and
then eastern circuit. She knew Mr. Tarbox must have seen her go; had a
genuine fear that he would guess whither she was bound, and yet,
deeper down in her heart than woman ever lets soliloquy go, was
willing he should. For she had another trouble. We shall come to that
presently.

Her suitor walked in the avenue of oaks.

"She's gone," he reckoned to himself, "to consult the governor about
something, and she'll come back this way." He loitered out across
fields, but not too far off or out of sight; and by and by there she
came, with just the slightest haste in her walk. She received him with
kindly reserve, and they went more slowly, together.

She told where she had been, and that the governor approved a
decision she had made.

"Yass; I goin' sell my hotel."

"He's right!" exclaimed her companion, with joy; "and you're right!"

"Well, 'tain't sold yet," she responded. She did not smile as she
looked at him. He read trouble; some trouble apart from the subject,
in her quiet, intense eyes.

"You know sombodie want buy dat?" she asked.

"I'll find some one," he promptly replied. Then they talked a little
about the proper price for it, and then were very still until Mr.
Tarbox said:

"I walked out here hoping to meet you."

Madame Beausoleil looked slightly startled, and then bowed gravely.

"Yes; I want your advice. It's only business, but it's important, and
it's a point where a woman's instinct is better than a man's
judgment."

There was some melancholy satire in her responding smile; but it
passed away, and Mr. Tarbox went on:

"You never liked my line of business"--

Zosephine interrupted with kind resentment:

"Ah!"

"No; I know you didn't. You're one of the few women whose subscription
I've sought in vain. Till then I loved my business. I've never loved
it since. I've decided to sell out and quit. I'm going into another
business, one that you'll admire. I don't say any thing about the man
going into it,--

'Honor and shame from no condition rise:
Act well your part; there all the honor lies,'--

but I want your advice about the party I think of going in with. It's
Claude St. Pierre."

Zosephine turned upon the speaker a look of steady penetration. He met
it with a glance of perfect confiding. "She sees me," he said, at the
same time, far within himself.

It was as natura