, in Switzerland, lying at the
foot of the Simplon Pass where she saved his life.

The bells ring gaily in the little town of Brieg, and flags are stretched
across the street, and rifle shots are heard, and sounding music from
brass instruments. Streamer-decorated casks of wine have been rolled out
under a gay awning in the public way before the Inn, and there will be
free feasting and revelry. What with bells and banners, draperies
hanging from windows, explosion of gunpowder, and reverberation of brass
music, the little town of Brieg is all in a flutter, like the hearts of
its simple people.

It was a stormy night last night, and the mountains are covered with
snow. But the sun is bright to-day, the sweet air is fresh, the tin
spires of the little town of Brieg are burnished silver, and the Alps are
ranges of far-off white cloud in a deep blue sky.

The primitive people of the little town of Brieg have built a greenwood
arch across the street, under which the newly married pair shall pass in
triumph from the church. It is inscribed, on that side, "HONOUR AND LOVE
TO MARGUERITE VENDALE!" for the people are proud of her to enthusiasm.
This greeting of the bride under her new name is affectionately meant as
a surprise, and therefore the arrangement has been made that she,
unconscious why, shall be taken to the church by a tortuous back way. A
scheme not difficult to carry into execution in the crooked little town
of Brieg.

So, all things are in readiness, and they are to go and come on foot.
Assembled in the Inn's best chamber, festively adorned, are the bride and
bridegroom, the Neuchatel notary, the London lawyer, Madame Dor, and a
certain large mysterious Englishman, popularly known as Monsieur Zhoe-
Ladelle. And behold Madame Dor, arrayed in a spotless pair of gloves of
her own, with no hand in the air, but both hands clasped round the neck
of the bride; to embrace whom Madame Dor has turned her broad back on the
company, consistent to the last.

"Forgive me, my beautiful," pleads Madame Dor, "for that I ever was his
she-cat!"

"She-cat, Madame Dor?

"Engaged to sit watching my so charming mouse," are the explanatory words
of Madame Dor, delivered with a penitential sob.

"Why, you were our best friend! George, dearest, tell Madame Dor. Was
she not our best friend?"

"Undoubtedly, darling. What should we have done without her?"

"You are both so generous," cries Madame Dor, accepting consolation