t say it would be _I_?" in a burst of
triumph.

As a good Boston woman I am chagrined to record that Bunker Hill and all
the local lions, which I was at some pains to impress on his memory, did
not prove so attractive as the earliest Western train.

Why make a long story of what every one foresees? In the course of the
autumn and winter the count made flying visits to Washington,
Philadelphia, New Orleans, and even San Francisco, but it was noticeable
that the way to all these places lay through Detroit. He spoke English
marvelously well now, and so won upon the hearts of Mr. and Mrs. St.
Clair that on the 23d of April, being his twenty-first birthday, the
marriage of the conde de Alvala and Helen St. Clair was duly celebrated.
I could not leave my school to be present at the wedding, but the young
couple came to Boston to take leave of me before sailing for Europe.
They were radiant with happiness, and I could hardly tell which I loved
best, my boy or my girl; but if the Italian had been there to ask if I
ever saw a more beautiful couple, I should have answered no with great
emphasis.

I will copy Helen's first letter in order to prove that a chateau en
Espagne is not always a castle in the air:

"ALVALA, near Toledo, June 20, 1872.

"DEAR MADAME FLEMING: You have heard from mother of our voyage and
safe arrival. We are now at home, Francisco and I, if I can ever
learn to feel at home in such a grand place, where I can hardly
find my way round. It is like one of the old palaces at Rome, the
Borghese or Colonna, that we used to admire so much, with vast
halls opening into one another, hangings of tapestry and Cordovan
leather, marble statues and old paintings--family portraits by
Titian and Velasquez, one or two Murillos, and--but I cannot write
a catalogue. You must come to see us and the pictures. I am not
sure which you will like the best. Francisco is very good to me,
and so are all his friends. His sister and her husband were here to
welcome us.

"One of the first things we did was to go down the rose-tree walk,
along the banks of the Tagus, for more than a mile--white and
delicate pink and deep-red roses blossoming above our heads and
dropping their petals at our feet all the way. Francisco said he
would make my life like that walk among the roses, all sweetness
and beauty, but that he cannot tell.

"There