speak, engaged in London in giving private lessons on
the fiddle. Sometimes on a Sunday he would walk to Blackheath with that
instrument in his hand, and pay his court to his young fiancee, and talk
over happier days with his old companion-in-arms. Tom Newcome took no
French lessons on a Sunday. He passed that day at Clapham generally,
where, strange to say, he never said a word about Mademoiselle de Blois.

What happens when two young folks of eighteen, handsome and ardent,
generous and impetuous, alone in the world, or without strong affections
to bind them elsewhere,--what happens when they meet daily over French
dictionaries, embroidery frames, or indeed upon any business whatever?
No doubt Mademoiselle Leonore was a young lady perfectly bien elevee,
and ready, as every well-elevated young Frenchwoman should be, to accept
a husband of her parents' choosing; but while the elderly M. de Florac
was fiddling in London, there was that handsome young Tom Newcome ever
present at Blackheath. To make a long matter short, Tom declared his
passion, and was for marrying Leonore off hand, if she would but come
with him to the little Catholic chapel at Woolwich. Why should they not
go out to India together and be happy ever after?

The innocent little amour may have been several months in transaction,
and was discovered by Mrs. Newcome, whose keen spectacles nothing could
escape. It chanced that she drove to Blackheath to Tom's tutor's. Tom
was absent taking his French and drawing lesson of M. de Blois. Thither
Tom's stepmother followed him, and found the young man sure enough with
his instructor over his books and plans of fortification. Mademoiselle
and her card-screens were in the room, but behind those screens she
could not hide her blushes and confusion from Mrs. Newcome's sharp
glances. In one moment the banker's wife saw the whole affair--the whole
mystery which had been passing for months under poor M. de Blois' nose,
without his having the least notion of the truth.

Mrs. Newcome said she wanted her son to return home with her upon
private affairs; and before they had reached the Hermitage a fine battle
had ensued between them. His mother had charged him with being a wretch
and a monster, and he had replied fiercely, denying the accusation with
scorn, and announcing his wish instantly to marry the most virtuous,
the most beautiful of her sex. To marry a Papist! This was all that was
wanted to make poor Tom's cup of bit