quickly and strongly repaired; the Count stepped into his place again;
and the post-boy, doing his best to make up for lost time, drove
the carriage rapidly along the embankment. On they drove under the
overhanging cliffs, with their picturesque vine-dressers' huts and
stores of wine maturing in their dark sides, till in the distance uprose
the spire of the famous Abbey of Marmoutiers, the retreat of St. Martin.

"What can that diaphanous milord want with us?" exclaimed the Colonel,
turning to assure himself that the horseman who had followed them from
the bridge was the young Englishman.

After all, the stranger committed no breach of good manners by riding
along on the footway, and Colonel d'Aiglemont was fain to lie back in
his corner after sending a scowl in the Englishman's direction. But in
spite of his hostile instincts, he could not help noticing the beauty of
the animal and the graceful horsemanship of the rider. The young man's
face was of that pale, fair-complexioned, insular type, which is almost
girlish in the softness and delicacy of its color and texture. He was
tall, thin, and fair-haired, dressed with the extreme and elaborate
neatness characteristic of a man of fashion in prudish England. Any one
might have thought that bashfulness rather than pleasure at the sight
of the Countess had called up that flush into his face. Once only Julie
raised her eyes and looked at the stranger, and then only because she
was in a manner compelled to do so, for her husband called upon her to
admire the action of the thoroughbred. It so happened that their glances
clashed; and the shy Englishman, instead of riding abreast of the
carriage, fell behind on this, and followed them at a distance of a few
paces.

Yet the Countess had scarcely given him a glance; she saw none of the
various perfections, human and equine, commended to her notice, and
fell back again in the carriage, with a slight movement of the eyelids
intended to express her acquiescence in her husband's views. The Colonel
fell asleep again, and both husband and wife reached Tours without
another word. Not one of those enchanting views of everchanging
landscape through which they sped had drawn so much as a glance from
Julie's eyes.

Mme. d'Aiglemont looked now and again at her sleeping husband. While she
looked, a sudden jolt shook something down upon her knees. It was her
father's portrait, a miniature which she wore suspended about her neck
by a black