"I fancied Miss Eschelle might have something to say about that," Morgan
remarked.

"Perhaps, if she were asked. But Mr. Lyon appeared rather indifferent to
American attractions."

Margaret looked quickly at Henderson as he said this, and then ventured,
a little slyly, "She seemed to appreciate his goodness."

"Yes; Miss Eschelle has an eye for goodness."

This was said without change of countenance, but it convinced the
listener that Carmen was understood.

"And yet," said Margaret, with a little air of temerity, "you seem to be
very good friends."

"Oh, she is very charitable; she sees, I suppose, what is good in me;
and I'll spare you the trouble of remarking that she must necessarily be
very sharp-sighted."

"And I'm not going to destroy your illusion by telling you her real
opinion of you," Margaret retorted.

Henderson begged to know what it was, but Margaret evaded the question
by new raillery. What did she care at the moment what Carmen thought of
Henderson? What--did either of them care what they were saying, so long
as there was some personal flavor in the talk! Was it not enough to talk
to each other, to see each other?

As we sat afterwards upon the piazza with our cigars, inhaling the odor
of the apple blossoms, and yielding ourselves, according to our age, to
the influence of the mild night, Margaret was in the high spirits which
accompany the expectation of bliss, without the sobering effect of its
responsibility. Love itself is very serious, but the overture is full
of freakish gayety. And it was all gayety that night. We all constituted
ourselves a guard of honor to Miss Forsythe and Margaret when they went
to their cottage, and there was a merry leave-taking in the moonlight.
To be sure, Margaret walked with Henderson, and they lagged a little
behind, but I had no reason to suppose that they were speaking of
the stars, or that they raised the ordinary question of their being
inhabited. I doubt if they saw the stars at all. How one remembers
little trifles, that recur like the gay bird notes of the opening scenes
that are repeated in the tragedy of the opera! I can see Margaret now,
on some bantering pretext, running back, after we had said good-night,
to give Henderson the blush-rose she had worn in her hair. How charming
the girl was in this freakish action!

"Do you think he is good enough for her?" asked my wife, when we were
alone.

"Who is good enough for whom?" I said, a yawn re