tivate and fortify her reason."

"I thank you with all my heart," rejoined M. Moriaz, leaning back in
one corner of the carriage; "you can most assuredly boast of having
accomplished a marvellous work; but I beg of you, mademoiselle, when you
have finished your discourse, will you kindly say to the coachman that I
am ready to start?"

During the drive, M. Moriaz gave himself up to the most melancholy
reflections; he even tormented himself with sundry reproaches. "We have
acted contrary to good sense," he thought. "Her imagination has been
taken by storm; in time it would have calmed down. We should have left
her to herself, to her natural defence--her own good judgment, for she
has a large stock of it. I fell on the unlucky idea of calling Mme.
de Lorcy to my aid, and she has spoiled everything by her boasted
_finesse_. As soon as Antoinette had reason to suspect that her choice
was condemned by us, and that we were plotting the enemy's destruction,
the sympathy, mingled with admiration, which she accorded to M.
Larinski, became transformed into love; the fire smouldering beneath
ashes leaped up into flames. We neglected to count on that passion which
is innate in women, and which phrenologists call combativeness. With her
there is now a cause to be gained, and, when love unites its interests
with cards or with war, it becomes irresistible. Truly our campaign is
greatly jeopardized, unless Heaven or M. Larinski interfere."

Thus reasoned M. Moriaz, whom paternal misadventures and recent
experiences had rendered a better psychologist than he ever had been.
While busied with his reflections the carriage drove rapidly onward, and
thirty-five minutes sufficed to reach the little _maison de campagne_
occupied by Abbe Miollens. He found him in his cabinet, installed in a
cushioned arm-chair embroidered by Mme. de Lorcy, slowly sipping a cup
of excellent tea brought him by the missionaries from China. On his left
was his violin-box, on his right his beloved Horace, Orelli's edition,
Zurich, 1844.

Conversation began. As soon as M. Moriaz had pronounced the name of
Count Larinski, the abbe assumed the charmed and contented countenance
of a dog lying in wait for its favourite game.

He exclaimed, "A most truly admirable man!"

"Mercy upon us!" thought M. Moriaz. "Here we have an exordium strangely
similar to that of Mlle. Moiseney. Do they think to condemn me to a
state of perpetual admiration of their prodigy? I fear ther