ith a tact and shrewdness which I
could not resist, he drew me into a talk about myself. I felt that he
was sifting me, felt that he was trying to read my very soul, and yet I
could not break myself from him.

One thing was in my favour. I knew his feelings towards me, felt sure
that he hated me, and thus I kept on my guard. Time after time, by some
subtle question, he sought to lead me to speak about the woman dear to
my heart, but in that he did not succeed. He fascinated me, and in a
degree mastered me, but did not succeed in all his desires. I knew he
was weighing me, testing me, and seeking to estimate my powers, but
being on my guard his success was limited.

When our conversation ceased I felt sure of one thing. It was to be a
fight to the death between me and this man, if I would obtain the woman
I loved. Perhaps some may think this conclusion to be built on a very
insufficient foundation, nevertheless I felt sure that such was the
case. When I was quite a lad, I remember an old Scotchwoman visited our
house. It is little I can recall to memory now concerning her, but I
know that when she first set her eye upon me she said--

"Eh, Mrs. Blake, but yon bairn has the gift o' second sight."

My mother laughed at the idea, whereupon the old woman began to correct
herself.

"I'll no say he has the gift o' second sight properly," she said, "but
he'll _feel_ in a minute what it'll tak soom fowk years to fin' out. Eh,
lad"--turning to me--"if ye coom across some one as ye doesna like, hae
as leetle to do wi' 'em as ye can."

I am inclined to think there is truth in this judgment of the old Scotch
lady. I have found her words true in many cases, and I was sure in the
case of Voltaire my feelings told me what actually existed.

There was one thing in my favour. Evidently he did not think I guessed
his wishes; nevertheless I felt sure that if I was to obtain the mastery
over such a man, it would be little short of a miracle.

Dinner passed over without anything worthy of note, but as soon as it
was over we hurried to the drawing-room. Even those who loved their
after-dinner wine joined the ladies, as if in expectation of something
wonderful. The truth was, it had gone around that Mr. Voltaire was going
to tell us a story concerning the mystic rites that are practised in
Eastern lands, and the subject was an attractive one. The ladies
especially, evidently fascinated by the witchery of this man's presence,
anxiously