e latter might have appeared to
a disinterested and cool-headed observer. He had seen so much meek and
pure-spirited self-denial; so much high principle in the conduct of
Mademoiselle Hennequin, during an intimacy which had now lasted six
months, that no passing feeling of doubt, like the one just felt, could
unsettle the confidence created by her virtues. I know it may take more
credit than belongs to most pocket-handkerchiefs, to maintain the
problem of the virtues of a French governess--a class of unfortunate
persons that seem doomed to condemnation by all the sages of our modern
imaginative literature. An English governess, or even an American
governess, if, indeed, there be such a being in nature, may be every
thing that is respectable, and prudent, and wise, and good; but the
French governess has a sort of ex-officio moral taint about her, that
throws her without the pale of literary charities. Nevertheless, one or
two of the most excellent women I have ever known, have been French
governesses, though I do not choose to reveal what this particular
individual of the class turned out to be in the end, until the moment
for the denouement of her character shall regularly arrive.

There was not much time for Betts Shoreham to philosophize, and
speculate on female caprices and motives, John Monson making his
appearance in as high evening dress as well comported with what is
called "republican simplicity." John was a fine looking fellow, six
feet and an inch, with large whiskers, a bushy head of hair, and
particularly white teeth. His friend was two inches shorter, of much
less showy appearance, but of a more intellectual countenance, and of
juster proportions. Most persons, at first sight, would praise John
Monson's person and face, but all would feel the superiority of Betts
Shoreham's, on an acquaintance. The smile of the latter, in particular,
was as winning and amiable as that of a girl. It was that smile, on the
one hand, and his active, never dormant sympathy for her situation, on
the other, which, united, had made such an inroad on the young
governess's affections.

"It's deuced cold, Betts," said John, as he came near the fire; "this
delightful country of ours has some confounded hard winters. I wonder
if it be patriotic to say, OUR winters?"

"It's all common property, Monson--but, what have become of your sister
and Mademoiselle Hennequin? They were both here a minute since, and
have vanished like--"

"Wh