o his full heart, what might it not
take away? The deepest joy has always something of melancholy in it--a
presentiment, a fleeting sadness, a feeling without a name. Wentworth
was conscious of this subtile shadow that night, when he rose from the
lounge and thoughtfully held Julie's hand to his lip for a moment before
parting. A careless observer would not have thought him, as he was, the
happiest man in Paris.

M. Dorine laid down his paper, and came forward. "If the house," he
said, "is such as M. Cherbonneau describes it, I advise you to close
with him at once. I would accompany you, Philip, but the truth is, I am
too sad at losing this little bird to assist you in selecting a cage for
her. Remember, the last train for town leaves at five. Be sure not to
miss it; for we have seats for Sardou's new comedy to-morrow night. By
to-morrow night," he added laughingly, "little Julie here will be an old
lady--it is such an age from now until then."

The next morning the train bore Philip to one of the loveliest spots
within thirty miles of Paris. An hour's walk through green lanes
brought him to M. Cherbonueau's estate. In a kind of dream the young man
wandered from room to room, inspected the conservatory, the stables, the
lawns, the strip of woodland through which a merry brook sang to itself
continually, and, after dining with M. Cherbonneau, completed the
purchase, and turned his steps towards the station just in time to catch
the express train.

As Paris stretched out before him, with its lights twinkling in the
early dusk, and its spires and domes melting into the evening air, it
seemed to Philip as if years had elapsed since he left the city. On
reaching Paris he drove to his hotel, where he found several letters
lying on the table. He did not trouble himself even to glance at their
superscriptions as he threw aside his travelling surtout for a more
appropriate dress.

If, in his impatience to return to Mile. Dorine, the cars had appeared
to walk, the fiacre, which he had secured at the station appeared to
creep. At last it turned into the Place Vendome, and drew up before M.
Dorine's hotel. The door opened as Philip's foot touched the first step.
The valet silently took his cloak and hat, with a special deference,
Philip thought; but was he not now one of the family?

"M. Dorine," said the servant slowly, "is unable to see Monsieur at
present. He wishes Monsieur to be shown up to the salon."

"Is Mademoiselle