od at a window of the Hotel de Flandres gazing on
the ever-moving panorama of the Grande Place with as little interest as
though my eye rested on a vacant lot in Pumpkinville.

Was it bile? No. Was it love? Yes.

Another scene was ever before my eyes: An old red-brick house on the
cliffs of Devonshire, half hid by giant oaks and elms, fragrant with
honeysuckle and jessamine, stately with avenue, lawn, and rookery; and
I saw leaning on the rustic gate beneath the chestnut trees Gwendoline
Grey: her straw hat dangling by her side, her fresh young face set in a
glory of light brown hair, her---- But it had all passed away now. The
light was gone out of my life, for but three days ago I had received a
letter from her mother deploring my altered prospects, returning my
billets and love tokens, and assuring me that Gwendoline acquiesced in
this painful decision.

My altered prospects--_hinc illae lacrymae_. Nine months ago I was heir
to a wealthy man, and now I was but bear-leader to the son of the Earl
of Tottenbridge. Upon the loss of my father's property, which had come
like an avalanche on us, I had left college and assumed the tutorship
of the Hon. Nigel Fairleigh, as good a lad as ever handled a cricket
bat.

After a brief run through southern Europe, I had just delivered him up
to his aunt, my lady Milton, who was to take him to Scotland, while I
was free, according to compact, to enjoy a couple of months' vacation.

How I had longed for this vacation--and now, where to go, what to do, I
knew not. For three days I had stayed with a dull uncertainty on the
spot where the blow had fallen on me.

My meditations were broken by the entrance of a garcon announcing,

"A gentleman for monsieur."

"Ah, M. Danneris, I am glad to see you. Be seated."

To say how I became acquainted with the chatty little Frenchman who
sat before me would be a difficult matter. The offer of a cigar, an
exchange of newspapers at the reading room, a passing _bon jour_ on the
stairs, had ripened under his friendly gayety into a familiarity which
had extended so far as to my passing more than one evening at his snug
office in the Rue des Allumettes, where Francois Danneris, advocate,
spun toils for litigious Flemish _bourgeoises_.

"My friend," he said, "you look _ennuye_, _triste_, dull; you need
change. What do you say to a scamper over the continent?"

"I have done scampering enough lately," I replied, "and moreover my
funds----"

"_