"Ah!" says Maverick.

"No: Squire Peter's darters have bin gittin' married, and the young
girls ha'n't come on yit."

"You attend the Glostenbury Church, then, Madam?" says Maverick, who
enjoys the provincialisms of her speech, like a whiff of the lilac
perfume which he once loved.

"In gineral, Sir; but we come down odd spells to hear Dr. Johns, who
preaches at the Ashfield meetin'-house. _He's_ a real smart man."

"Ah! And this Dr. Johns has a family, I think?"

"Waael, the Doctor lost his wife, you see, quite airly; and Miss
Johns--that's his sister--has bin a-keepin' house for him ever sence.
I'm not acquainted with her, but I've heerd she's a very smart woman.
And there's a French girl that came to live with 'em, goin' on now seven
or eight year, who was a reg'lar Roman Catholic; but I kind o' guess the
old folks has tamed her down afore now."

"Ah! I should think that a Roman Catholic would have but a poor chance
in a New England village."

"Not much of a chance anywhere, I guess," said the old lady, wiping her
spectacles, "if folks only preached the Gospil."

Even now the coach is creaking along through the outskirts of Ashfield;
and presently the driver's horn wakes the echoes of the hills, while the
horses plunge forward at a doubled pace. The eyes of Maverick are intent
upon every house, every open window, every moving figure.

"It's a most a beautiful town," said the old lady.

"Charming, charming, Madam!"--and even as he spoke, Maverick's eye
fastens upon two figures before them with a strange yearning in his
gaze,--two figures of almost equal height: a little, coquettish play of
ribbons about the head of one, which in the other are absent; a girlish,
elastic step to one, that does not belong to the other.

Is there something in the gait, something in the poise of the head, to
which the memory of Maverick so cleaves? It is, indeed, Adele, taking
her noon-day walk with Madame Arles. A lithe figure and a buoyant step,
holding themselves tenderly in check for the slower pace of the
companion. Maverick's gaze keeps fast upon them,--fast upon them, until
the old coach is fairly abreast,--fast upon them, until by a glance back
he has caught full sight of the faces.

"_Mon Dieu!_" he exclaims, and throws himself back in the coach.

"Haeow?" says the old lady.

"_Mon Dieu_, it is she!" continues Maverick, speaking under intense
excitement to himself, as if unconscious of any other presence.

"Ha