swift
narrative with a piquant, coquettish look, and says,--

"_N'est ce pas, que j'y suis, mon pere?_"

"_Parfaitement, ma chere_," says the father, and drops an admiring kiss
upon the glowing cheeks of Adele.

But the shade of anxiety has not passed from the face of Maverick.

"This Madame Arles, Adele,--has she been long in the country?"

"I don't know, papa; yet it must be some years; she speaks English
passably well."

"And she has told you, I suppose, very much about the people among whom
you were born, Adele?"

"Not much, papa,--and never anything about herself or her history; yet I
have been so curious!"

"Don't be too curious, _petite_; you might learn only of badness."

"Not badness, I am very, very sure, papa!"

Adele is sitting on the arm of his chair, fondling those sparse locks of
his, sprinkled with gray. It is a wholly new sensation for him;
charming, doubtless; but even under the caresses of this daughter, of
whom he has reason to be proud, anxious thoughts crowd upon him. Are not
our deepest loves measured, after all, by the depth of the accompanying
solicitude?

The Doctor is met very warmly by Maverick, and feels something like a
revival of the glow of his youthful days as he takes his hand; and yet
they are wider apart by far than when they met in the life-time of
Rachel. Both feel it; they have travelled widely divergent roads, these
last twenty years. The Doctor is satisfied by the bearing and talk of
Maverick (whatever kindness may lie in it) that his worldliness is more
engrossing and decided than ever. And Maverick, on his part,
scrutinizing, carelessly, but unerringly, that embarrassed country
manner of the parson's, that stark linen in which he is arrayed by the
foresight of the spinster sister, and the constraint of his speech, is
sure that his old friend more than ever bounds his thought by the duties
of his sacred office.

The Doctor is, moreover, sadly out of place in that little parlor of the
hotel, looking out upon Broadway; there is no adaptiveness in his
nature; he comes out from the little world of his study, where Tillotson
and Poole and Newton have been his companions, athwart the roar of the
city street which sounds in his ear like an echo of the murmurs of
Pandemonium. Under these circumstances he scarce dares to expostulate so
boldly as he would wish with Maverick upon the worldliness of his
career; it would seem like bearding the lion in his own den. Nor,
indeed