dventures of a journey.'

'There I differ from you completely,' replied she. 'All your reflections
and reminiscences, give them as fine names as you will, are nothing but
sighings and repinings for what cannot come back again; and such things
only injure the temper, and spoil the complexion, whereas---- But what
are you laughing at?'

'I was smiling at your remark, which has only a feminine application.'

'How teasing you are! I declare I 'll argue no more with you. Do you
want to hear my story?'

'Of all things; I 'm greatly interested in it.'

'Well, then, you must not interrupt me any more. Now, where was I? You
actually made me forget where I stopped.'

'You were just at the point where they set out, Philip and his friend,
for the Holy Land.'

'You must not expect from me any spirit-stirring narrative of the events
in Palestine. Indeed, I'm not aware if the _Chronique de Flandre_, from
which I take my tale, says anything very particular about Philip de
Bouvigne's performances. Of course they were in accordance with his
former reputation: he killed his Saracens, like a true knight--that
there can be no doubt of. As for Henri de Bethune, before the year was
over he was badly wounded, and left on the field of battle, where some
said he expired soon after, others averring that he was carried away to
slavery. Be that as it might, Philip continued his career with all the
enthusiasm of a warrior and a devotee, a worthy son of the Church, and a
brave soldier--unfortunately, however, forgetting the poor countess he
had left behind him, pining away her youth at the barred casements of
the old chateau; straining her eyes from day to day along the narrow
causeway that led to the castle, and where no charger's hoof re-echoed,
as of old, to tell of the coming of her lord. Very bad treatment, you
'll confess; and so, with your permission, we'll keep her company for
a little while. Madame la Comtesse de Bouvigne, as some widows will do,
only become the prettier from desertion. Her traits of beauty mellowed
by a tender melancholy, without being marked too deeply by grief,
assumed an imaginative character, or what men mistake for it.'

'Indeed!' said I, catching at the confession.

'Well, I'm sure it is so,' replied she. 'In the great majority of cases
you are totally ignorant of what is passing in a woman's mind. The girl
that seemed all animation to-day may have an air of deep depression
to-morrow, and of downright wildne