ce had become animated and coloured; and
as I saw her standing, somewhat inclined, her lips parted, a divine
trouble in her eyes, I could have clapped my hands in applause, and was
ready to acclaim her a genuine daughter of the winds. What put it in my
head, I know not: perhaps because it was a Thursday and I was new from
the razor; but I determined to engage her attention no later than that
day. She was approaching that part of the court in which I sat with my
merchandise, when I observed her handkerchief to escape from her hands
and fall to the ground; the next moment the wind had taken it up and
carried it within my reach. I was on foot at once: I had forgot my
mustard-coloured clothes, I had forgot the private soldier and his
salute. Bowing deeply, I offered her the slip of cambric.

"Madam," said I, "your handkerchief. The wind brought it me."

I met her eyes fully.

"I thank you, sir," said she.

"The wind brought it me," I repeated. "May I not take it for an omen?
You have an English proverb, 'It's an ill wind that blows nobody good.'"

"Well," she said, with a smile, "'One good turn deserves another.' I
will see what you have."

She followed me to where my wares were spread out under lee of a piece
of cannon.

"Alas, mademoiselle!" said I, "I am no very perfect craftsman. This is
supposed to be a house, and you see the chimneys are awry. You may call
this a box if you are very indulgent; but see where my tool slipped!
Yes, I am afraid you may go from one to another, and find a flaw in
everything. _Failures for Sale_ should be on my signboard. I do not keep
a shop; I keep a Humorous Museum." I cast a smiling glance about my
display, and then at her, and instantly became grave. "Strange, is it
not," I added, "that a grown man and a soldier should be engaged upon
such trash, and a sad heart produce anything so funny to look at?"

An unpleasant voice summoned her at this moment by the name of Flora,
and she made a hasty purchase and rejoined her party.

A few days after she came again. But I must first tell you how she came
to be so frequent. Her aunt was one of those terrible British old maids
of which the world has heard much; and having nothing whatever to do,
and a word or two of French, she had taken what she called an _interest
in the French prisoners_. A big, bustling, bold old lady, she flounced
about our market-place with insufferable airs of patronage and
condescension. She bought, indeed, with l