likely that he, a man of five-and-thirty, a lawyer,
without an ounce of sentimentality in his composition should make an
idiot of himself over a French Canadienne, a total stranger, a
bread-and-butter-eating school-girl at his time of life. Not likely.
She interested him as a pretty picture or marble Venus, or other work
of art might--just that.

He did not address her. Lawyers are not bashful as a body. Mr. Gilbert
was not bashful individually, but something, for which he knew no name,
held him silent now. If that grumpy, overgrown farmer were only out of
the way, he thought, instead of sitting sulkily there staring at the
falling rain, he could no doubt find something to say.

Fate favored him, his evil angel "cursed him with the curse of an
accomplished prayer." At the very next station the surly husbandman got
up and left; and the mistress of Frollo, moving close to the window,
lifted those two orbs of wondrous brown light to the lawyer's grave,
thoughtful face, and the sweet voice spoke:

"Will monsieur resume his place now?"

Monsieur needed no second bidding. He resumed it, threw aside his paper,
and opened conversation in the usual brilliant and original way:

"The storm seems to increase--don't you think so? Abominable weather it
has been since March came in, and no hope of its holding up to day."

"Oh, yes, monsieur," mademoiselle answered, with animation; "and it is
such a pity, isn't it? It makes one low-spirited, one can see nothing,
and one does like so to see the country as one goes along."

"Was she going far?" the lawyer inquired.

"Oh, very far!" Mademoiselle makes a little Gallic gesture, with
shoulders and eyebrows and hands all together to express the immensity
of the distance.

"A great way. To Portland," with a strong accent on the name of that
city. "Monsieur knows where Portland is?"

"Yes, very well--he was going there himself _en route_ to New York. You,
mademoiselle," he adds, inquiringly, "are going on a visit, probably?"

Mademoiselle shakes her pretty head, and purses her pretty lips.

"Monsieur, no--I am going home."

"Home? But you are French."

"But yes, monsieur, certainly French, still my home is there. Papa and
mamma have become dead," the brown eyes fill, "and Uncle Louis and Aunt
Mathilde have seven of their own, and are poor. I am going to mamma's
relatives, mamma was not French."

"No?" Mr. Gilbert says in sympathetic inquiry.

"No, monsieur. Mamma was Yan-_kee