went off to his room
to finish his preparations for the road.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE COUPE ON THE RAIL.

Annesley Beecher felt it "deuced odd" to be the travelling companion
and protector of a very beautiful girl of nineteen, to whose fresh youth
every common object of the road was a thing of wonderment and curiosity;
the country, the people, the scores of passengers arriving or departing,
the chance incidents of the way all amused her. She possessed that
power of deriving intense enjoyment from the mere aspect of life
that characterizes certain minds, and while thus each little incident
interested her, her gay and lively sallies animated one who without
her companionship had smoked his cigar in half-sulky isolation, voting
journey and fellow-travellers "most monstrous bores." As they traversed
that picturesque tract between Chaude Fontaine and Verviers, her delight
and enjoyment increased. Those wonderful little landscapes which open
at the exit from each tunnel, and where to the darkness and the
gloom succeed, as if by magic, those rapid glances at swelling lawns,
deep-bosomed woods, and winding rivers, with peaceful homesteads dotting
the banks, were so many surprises full of marvellous beauty.

"Ah! Mr. Beecher," said she, as they emerged upon one of these charming
spots, "I'm half relenting about my decision in regard to greatness. I
think that in those lovely valleys yonder, where the tall willows are
hanging over the river, there might possibly be an existence I should
like better than the life of even a duchess."

"It's a much easier ambition to gratify," said he, smiling.

"It was not of _that_ I was thinking," said she, haughtily, "nor am I so
certain you are right there. I take it people can generally be that they
have set their heart on being."

"I should like to be convinced of your theory," cried he, "for I have
been I can't say how many years wishing for fifty things I have never
succeeded in attaining."

"What else have you done besides wishing?" asked she, abruptly.

"Well, that is a hard question," said he, in some confusion; "and after
all, I don't see what remained to me to do but wish."

"If that were all, it is pretty clear you had no right to succeed. When
I said that people can have what they set their heart on, I meant what
they so longed for that no toil was too great, no sacrifice too painful
to deter them; that with eyes upturned to the summit they could breast
the mountain, not