ent me to her?" asked Vanrevel.

"Because I thought a man of your gallantry might prefer not to face a
shotgun in the presence of ladies!"

"Pooh!"

"Pooh!" mimicked Miss Bareaud. "You can 'pooh' as much as you like, but
if he had seen us from the window--" She covered her face with her
hands for a moment, then dropped them and smiled upon him. "I understand
perfectly to what I owe the pleasure of a stroll with you this morning,
and your casual insistence on the shadiness of Carewe Street!" He
laughed nervously, but her smile vanished, and she continued, "Keep
away, Tom. She is beautiful, and at St. Mary's I always thought she
had spirit and wit, too. I only hope Crailey won't see her before the
wedding! But it isn't safe for you. Go along, now, and ask Crailey
please to come at three this afternoon."

This message from Mr. Gray's betrothed was not all the ill-starred Tom
conveyed to his friend. Mr. Vanrevel was ordinarily esteemed a person of
great reserve and discretion; nevertheless there was one man to whom he
told everything, and from whom he had no secrets. He spent the noon hour
in feeble attempts to describe to Crailey Gray the outward appearance
of Miss Elizabeth Carewe; how she ran like a young Diana; what one
felt upon hearing her voice; and he presented in himself an example
exhibiting something of the cost of looking in her eyes. His
conversation was more or less incoherent, but the effect of it was
complete.

Chapter II. Surviving Evils of the Reign of Terror

Does there exist an incredulous, or jealous, denizen of another portion
of our country who, knowing that the room in the wooden cupola over
Mr. Carewe's library was commonly alluded to by Rouen as the "Tower
Chamber," will prove himself so sectionally prejudiced as to deny
that the town was a veritable hotbed of literary interest, or that Sir
'Walter Scott was ill-appreciated there? Some of the men looked sly, and
others grinned, at mention of this apartment; but the romantic were
not lacking who spoke of it in whispers: how the lights sometimes shone
there all night long, and the gentlemen drove away, whitefaced, in the
dawn. The cupola, rising above the library, overlooked the garden; and
the house, save for that, was of a single story, with a low veranda
running the length of its front. The windows of the library and of a
row of bedrooms---one of which was Miss Betty's--lined the veranda,
"steamboat fashion;" the inner doors of these ro