ther; I was a fool.
Swelling names of ancestors rang proudly in my ears, and I shudder to
think how easily I might have ended in a genealogist.

"Salut, Milord de Quinet."

"Bon soir, Chamilly," replied he, soberly.

"Aha, thou melancholy friend, the liver again, eh?".

We were strolling along the half illuminated Grosvenor street under the
elms. The dim, substantial mansions in their grounds and trees, pleased
my foreign eyes and I was glad to find the city of Alexandra able to vie
with the great cities of the world, and I thought of her as near, and
for, the moment, could not understand the humor of Quinet.

"You don't seem to know," said he, "at least, I thought I would tell
you--that Miss Grant has gone away,"--he stopped and looked at me
earnestly.--"I sympathise with you."

"Away!" I caught my breath. My spirits sank with disappointment. Alas!
Heaven seemed to ordain that my passion for her should never become, a
close communion, but only keep this light, ethereal touch upon me.

And so Quinet knew. "I do not ask you how: evidently you have known it
all along?" (It was the first time I had been spoken to about my love
for her, and it made me feel peculiarly.) "Mon ami, Quinet, tu es
heureux ne pas aimer. Que penses tu de ma chere?"

"Go on, my friend Chamilly; be steadfast, for thou could'st not have
chosen a sweeter, lovelier, holier divinity. O my friend, be steadfast
and be happy. Yes, as thou hast said, I have known this."

Quinet was diverting our steps along up leading streets which tended
towards the Mountain, and soon we reached the head of one, where a wall
met us.

"This way," he said, striking aside into a field which formed part of
the Park. "Adieu, civilization of street lights!" and he pressed up into
a dark grove where I stumbled after, and next, under the twilight of a
sky full of stars, could descry dim outlines of the surroundings of our
path and even of the Mountain, silent above us like a huge black ghost.
We toiled up the steep stair, guiding ourselves by feeling, and in a few
minutes Were at Prospect Point, that jutting bit of turf on the
precipice's edge where the trees draw back and allow in daytime a wide
view of the city and surrounding country, and we both stood breathless
there in the dimness, in front of a sight bewilderingly grand enough to
of itself take one's breath away.

Above were the radiant constellations. Below, between a belt of weird
horizon and the dark abyss a