ey had agreed to join their fortunes. Now their talk
drifted upon other subjects.

"I came back to Vermilionville purposely to see you," said Mr. Tarbox.
"But I'll tell you privately, you wasn't the only cause of my coming."

Claude looked at him suddenly. Was this another haunted man? Were
there two men haunted, and only one fantasy? He felt ill at ease. Mr.
Tarbox saw, but seemed not to understand. He thought it best to speak
plainly.

"I'm courting her, Claude; and I think I'm going to get her."

Claude stopped short, with jaws set and a bad look in his eye.

"Git who?"

But Mr. Tarbox was calm--even complacent. He pushed his silk hat from
his forehead, and said:

... "'One made up
Of loveliness alone;
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon.'

I refer to the Rose of Vermilionville, the Pearl of the Parish, the
loveliest love and fairest fair that ever wore the shining name of
Beausoleil. She's got to change it to Tarbox, Claude. Before yon sun
has run its course again, I'm going to ask her for the second time.
I've just begun asking, Claude; I'm going to keep it up till she says
yes."

"She's not yondah!" snarled Claude, with the frown and growl of a
mastiff. "She's gone to de city."

Mr. Tarbox gazed a moment in blank amazement. Then he slowly lifted
his hat from his head, expanded his eyes, drew a long slow groan,
turned slowly half around, let the inhalation go in a long keen
whistle, and cried:

"Oh! taste! taste! Who's got the taste? What do you take me for? Who
_are_ you talking about? That little monkey? Why, man alive, it's the
mother I'm after. Ha, ha, ha!"

If Claude said any thing in reply, I cannot imagine what it was. Mr.
Tarbox had a right to his opinion and taste, if taste it could be
called, and Claude was helpless to resent it, even in words; but for
hours afterward he execrated his offender's stupidity, little guessing
that Mr. Tarbox, in a neighboring chamber, alone and in his
night-robe, was bending, smiting his thigh in silent merriment, and
whispering to himself:

"He thinks I'm an ass! He thinks I'm an ass! He can't see that I was
simply investigating him!"

CHAPTER XI.

HE ASKS HER AGAIN.

Claude and his father left the next day,--Saturday. Only the author of
the A. of U. I. knew whither they were gone. As they were going he
said very privately to Claude:

"I'll be with you day after to-morrow. You can't be ready for me
b