t enjoy the honor not to
be pardoned easily."

Randal fell into deep but brief thought. The Count observed him, not face
to face, but by the reflection of an opposite mirror. "This man knows
something; this man is deliberating; this man can help me," thought the
Count.

But Randal said nothing to confirm these hypotheses. Recovering from his
abstraction, he expressed courteously his satisfaction at the Count's
prospects, either way. "And since, after all," he added, "you mean so well
to your cousin, it occurs to me that you might discover him by a very
simple English process."

"How?"

"Advertise that, if he will come to some place appointed, he will hear of
something to his advantage."

The Count shook his head. "He would suspect me, and not come."

"But he was intimate with you. He joined an insurrection;--you were more
prudent. You did not injure him, though you may have benefited yourself.
Why should he shun you?"

"The conspirators forgive none who do not conspire; besides, to speak
frankly, he thought I injured him."

"Could you not conciliate him through his wife--whom--you resigned to him?"

"She is dead--died before he left the country."

"Oh, that is unlucky! Still I think an advertisement might do good. Allow
me to reflect on that subject. Shall we now join Madame la Marquise?"

On re-entering the drawing-room, the gentlemen found Beatrice in full
dress, seated by the fire, and reading so intently that she did not remark
them enter.

"What so interests you, _ma soeur_?-the last novel by Balzac, no doubt?"

Beatrice started, and, looking up, showed eyes that were full of tears.
"Oh, no! no picture of miserable, vicious Parisian life. This is
beautiful; there is _soul_ here."

Randal took up the book which the Marchesa laid down; it was the same that
had charmed the circle at Hazeldean--charmed the innocent and
fresh-hearted--charmed now the wearied and tempted votaress of the world.

"Hum," murmured Randal; "the Parson, was right. This is power--a sort of a
power."

"How I should like to know the author! Who can he be--can you guess?"

"Not I. Some old pedant in spectacles."

"I think not--I am sure not. Here beats a heart I have ever sighed to find,
and never found."

"Oh, _naive enfant_!" cried the Count; "_comme son imagination s'egare en
reves enchantes_. And to think that, while you talk like an Arcadian, you
are dressed like a princess."

"Ah, I forgot--the Austrian ambassador's