d
to obtain, so little do I care for the pomps of the world. With such
models before me as my father and mother and the good old Abbe, one
feels that the only thing worth living for is to do good and cultivate
the graces of the spirit."

We were in his room, scene of last night's vigil, where he had sketched
an outline of his life and the hours had passed unconsciously.

"Another night of vigil, but without companionship," said Delormais. "On
the contrary, time will only place distance between us. You go
southward, I northward into France, reaching my destination about two
o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Would that I might accompany you to
Barcelona and gaze with you upon the wonders of that loveliest of
cathedrals. Again I say that the Catalonian cathedrals are the glories
of Spain. But my own has its charms, and those at least we shall often
see together. I have your promise?"

We gave it unconditionally, in this instance not fearing to commit
ourselves to a given date. Delormais was a man whose friendship was a
privilege and whose sympathy and conversation made all days a delight.
We parted, hoping to meet again.

Not long after this the omnibus rattled out of the courtyard, and our
host intimated that time was up.

The sun had set, darkness had fallen when we clattered through the quiet
streets. Passing the deep, round arcades we looked out for Rosalie, but
no light, graceful figure speeding on its errand of mercy appeared. The
arcades were again mysterious and impenetrable. We turned on to the
bridge and for the last time looked upon the scene as the omnibus
rattled on. All down the boulevard booths were on active service.
Torches flared and still the crowd sauntered to and fro. The river
flowed on its way, and all the outlines of those wonderful old-world
houses were faintly visible. We knew them by heart now, and they were
almost as real to us by night as by day.

The station once more. Only forty-eight hours had passed since we had
struggled across that crowded platform, but we had gone through so many
experiences, heard and seen so much, that many days seem to have flown.
When we thought of Delormais it was impossible to realise we had not
known him for years, visited his early home, joined in his travels. The
father and mother, still the objects of his undying affection, the old
Abbe in whom he delighted, had become personal friends by his vivid
descriptions.

Reflections were suddenly put to flight as t