en he had worn brass-toed boots, and he
had caught Junia in his arms and kissed her, and Denzil had had his
accident. Denzil had got unreasonably old since then; but Junia remained
as she was the joyous day when boyhood took on the first dreams of
manhood.

Life was a queer thing, and he had not yet got his bearings in it. He
had a desire to reform the world and he wanted to be a great painter or
sculptor, or both; and he entered New York with a new sense developed.
He was keen to see, to do, and to feel. He wanted to make the world ring
with his name and fame, yet he wanted to do the world good also, if he
could. It was a curious state of mind for the English boy, who talked
French like a native and loved French literature and the French people,
and was angry with those English-Canadians who were so selfish they
would never learn French.

Arrived in New York he took lodgings near old Washington Square, where
there were a few studios near the Bohemian restaurants and a life as
nearly continental as was possible in a new country. He got in touch
with a few artists and began to paint, doing little scenes in the Bowery
and of the night-life of New York, and visiting the Hudson River and
Long Island for landscape and seascape sketches.

One day he was going down Broadway, and near Union Square he saved a
girl from being killed by a street-car. She had slipped and fallen on
the track and a car was coming. It was impossible for her to get away
in time, and Carnac had sprung to her and got her free. She staggered to
her feet, and he saw she was beautiful and foreign. He spoke to her in
French and her eyes lighted, for she was French. She told him at once
that her name was Luzanne Larue. He offered to get a cab and take her
home, but she said no, she was fit to walk, so he went with her slowly
to her home in one of the poor streets on the East side. They talked as
they went, and Carnac saw she was of the lower middle-class, with more
refinement than was common in that class, and more charm. She was a
fascinating girl with fine black eyes, black hair, a complexion of
cream, and a gift of the tongue. Carnac could not see that she was very
subtle. She seemed a marvel of guilelessness. She had a wonderful head
and neck, and as he was planning a picture of an early female martyr, he
decided to ask her to sit to him.

Arrived at her humble home, he was asked to enter, and there he met her
father, Isel Larue, a French monarchist w