n his name, then?"

"I suppose not. It looked like a sleigh picked up hap-hazard to take
her across."

"Well, risk it, and put in an assumed name. Make up something. Any name
will do. The lady, I dare say, hasn't the smallest idea of the driver's
name. Trot out something--Napoleon Bonaparte Gris, or any thing else
you like."

"How would Lavoisier do?"

"Too long."

"Well, Noir, then."

"I don't altogether like that."

"Rollin."

"Literary associations," objected Jack.

"Well, then, Le Verrier," said I, after a moment's thought.

"Le Verrier--" repeated Jack. "Well, leave out the article, and make
it plain Verrier. That'll do. It sounds natural."

"Verrier," said I. "And for the Christian name what?"

"Paul," suggested Jack.

"Paul--very well. Paul Verrier--a very good name for a Canadian. All
right. I'll insert an advertisement from his distracted parent."

And I wrote out this:

_Paul Verrier, of Chaudiere, left his home on the 3d of April last, to
convey a lady to Quebec across the ice. He has not since been heard of.
As the river broke up on that day, his friends are anxious to know his
fate. Any one who can give any information about those who crossed on
that date will confer a great favor on his afflicted father. Address
Pierre Verrier, Box 3,333_.

"That's about the thing," said Jack, after I had read it to him.
"That'll fetch her down. Of course, she don't know the name of the
_habitant_ that drove her; and, of course, she'll think that this is a
notice published by the afflicted father. What then? Why, down she
comes to the rescue. Afflicted father suddenly reveals himself in the
person of the gallant Macrorie. Grand excitement--mutual explanations--
tableau--and the curtain falls to the sound of light and joyous music."

"Bravo, Jack! But I don't like to settle my affairs this way, and leave
yours in disorder."

"Oh, I'm all right," said Jack. "There's no immediate danger. I'm
settling down into a state of stolid despair, you know. If it wasn't
for that last business with Louie, I could be quite calm. That's the
only thing that bothers me now."

"I should think the widow would bother you more."

"Well, to tell the truth, she's getting to be a bit of a bore. She's
too affectionate and _exigeante_, and all that, you know. But, then, I
always leave early. I dine with her at seven, and get away before nine.
Then I go to Louie's--or, at least, that's the way I intend to do."

"You're goi