t was necessary to recover breath, and to
decide whether to go by the way of the Rue Clovis, or to turn down by
the steep of Rue de la Mont Ste. Genevieve to the Boulevard St.
Germain.

It was but for a few panting moments.

The clock of the ancient campanile of the Lycee Henri IV. struck the
hour of eleven. The hoarse, low, booming sound went sullenly rumbling
and roaring up and down the stone-ribbed plaza of the Pantheon, and
rolled and reverberated from the great dome that sheltered the
illustrious dead of France.

The curious old church of St. Etienne du Mont rose immediately in
front of the girl, and the sound of the bells startled her,--shook her
ideas together,--and, with the sight of the church, restored, in a
measure, her presence of mind.

Her thoughts flew instantly back to the happy scene she had recently
left behind. The bells of the old tower,--ah! how often she and Jean
had regulated their menage by their music!

And she looked up at the grimly mixed pile of four centuries, with its
absurd little round tower, its grotesque gargouilles, and grass-grown
walls,--St. Etienne du Mont.

Doubtless they would be married here.

To be married where reposed the blessed bones of Ste. Genevieve, or at
St. Denis amid the relics of royalty, was the dream of every youthful
Parisienne. And Ste. Genevieve was the patronne of the virgins as well
as of the city of Paris.

Mlle. Fouchette had witnessed a wedding at good old St. Etienne du
Mont,--indeed, any one might see a wedding here upon any day of the
week, and at almost any hour of the day, in season,--and she now
recalled the pretty scene. Yes, of course Jean and Andree would be
married here.

Obeying a curious impulse, the girl, still breathing heavily, ascended
the broad stone steps and peeped into the little vestibule. The dark
baize door within stood ajar, and she could see the faint twinkle of
distant lights and smell the escaping odors from the last mass.

She would go in--just for a moment--to see again where they would
stand before the altar. It would do no harm. Her last thoughts should
be of those she loved,--loved dearer--yes, a great deal more dearly
than life.

Entering, she mechanically followed her training at Le Bon Pasteur,
and, bending a knee, dipped the tips of her fingers in the font and
crossed her heaving breast.

The great wax tapers were still burning about the ancient altar, and
here and there pairs and bunches of expiatory cand