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Honoré, a collection of dirty sheds, where fish, flesh, and fowl are weighed out in unpolished scales, and bargained for over greasy stalls. Having stopped before one of them, she commenced a lively conversation in good French with a stout market-woman, whose busy face seemed to brighten up as she saw her, as if they were old friends. I delayed at a neighbouring stall, and feigned a deep interest in capons and sucking-pigs, while its loquacious owner ran on in praise of her various commodities.

"Milord must surely admire that duck. There's not a finer in the market; and ducks are scarce just now. Ah! it's those turnips that monsieur thinks of buying;" and she held up the bunch to my unheeding gaze.

I turned a sidelong glance to the next stall, and, horror of horrors! the black straw bonnet concealed nothing but a huge bunch of curl-papers. Curl-papers! and that too of newspaper! Oh! abomination of abominations! Was there ever such a disappointment? Still my interest was not to be wasted. I had seen nothing but the curl-papers, but there might be beauty beyond, and the literary papillotes might contain raven locks, which at another hour would be radiant with some substitute for Macassar.

A large bunch of carrots lay a little on one side. Over these I bent with the air of a connoisseur, and waited till the curl-papers turned. They did so at last. Oh! Venus de Medici, Diane de Poictiers, Mary Queen of Scots, and Eugénie, Empress of our noble Allies! ye sovereigns of beauty, hide your diminished heads. The lady of the curl-papers outdoes you all. It was not the features-for they were neither fine nor of Grecian regularity; it was not any one portion of that face which lent it such a sweet beauty. It was the fairness, the freshness, the softness of the whole. The complexion was bright and clear as a summer sun-dawn; the hair (as much as the curl-papers hid not) was of that golden tint which we give to angels; the eyes, mocking heaven in their blueness, had that happy glow which makes us smile in adoration; and the mouth, red and pouting as it was, had yet such character, such glad sweetness, that none could look on it without loving. No wonder the little urchin laughed with very joy when he looked up in that

lovely face. Yet she could not be the mother of that child. She was a mere girl, with all the simple innocence of nineteen upon her face. Oh! she could not, she must not be married. Why did I ever believe in the rouged beauty of the Marquise de Bonpoudre, or the jewelled charms of Lady Florence Faithless? Why was I born the heir to four thousand a-year, unencumbered with mortgages, when such simple loveliness is to be found in the workshop? Why did I not wear a blouse and a pair of wooden sabots, to be able to woo and win that beauty in a speckled shawl, a black straw bonnet, and-curl-papers?

So I soliloquised as she went from stall to stall, and filled her basket with her day's provisions. At one time the dreadful thought came across me that she might be a cook. But, then, if the kitchen contained such graceful beauty, even beef-steaks and suetdumplings would become ambrosia beneath her fingers. But she could not be a cook. High as I hold the culinary art, much as betimes I had wor shipped Vatel and Soyer, I could not deem that there was such happiness for rounds of beef and legs of mutton.

The question was at length settled in my mind, when she stopped at last before a flower-stall, and chose and carried off the most tasteful of the bouquets there. No cook would buy flowers, at least so I convinced myself and no cook could have the taste to choose that identical nosegay. Interest was growing deeper as doubts in creased. Cook, house-maid, scullerymaid even, whatever she might be, I would follow and-find it out.

She left the market, and I trudged after, at a careful distance, across the Tuileries Gardens. I was too old a hand at this game to run any risk of discovery, had I feared it. I ought to have been born in the land of Don Quixote, where it is deemed but a polite compliment for the stranger, who passes some pair of flashing eyes, or some swaying mantilla, to utter his admiration aloud, as—“ Hija del sol!” or "Como grazosa!" I am always in love in the streets with unknown beauties, but too often the long-sought acquaintance breaks the spell after the first few words. I was now, however, so convinced of the genuine modesty of the object of my pursuit, that I would not allow the least chance of

her being offended by my conduct, and I hung back so far in the rear that she left the gardens, arrived on the quay, and turned out of sight, while I was still too far off to overtake her. I therefore ran gently up to the gate by which she had passed out, and reached the quay. What disappointment was mine to find that she had disappeared! Everywhere my eyes sought her in vain. There are no houses here-nothing but the huge pile where kings and emperors have stored luxury for a reckless mob to hurl from the windows. She might have turned through one of the arches of the Tuileries, but that would be returning in the direction she had just come. I determined to leave no stone unturned. I rushed up to the first arch, which is a public thoroughfare, and would have turned under it, had she not met me there face to face.

A well-dressed young Frenchman was by her side.

"If mademoiselle would only believe how beautiful she is," he was saying, with an air of impudent admiration.

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Monsieur, I do not know you. You annoy me by your intrusion. I must request you to leave me," she replied, in a tone of piteous embar

rassment.

"But surely mademoiselle will allow me to bear her burden for her; she is quite unfit for such a load,” and he laid his hand on her basket.

None but a Frenchman would have possessed the aplomb and impudence to sustain the look of haughty indignation with which she drew back at this insult; but he was not in the least abashed. No Parisian believes in the possible virtue of the sex, and he was not likely to change his faith at such a juncture. He was just about to repeat the insult when I stepped forward and thrust him back.

"Sir," I said, in my best French, "your proffered services displease this young lady. I cannot stand by and see her annoyed. I insist upon your retiring."

Our Gallic neighbours, with all their undoubted courage, are the very antipodes of their Irish co-originates. Discretion has at least a large share in all their valour; and where the advantage in view is not very considerable, they will prefer not to risk a brawl. He muttered something about

gratuitous interference, which it was not my cue to attend to, and having, doubtless, a great respect for the boxe Anglais, bowed, and withdrew.

I turned to the young lady. Her beautiful face was crimson.

"Your are free, mademoiselle," I said, in French; " you may rest assured that you will not be further annoyed.

"I am most sincerely obliged to you, sir," she replied in English, with just so much accent as to render Shakspeare's tongue even softer than it is; "you have done me a great service, and I wish I could show my gratitude more palpably than by mere

thanks."

I was too confused by her look to answer coherently; but she spared me the trouble, by taking the hand of the child, who had all the while been standing by staring with open eyes of wonder, and left me with a bow and a smile.

By the time I had recovered from my embarrassment, she was already half-way across the Pont-Royal. She had quickened her pace. I could follow securely, and I did so. She passed into the Rue de Lille, and, walking the whole length of it, entered one of the last houses.

My plan was now to sound the porter belonging to the house, but I well knew the difficulty of the enterprise. From Cerberus to St. Peter, doorkeepers have been noted for their amiable reception of strangers; but the dragon who guarded the golden apples himself could not have been less agreeable in his manners than the Paris concierge. It was therefore with much diffidence that I approached a thin, dark man, who sat, with an habitual scowl, behind the window of his box, fulfiling his difficult functions.

"Would you kindly tell me the name of the person who just entered?"

"It is not my business to give information about the lodgers in this house," was the reply.

"But surely, Monsieur le Concierge," said I, laying stress on the "title," " you would not refuse to assist my bad memory to discover a name which I have quite forgotten ?"

As I spoke, I slipped a coin into his hand. It had its effect.

"If monsieur merely wishes to refresh his memory, I am sure I cannot refuse to assist him. Does monsieur

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After

I crossed the street, and looked at the windows of the fourth story. There was nothing remarkable about them; so I retraced my steps. As I went I mused. My first thought was of the incognita. That she should be married, and with a child of three or four years, seemed impossible, she was so fresh, so blooming, and had none of that assured manner which wedlock guarantees. How strange! and, I confessed to myself, how disappointing! I still hoped there might be some mistake. I, who had not felt an interest in anything for so long, could not restrain the strong emotions which this new one caused me. seven years of society's oppression, where every sentiment, every passion even, had been made the slave of the general laws of worldliness, what a novelty would love, real love, be to me. And here was so worthy an object, one to whom my wealth would bring pleasure and ease-one who, if lovely in a black-straw bonnet and an old shawl, would be a queen of beauty in tarlatan and diamonds. But those I swore she should never wear; for I already chalked out a life of cottage simplicity, beyond the reach of a false world, where every heart was rouged and painted.

Then the name of Sherwood. Where had I heard that name before? I searched the cobwebbed store-rooms of memory. Ah! there it is, in that old chest of schoolboy reminiscences. Yes, I had been at Rugby with a Sherwood, but it could scarcely be this one, for I remembered his father had been a large landed proprietor in Shropshire. What memories that name brought back, of

those fresh days of active life, with an unshadowed field of hope before us, where life was subject to the Aladdin's lamp of our wild imaginations, and the rainbow was above in its brightest colours.

I sat down in the Tuileries Gardens, for those memories saddened me. Yes, I remembered Sherwood's handsome, honest face, that all liked so much. He was not much of a scholar. He could never remember his quantities, or his Greek verbs; but when there happened to be an English essay, he would write half-a-dozen for his friends, and his own last of all; and his own somehow was always different in every idea, and yet better than all the rest. Then, at times, he would be the leader of all our fun, devising every species of school iniquity, and leading us on with his unfailing tongue and his stronger mind. I remember often how the anomalies of his character astonished me.

My reminiscences might have run on for hours, had not an internal warning reminded me that I had been out for a long time, and not breakfasted. I broke my meditations with the shadows of the past, remembering that

"Man's mind's a mammoth, and the stomach is The rock on which it fossils,

and returned to the hotel, resolving to call that very afternoon, and discover if the Mr. Sherwood who gave lessons in Paris, was the same Sherwood whose father was one of the richest men in his county. I secretly thought it highly improbable; but the vision of that fair face in curl-papers haunted me, and I determined to risk it.

I wrote a few lines of excuse to that highly-gifted and entertaining mortal, Bob Harrington of the Blues, to whom I had promised to fill the vacant seat behind his superb greys. I have no doubt he did not feel acutely the loss of my society, for I must confess I had little taste left for horseflesh, and was quite ignorant of the general opinion of Old Dan Tucker's merits, or the expectations of the Eccleston filly. In short, if Bob's handsome face and long purse had not, at that period, made him the plaything of "the" Giovinetta, I should scarcely have accepted the invitation. As it was, when four o'clock came, I drove quietly down to the Rue de Lille. For the first time for many a day, I felt my heart beat with a lively

interest as I mounted the stairs-I had not been up so many since my arrival in Paris-and when I got to the " quatrième audessus de l'entresol," I was fairly beat. I leant a moment on the balustrade, and then perceived that the door on the left-hand was ajar. While summoning courage to ring, I was stopped by peals of children's laughter from a room within. I listened a moment, and could distinctly hear a man's voice mingled with the higher notes of the little ones.

"That's right; pull away, Charlie, my boy. Look at him, Beatrix, he'll pull off those horrid whiskers in a few minutes, at this rate."

And then there was another roar of merriment from the little lungs of the children.

I blush to confess that I could never bear children. Intrinsically, I liked them well enough, apart from their mammas and nurses, when I could get one of the "dear things" on my knee, and frighten it into convulsions by horrible tales of impossible giants, or making diabolical faces at it. But all the thumbscrews of the Inquisition, all the hardships of St. Simeon Stylites, are nothing compared to "the children" at dessert, or little petsy-wetsy," the image of its dear papa, without tact enough not to slobber over one's white cravat. Still it would have required the heart of a very Moloch not to have rejoiced with that merry laughter, happy as church-bells on the sea-shore, or the music of the horn at early morning. To me, who for so long had not heard the laugh that springs from real heart's mirth, when happiness is so burning within that it must needs burst out in that music, which angels love better than sighs and tears to me this merriment had a new charm.

I rang the bell timidly, but there was no answer all were too busy to hear. Irang again with the same result, and finding it useless, pushed open the door, and made my way to the room whence all the noise proceeded. I knocked diffidently, but no one heard or heeded me, and I felt half-ashamed to push my hard face into a scene of such bounding happiness. I waited a moment, uncertain what to do, and could scarcely help overhearing them.

"Beatrix," cried the man's voice, amid the children's busy chattering, "do look at little Beaty. She is making the most comical efforts to climb

up on my knees. Do look at her; I declare she is the exact image of you."

"She has your horrid black eyes, though," replied a silvery voice, which I recognised immediately by its slight pretty accent.

"Ah!" replied the deeper tones, "they should have been blue, like the handsome stranger's who rescued you this morning. Eh! Beaty?"

"Your old rule again," said the other, merrily, "jealous of a flower."

"Yes, I confess it, jealous of the wind, which kisses you more often than I may do, dear Beatrix. But come,

confess that you were thinking of him.' "Of course I was. Of course I was not trying to remember that verse of your favourite Victor Hugo

"L'enfant

Est le nom paternel dans un rayon doré."

"But seriously, tell me what he is like?"

Now there was nothing I hated so much as a married couple who were always making love to one another; but I dreaded too much hearing my portrait drawn by so affectionate a wife, so I slowly opened the door.

There, on the floor of a small room, simply but tastefully furnished, lay a young man, whose face I could hardly

see.

The boy I had seen in the morning with the incognita was pulling lustily with his little hands at his father's long whiskers, and screaming with the excitement of that merciful operation. A beautiful little girl of two years was climbing up his knees, with a serious little face, which looked as if the fate of nations lay in the success of the attempt; and the lady of the curlpapers, no longer with those literary appendages, nor even with flowing tresses, but with bright waves of golden hair braided low upon her neck-no longer with the old gown and the speckled shawl, but in all the grace of a simple French toilette-was sitting with her work on her knees, gazing with a smile at her husband's face, and he at her's. Yes, it was her husband, and to my own honour I must say that I forgot my disappointment in admiration of that pleasant picture.

An exclamation told me I was discovered, and in a second the young man had started to his feet. Little Beaty, finally foiled in her important attempt, had rolled softly on the carpet, secure in the plumpness that pro

tected her tiny limbs. I stood, an intruder, before them.

"I was right," I exclaimed; "it is, yes, it is Charles Sherwood. What! you don't remember me, your old Rugby friend, Edward A ?" The next moment we were locked in one another's arms.

"My dear fellow, how jovial it is to see you again. But how in the world did you unearth me?"

"You'll not be jealous if I tell you ?"

He opened his dark eyes to the widest. I turned to his wife. Her fair girl's cheek was crimson as a ripe peach.

"I felt certain, monsieur," said that voice which thrilled through me, "that you were really a friend, when you acted in so friendly a manner this morning."

And again the blush ran from cheek to brow, and Sherwood's eye beamed with pleasure as he saw it.

"And you, A; you are the handsome stranger that saved Beatrix from the insults of a low Frenchman this morning, who must have been depraved, indeed, to have expected anything but an indignant repulse from her, whose very face beams with modesty, like

?"

She placed her hand over his lips, and then put her arm in his, as he looked at her with the admiration of a lover rather than that of a husband.

"You are right," I replied; "and as a proof of it,.I may confess that I was so struck myself with her loveliness that nothing but that very expression you speak of kept me back from—”

Poor Beatrix was quite overcome with all these remarks, and implored me to change the conversation.

"Will you believe," she said, in extenuation of herself, "that I have been to market at that hour every day for the last six months, for, otherwise, I think we could scarcely afford to live in Paris, and have never once met with annoyance of any kind. I confess I am vain enough to put my hair in curlpapers and to wear a very old shawl; but I assure you I think I might dispense with them, if Charles did not force me to do so."

"And, indeed, he is quite right, madame, and would be merely doing his duty if he obliged you to wear a regular mask," I replied; and I felt it sincerely, as I looked at her radiant

face, in all the blushing beauty of a girl of nineteen, though, of course, she was older.

We ran on for some time on every possible subject, old school-fellows have so much to tell each other. With what joy we went back to every memory of those jovial days when life had such intrinsic pleasure, and the bosom of the boy swelled with high hopes and eagle fancies for the future of the man. Happy were it for many of us if the world had never lopped those young shoots of burning ambition, to replace them by narrow principles and sordid interests. With what glad pleasure we recalled each one of our school friends, and learnt from one or the other what had become of many of them. I found that I was here the chief informant. Sherwood had lived long abroad and lost sight of all his old chums. One wild fellow was now a quiet parson in a small village in Yorkshire. That man Jones, whom we all thought so steady, was now the fastest fellow on the turf. One had joined a regiment which had gone to India; another had had a dreadful row and was off to the diggings; while another, poor fellow, was dead of consumption in the Isle of Wight.

"And yourself?" Sherwood asked, when we had gone through the list.

"Am what you see me, though, I fear, scarcely what you knew me," I replied. "You remember that I was an orphan. My majority brought me four thousand a-year and the old place, where I have been but once since I came of age. I have been living all over the world, and seen it all, till I am sick of it. I have not an interest on earth, and I believe, if I could read hearts, scarce a true friend in it but yourself, old fellow."

Sherwood mused.

"I know your complaint," he said, "I once suffered from it myself. Can you guess where I found my cure?" "Where?"

"Here," he replied, drawing his wife closer to him. "I would have given the world, and all in it, at one time, for six feet of cold earth; but I believe now, if I received a formal invitation to Paradise, I would not go if Beatrix and the little ones were not asked also."

Again her fair cheek went among the roses of Lancaster.

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