he despised, and before whom he rarely opened his lips. At Fontainebleau there had been but one other, it is true; his dislike, and mistrust of that unit, however, were quite enough to prevent his ever "letting himself go," as Hatty expressed it. What that acute little personage had foreseen, had now come to pass. Her brother did himself more justice in the eyes of her friend, during this short journey, than he had ever done during their four months' residence together at Madame Martineau's.
Elizabeth's untiring thoughtfulness for his sister moved him to look upon this young woman, so wayward, so wilful, so eager for amusement and admiration, no matter from what tainted source, with very different eyes from those with which he had hitherto insisted on regarding her. It was no momentary impulse that had led her to leave Paris, for Hatty's sake; every hour of the day showed that her interest in the poor little invalid never flagged. She thought of everything that could tend to Hatty's comfort long before Alaric himself. It was she who hired the extra pillow, when she saw how weary Hatty was growing. It was she who jumped out, and fetched Hatty some water and sirop de groseille, while Alaric smoked his cigarette, and stretched his legs on the platform. All these little things were not lost upon him, and led him to reflect profoundly on the greater altruism of woman. And in the evening, when they were huddled round the wood fire at Avignon, listening to the fierce wind that came howling down from the Alps, and trying not to listen to Hatty's increased cough, his tongue was unloosed, and he told them wonderful stories that made Elizabeth's hair stand on end, and
