dark avenue in front of Madame Crochard. When they could no longer see
the white net cap, which showed as a speck through the leaves where
the old woman was--"Caroline!" said Roger in a tremulous voice, and
with a beating heart.

The girl was startled, and drew back a few steps, understanding the
invitation this question conveyed; however, she held out her hand,
which was passionately kissed, but which she hastily withdrew, for by
standing on tiptoe she could see her mother.

Madame Crochard affected blindness, as if, with a reminiscence of her
old parts, she was only required to figure as a supernumerary.



The adventures of these two young people were not continued in the Rue
du Tourniquet. To see Roger and Caroline once more, we must leap into
the heart of modern Paris, where, in some of the newly-built houses,
there are apartments that seem made on purpose for newly-married
couples to spend their honeymoon in. There the paper and paint are as
fresh as the bride and bridegroom, and the decorations are in blossom
like their love; everything is in harmony with youthful notions and
ardent wishes.

Half-way down the Rue Taitbout, in a house whose stone walls were
still white, where the columns of the hall and the doorway were as yet
spotless, and the inner walls shone with the neat painting which our
recent intimacy with English ways had brought into fashion, there was,
on the second floor, a small set of rooms fitted by the architect as
though he had known what their use would be. A simple airy ante-room,