tied with white ribbons about the middle of the calf; he wore white
stockings and gold-buckled yellow shoes, and on the back of his head a
jauntily cocked black hat. Miss Betty innocently wondered why his letters
did not speak of P‚tion, of Vergniaud, or of Dumoriez, since in the
historical novels which she read, the hero's lot was inevitably linked
with that of everyone of importance in his generation; yet Georges
appeared to have been unacquainted with these personages, Robespierre
being the only name of consequence mentioned in his letters; and then it
appeared in much the same fashion practised by her father in alluding to
the Governor of the State, who had the misfortune to be unpopular with Mr.
Carewe. But this did not dim her great-uncle's lustre in Miss Betty's
eyes, nor lessen for her the pathetic romance of the smile he wore.

Beholding this smile, one remembered the end to which his light footsteps
bad led him; and it was unavoidable to picture him left lying in the empty
street behind the heels of the flying crowd, carefully forming that same
smile on his lips, and taking much pride in passing with some small,
cynical speech, murmured to himself, concerning the mutility of a
gentleman's getting shot by his friends for merely being present to
applaud them. So, fancying him thus, with his yellow hair, his scarlet-
itriped waistcoat, and his tragedy, the young girl felt a share of family
greatness, or, at least, of picturesqueness, descend to her. And she
smiled sadly back upon the smile in the picture, and dreamed about its
original night after night.

Whether or no another figure, that of a dark young man in a white hat,
with a white kitten etching his wrist in red, found any place in her
dreams. at this period, - it is impossible to determine. She did not see
him again. it is quite another thing, hazardous to venture, to state that
he did not see her. At all events, it is certain that many people who bad