shoulder.

"My poor, wicked, good-for-nothing Vanne Castine, Christine Lavilette was
not made for you. You are a poor vaurien, always a poor vaurien. I knew
your father and your two grandfathers. They were all vauriens; all as
handsome as you can think, and all died, not in their beds. Your
grandfather killed a man, your father drank and killed a man. Your
grandfather drove his wife to her grave, your father broke your mother's
heart. Why should you break the heart of any girl in the world? Leave
her alone. Is it love to a woman when you break all the commandments,
and shame her and bring her down to where you are--a bad vaurien? When
a man loves a woman with the true love, he will try to do good for her
sake. Go back to that crazy New York--it is the place for you.
Ma'm'selle Christine is not for you."

"Who is she for, m'sieu' le dev'?"

"Perhaps for the English Irishman," answered Shangois, in a low
suggestive tone, as he dropped a little brandy in his tea with light
fingers.

"Ah, sacre! we shall see. There is vaurien in her too," was the half-
triumphant reply.

"There is more woman," retorted Shangois; "much more."

"We'll see about that, m'sieu'!" exclaimed Castine, as he turned towards
the bear, which was clawing at his chain.

An hour later, a scene quite as important occurred at Lavilette's great