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discussing, and at last the girl whispered:

“I am afraid it would not do.”

“Why not?” returned the old lady, “I think it would please him.” And then, seeing that he was looking at them wonderingly, she went toward him, saying:

“M. Boinville, you have already been so kind to us that I am going to ask of you another favor. It is late, and you have a long way to go—we should be so glad if you would stay here and taste our tôt-fait—should we not, Claudette?”

“Certainly,” said the girl, “but M. Boinville will have a plain dinner, and besides, he is, no doubt, expected at home.”

“No one is waiting for me,” answered the gentleman, thinking of his usual dull, solitary meals in the restaurant. “I have no engagement, but—” he hesitated, looked at Claudette’s smiling eyes, and suddenly exclaimed:—

“I accept, with pleasure.”

“That is right!” said the old lady, briskly. “What did I tell you, Claudette? Quick, my pet, set the table and run for the wine, while I go back to my tôt-fait.”

The girl had already opened the press and taken out a striped table-cloth and three napkins, and in the twinkling of an eye the table was ready. Then she lighted a candle and went down stairs to fetch the wine, while the old dame sat down with her lap full of chestnuts, which she proceeded to crack and place upon the stove.

“Is not that a bright, lively girl?” she said, “she is my consolation; she cheers me like a linnet on an old roof.”

Here the speaker rattled the chestnuts on the stove, and then Claudette reappeared, a little flushed and out of breath, and the old woman went and brought in the potée and set it steaming and fragrant on the table.

Seated between the cheery octogenarian and the artless, smiling girl, and in the midst of half-rural surroundings which constantly recalled the memory of his youth, Hubert Boinville, the deputy governor, did honor to the potée. His grave, cold manner thawed out rapidly and he conversed familiarly with his new friends, returning the gay sallies of Claudette and shouting with merriment at the sound of the patois words and phrases which the old lady used.

From time to time the widow would rise and go to attend to her cookery, and at last she returned triumphant, bringing in an iron baking-dish in which rose the gently swelling golden-brown tôt-fait, smelling of orange-flower water.

Then came the roasted chestnuts in their brown, crisped shells, and the old lady brought from her press a bottle of fignolette, a liquor made of brandy and sweet wine.

When Claudette had cleared the table, the grandmother took up her knitting mechanically and sat near the stove, chatting gaily at first, but she now yielded to the combined effects of the warmth and the fignolette and fell asleep. Claudette put the lamp on the table, and she and the visitor were left to entertain each other. The girl, sprightly and light-hearted, did nearly all the talking. She had been brought up at Argonne, and described the neighborhood with such exactness that Boinville seemed to be carried back to his native place; as the room was warm Claudette had opened a window, and the fresh air came in laden with the odors of the market-garden, and the gurgling sound of a fountain, while farther off was heard the bell of the Capuchin convent.

Hubert Boinville had an hallucination, for which the fignolette, and the blue eyes of his young countrywoman were responsible. It seemed as if twenty years had rolled backward and that he was still in his native village. The wind in the fruit trees was the rustling of the Argonne forest, the soft murmur of running water was the caressing voice of the river Aire. His youth, which for twenty years had been buried under old papers and deeds was now revived, and before him were the blue laughing eyes of Claudette, looking at him so artlessly that his long torpid heart awoke suddenly and beat a delightful pit-a-pat against his breast.

Suddenly the old lady awoke with a start and stammered an apology. M. Boinville rose, for it was time to go, and after thanking the widow warmly for her hospitality and promising to come again, he extended his hand to Claudette. Their eyes met, and the deputy governor’s glance was so earnest that the young girl’s eyelids drooped suddenly. She accompanied him down stairs, and when they reached the house door he clasped her hand again, but without knowing what to say to her. And yet his heart was full.

* * * * *

Hubert Boinville continued to give, as is said in official language, “active and brilliant impulse to the Department.” The ministerial machine went on heaping up on his desk the daily grist of reports and papers, and the sittings of the Council, audiences, commissions and other official duties kept him so busy that he could not find a spare hour in which to go to the humble lodgings near the Capuchin convent. In the midst of his work, however, his thoughts often wandered back to the humble little dinner, and several times his attention was distracted from an official document by a vision of Claudette’s bright azure eyes, which seemed to flutter about on the paper like a pair of blue butterflies. When he returned to his gloomy bachelor apartment, those eyes went before him, and seemed to laugh merrily as he stirred his dull fire, and then he thought again of the dinner in the cheerful room, of the fire blazing up gaily in the delft stove, and of the young girl’s merry prattle, which had temporarily resuscitated the sensation of his twenty-first year. More than once he went to his mirror and looked gloomily at his gray-streaked beard, thought of his loveless youth, and of his increasing years, and said with La Fontaine:

“Have I passed the time for loving?”

Then he would be seized with a sort of tender homesickness which filled him with dismay, and made him regret that he had never married.

One cloudy afternoon toward the end of December, the solemn usher opened the door and announced:

“Madame Blouet, sir.”

Boinville rose eagerly to greet his visitor, and inquired, with a slight blush, for her granddaughter.

“She is very well, sir,” was the answer, “and your visit brought her luck; she received an appointment yesterday in a telegraph office. I could not think of leaving Paris without again thanking you, sir, for your kindness to us.”

Boinville’s heart sank.

“You are to leave Paris; is this position in the provinces?”

“Yes, in the Vosges. Of course I shall go with Claudette; I am eighty years old, and cannot have much longer to live; we shall never part, in this world.”

“Do you go soon?”

“In January. Good-bye, sir; you have been very kind to us, and Claudette begged me to thank you in her name.”

The deputy governor was thunderstruck, and answered only in monosyllables, and when the good woman had left him he sat motionless for a long time with his head in his hands.

That night he slept badly, and the next day was very taciturn with his employes.

Toward three o’clock he brushed his hat, left the office, and jumped into a cab that was passing, and half an hour later he hurried through the market garden of Number 12, Rue de la Santé, and knocked tremblingly at Madame Blouet’s door. Claudette answered the knock, and on seeing the deputy governor, she started and blushed.

“Grandmother is out,” she said, “but she will soon be home and will be so glad to see you.”

“I have come to see, not your grandmother, but yourself, Mademoiselle Claudette,” he returned.

“Me?” she exclaimed anxiously, and he repeated, “Yes, you,” in an abrupt tone, and then his throat seemed to close and he could hardly speak.

“You are going away next month?” he asked at last.

The girl nodded assent.

“Are you not sorry to leave Paris?”

“Yes indeed I am. It grieves me to think of it, but then, this position is a fortune to us, and grandmother will be able to live in peace for the rest of her days.”

“Suppose I should offer you the means of remaining in Paris, at the same time assuring comfort to Madame Blouet?”

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed the young girl, her face brightening.

“It is rather a violent remedy,” he said, hesitating again, “perhaps you would think it too great an effort.”

“Oh no, I am very resolute—only tell me what it is.”

He took a long breath, and then said quietly, almost harshly,

“Will you marry me?”

“Heaven!” she gasped, in a voice of deep emotion; but although her face expressed the deepest surprise, there was no sign of repugnance or alarm. Her bosom heaved, her lips parted, and her eyes became moist with tender brightness.

Boinville dared not look at her, lest he should read refusal in her face, but at last, alarmed by her long silence, he raised his head, saying, “You think me too old—you are frightened—”

“Not frightened,” she answered, simply, “but surprised, and—glad. It is too good. I can hardly believe it.”

“My darling!” he cried, taking both her hands “you must believe it. I am the one to be glad, for I love you.”

She was silent, but there was no mistaking the tenderness and gratitude that were shining in her eyes, and Hubert Boinville must have read them aright, for he drew her closely to him, and meeting with no resistance, raised her hands to his lips and kissed them with youthful fervor.

“Holy Mother!” cried the old lady, appearing on the scene at that instant, and the others turned round, he a little confused; the girl blushing, but radiant.

“Do not be shocked, Madame Blouet,” said the deputy governor. “The evening that I dined here I found a wife; the ceremony will take place next month—with your permission.”

ETCHINGS: THE SAD HOUR

(H. A. Grace: For Short Stories.)

A florist-shop in the city of Philadelphia.

A lady, apparently about thirty years of age, dressed somberly in black, enters, and approaching the proprietor, who is behind the counter, demurely asks:

“Does anyone ever use those floral pieces that I see in the window, as wedding presents?”—at the same time indicating by a gesture that she referred to mementoes of immortelles there conspicuously displayed.

“Well,” answered the florist, somewhat astonished, “that is a use to which I have never before heard of their being put; still I know of no reason why they could not be so used, if one desired to give such an emblem as a token of esteem at such a time. What design would you think of using?” setting on the counter such emblems as Gates Ajar, a harp, and a lyre.

“I hardly know,” continued the lady, “still, I think possibly this one might answer,” picking up the lyre.

“What inscription would you wish on it?” asked the florist.

“The sad hour.”

“Is not that rather sombre for such a joyous occasion?”

“Well, it might be ordinarily, but the fact is simply this: the gentleman to whom I wish to send it and myself were engaged to be married, and he is now about to marry another lady; so if you think the immortelles that you put in it will last a long time, I will take this lyre, and have the motto—

THE SAD HOUR

—just as large and prominent as ever you can make it.”

To this the polite florist replies that he had no doubt but that the immortelles would last as long as could be desired.

The lady left, composed and satisfied.

The emblem was finished in strict accordance with the order and promptly delivered to the address given.

* * * * *

What the recipient said may be recorded in heaven, but is not known on earth, and the florist and his customer still live.

ABRUM, CA’LINE AND ASPHALT

(W. N.

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