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one may think, it is always
wise to agree with the mob.
On the steps of the church I found John Turner awaiting me.
"Finished embracing your new-found friend?" he asked me, with a
shortness which may have been a matter of breath. At all events, it was
habitual with this well-fed philosopher.
"We were forgetting Waterloo," I answered.
At that moment a merry laugh behind us made me turn. It was not
directed towards myself, and was doubtless raised by some incident
which had escaped our notice. The mere fact that this voice was raised
in merriment did not make me wheel round on my heel as if I had been
shot. It was the voice itself--some note of sympathy which I seemed to
have always known and yet never to have heard until this moment. A
strange thing--the reader will think--to happen to a man in his thirties,
who had knocked about the world, doing but little good therein, as
some are ready and even anxious to relate.
Strange it may be, but it was true. I seemed to have known that voice
all my life--and it was only the merry laugh of a heedless girl.
Has any listened to the prattle of the schoolroom without hearing at odd
moments the tone of some note that is not girlish--the voice of the
woman speaking gravely through the chatter of the child?
I seemed to hear that note now, and turning, found the owner of the
voice within touch of me. She was tall and slim, with a certain fresh
immaturity, which was like the scent of the first spring flowers in my
own Norfolk woods at home. Flower-like, too, was her face--somewhat
long and narrow, with a fair flush on it of youth, health and happiness.
The merriest eyes in the world were looking laughingly into the face of
an old gentleman at her side, smiling, happy eyes of innocent
maidenhood. And yet here again I saw the woman in the girl. I saw a

gracious lady, knowing life, and being yet pure, having learned of good
and evil only to remember the good. For the knowledge of evil is like
vaccine--it causes disturbance only when hidden impurity awaits it.
"Come," said John Turner, taking my arm, "no one else wants to forget
Waterloo."
I went with him a little. Then I paused.
"Who is the young lady coming down the steps behind us?"
John Turner, looking over his shoulder, gave a grunt.
"Old De Clericy and his daughter," he answered. "One of the families
that are too old to keep pace with the times."
[Illustration: "WHO IS THE YOUNG LADY COMING DOWN THE
STEPS BEHIND US?"]
We walked on a little.
"There is a chance for you--wants a secretary," muttered my
companion.
"Does he?" I exclaimed, stopping. "Then introduce me."
"Not I."
"Why?"
"Can't introduce a man who came across in a piano-case," he answered,
with a laugh, which made me remember that this was a man of station
and some standing in Paris, while I was but a vagabond and
ne'er-do-well.
"Then I'll introduce myself," I said, hastily.
John Turner shrugged his broad shoulders and walked on. As for me, I
stopped and on the impulse of the moment turned.

Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Clericy were coming slowly towards
me, and more than one looked at the fair young girl with a franker
admiration than I cared about, while she was happily unconscious of it.
It would seem that she must lately have left the convent, for the
guileless pink and white of that pure life lingered on her face, while her
eyes danced with an excitement out of all proportion to the moment.
What should she know of Napoleon I, and how rejoice for France when
she knew but little of the dark days through which the great general had
brought that land?
I edged my way towards them through the crowd without pausing to
reflect what I was about to do. I had run away from my creditors, it is
true, but was not called upon to work for my living. The Howards had
not done much of that, so far as I knew; though many of my ancestors,
if one may credit the old portraits at home, had fought for rights, and
even wrongs, with considerable spirit and success.
The throng was a well-dressed one, and consequently of a cold and evil
temper if one worked against it. I succeeded, however, in reaching
Monsieur de Clericy and touched his arm. He turned hastily, as one
possessing foes as well as friends, and showed me a most benevolent
countenance, kindly and sympathetic even when accosted by a total
stranger.
"Monsieur de Clericy?" I asked.
He peered up at me with pleasant, short-sighted eyes while returning
my