the direction and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, he was logical in reasoning; having once seized the thread, it had guided him through a long labyrinth.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"She is up-stairs."
"What is she doing?"
"She is writing."
"She writes, does she? Does she receive letters?"
"None but such as she can show me. And—sir—she—they have long wanted to consult you."
"Pshaw! They don't think of me—an old father! I am in the way."
"Ah, M. de Bassompierre—not so—that can't be! But Paulina must speak for herself; and Dr. Bretton, too, must be his own advocate."
"It is a little late. Matters are advanced, it seems."
"Sir, till you approve, nothing is done—only they love each other."
"Only!" he echoed.
Invested by fate with the part of confidante an d mediator, I was obliged to go on:—
"Hundreds of times has Dr. Bretton been on
