prise that it did not seem more novel, even now. He tried, like Claude Melnotte, to think of Italy and Como villas; but his imagination failed to go beyond their arrival in Boston and his arrangements for the voyage.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Gower's thoughts were larger and less troubled. She had no thought for the immediate future, at least. And as to the distant futurewell, she, too, had made up her mind. They were both rich; and she had tried her woman's weapons on the world before. She by no means meant to give up her position in society; she purposed leading it with more celebrity than ever; and in Paris, London, not New York. They had no divorce in France; and no one she cared about would blame her for having exercised that envied American privilege. While in England-she could not go to court, of course; but what cared she for that? She had been presented once; and the more fashionable London court, the circle to which all her social friends belonged, would not dream of caring what the status or position of an American had been. Her springs in Paris, her summers in London, her winters in Pau -ah, this last was the life she secretly looked forward to. She knew that she could be as full of conquests, brilliant, captivating, as any of her favorite Feuillet's heroines. She knew that she could still be there a reine du monde.

She smiled to herself as she thought how the news would fly around New York. She delighted to think that with Baby Malgam, her nearest friend and rival, a certain almost envious admiration would mingle with pretended triumph. Flossie had led them up to the very end; and then, when she was fairly bored with winning, she had dared the very steepest fence of all. But how the old madams would chuckle to themselves and the blue-blooded coterie she had laughed at so! She had driven a coach-and-four through all their stupid conventions, and led the fashion to its very end. And twenty years ago she had not been "in society."

She took up the newspaper, and read the long account of the ball. She had always liked to see her beauty and her dresses hymned in the daily prints;

and two whole paragraphs were given to her to-day. "No one attracted so much admiration as Mrs. Levison-Gower" -Poor Lucie! She almost wished she had a different husband, though. Poor Lucie was likely to be simply sorry. She almost despised him again for this; if he had been a man like Kill Van Kull, for instance, it would have been an added excitement; and that faint reproach that came rather from her good nature than her conscience would have been gone entirely. She laid the paper down, and fell again into a reverie; not reading the news of that great fire which the ball had relegated to the second page. On such trivial chances do the actions of our lives depend.

She in turn looked over at Mr. Caryl Wemyss, sitting opposite; he met her eye with a glance of adoration that seemed affected to sharp-sighted Flossie. A well-bred, polished person this; but hardly that Guy Livingstone of her youthful fancy. The journey was certainly tedious; they were not at Hartford yet, and she looked out the window and watched the rude fences of her native land fly by, in dwindling perspective. She half-divined his thoughts-he was still reflecting of de Musset and George Sand; of Byron and the Countess Guiccioli; or perhaps, more recently, of Lord Eskdale, his friend, and Mrs. WhiteThompson. She, however, for long had had no romance in her composition; but only love of adventure, admiration, social primacy, for good or evil. She tried to banish her companion from her mind, and scheme of future triumphs. Yet she knew that his position was safer in the world than hers.

Already the gray day was growing dark; and the monotonous white wooden houses that they passed were beginning to be lit with evening lamps. The empty fields and wooded hills about them made her lonely; and she pictured to herself, with a shudder, their commonplace firesides. Heavens, how stupid a thing must life be to some! They passed an ugly manufacturing village with its dull wide streets and garniture of unpainted wood; and her fancy seemed to paint to her all their obscurity of life, their ox-like submission, with really no more faith or virtue, as she

So this was the climax, after all! And all her triumphs and all her cleverness had led to this? Some people would call it but a common elopement, and say that her position in respectable society was gone forever. She had not valued this, nor all these things, when she had got them; not even perhaps as any Jenny Starbuck valued her diamond ring; would she care for them more, now she had lost them? She fancied not. And she looked over the unpicturesque NewEngland landscape and pretended that she was a French duchess, travelling in some barbaric province. And then she looked at Mr. Wemyss once more, and again half wished that it had been Van Kull. She knew very well that there was no grande passion in her case.

When they got to Springfield, Wemyss got out; and came back in some trepidation. "I have seen Charlie Clarendon," said he; "but I don't think that he noticed me."

"And what does it matter whether he noticed you or not? said Flossie, opening her eyes.

"Why, I thought that you that is, I wanted"He broke off in some confusion at Flossie's laugh; and nothing more was said between them, all his well-worded compliments meeting no response. "She snubs me as if I were her husband," thought he; and he wished the awkward journey well over, and they were safely on the steamer.

There was something pitilessly practical in the dull light of the winter afternoon; commonplace, dispiriting, and the twilight hour least suited of the twenty-four for daring deeds. The very way the newsboys cried the evening papers jarred on Wemyss's mood. Mrs. Gower had insisted on opening the door of their compartment, for air; and he could see his fellow-travellers. As Wemyss såt studying them, they seemed types too simple even to weave imaginations about; their natures could better be taken apart, like a piston from

There she alighted for a little walk; and so they passed Charlie Clarendon, who recognized them and bowed. "Pray heaven he does not fasten to us in the train," thought Wemyss, devoutly. The young girl of twenty had also got out, and passed them, walking with her adorer, to whose arm she naïvely clung. When they got back to the car, Wemyss drew the sliding-door before their compartment, but Mrs. Gower again objected; and, as he feared, Clarendon was not the man to lose the chance of recommending himself to such a social shrine as Flossie Gower's. As the train drew out of the station, he stood before their door, smirking with delight and pulling his travelling cap like Hodge his forelock. But Wemyss had to curse him inaudibly; for Flossie looked up with a brighter glance than she had worn that day, and a certain gleam of her old audacity in her famous eyes.

"So glad to see you honoring Boston in the middle of the season," said Clarendon. "Ah-Mr. Gower with you?"

"No," said Flossie, "Mr. Wemyss is with me. Do you not know each other? Mr. Clarendon, Mr.-"

"I have the pleasure of Mr. Clarendon's acquaintance," broke in Mr. Wemyss, dryly. "Er Gower too busy to get away,

at him, amazed, as if about to speak; then pressed her lips together scornfully. Clarendon had been congratulating himself on his success so far; but now he seemed to meet with difficulties. For Mrs. Gower became obstinately silent; she turned her face to the window, though it was little better than a slaty square, and looked obstinately out of it. Wemyss made no offer to give up his seat, and answered mostly by unflattering interjections.

When Clarendon had gone, Mrs. Gower continued silent. He watched her for some minutes; then he ventured a remark. "That little Clarendon is the greatest gossip in Boston."

Flossie made no reply; and there was silence between them until the train reached Boston. Justine made a motion to go, as if to prepare herself for the arrival; but Mrs. Gower bade her stay. "We are here, dearest, at last," said he, taking her hand; but Mrs. Gower withdrew it without a word.

They alighted, and Wemyss looked about him; the electric light made the faces of a welcoming crowd terribly distinct; but he was inexpressibly relieved to find no familiar face among them.

He engaged the first carriage that he found, and put Flossie into it with the maid; and then went in search of her travelling trunks. The coachman put them on; and Wemyss began to tell him the hotel.

"I have already told him where to go," said Flossie. She shut the door; and before Wemyss could find his speech, the carriage had driven rapidly off and left him standing there, alone, in the Boston railway station.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

FLOSSIE DECLINES.

FLOSSIE had given the driver the address of her only cousin she remembered; a certain Mrs. Lyman, whose husband she believed was some instructor or professor at some college, she could not remember where. They had sent her cards upon their wedding; but Flossie had never been near them in her previous trips to Boston. She had

an idea they might be poor; and did not wish to trouble them; and after all, what could there be between her life and theirs?

So she had some qualms of social conscience when the carriage stopped at the little brick house; the first time, perhaps, in twenty years that she felt the slightest doubt as to her reception. But she was determined that she would go to no hotel, where Wemyss might find her.

But they proved hospitable people, and really glad to see her, if just the least bit surprised. Evidently they were much afraid of her, and still more of her maid; but a room was found for Justine too; and in the morning Mrs. Gower dismissed her, with her wages paid some time ahead. And gradually Flossie found that they doubted not so much their breeding as her own ; they were by no means ashamed of the little house and its two maid-servants, but feared that Flossie might be. And they knew people high-placed enough in the world to be known, by name, even to her. "How different from New York!" she said to herself; perhaps she should have said, how different from that New York that she had made. They had several children, who all came to the breakfast-table; and Flossie noted, with much compassion, that Mrs. Lyman was her own nurse. She was persuaded to stay with them over the next day; their mode of life was a curious study to her. She did not envy it; possibly she even looked at it with horror, for she never lost her essential love for wealth; but she was quite clever enough to have for it a certain respect. Her favorite classifications seemed to fail; they were not bourgeois, but even gentlefolk, such as she had read poor rectors' families were in England. And such as there are many in America, though she did not know it.

Flossie went back to New York on the morning train the next day, the same way she had come. She read in the paper that Mr. Caryl Wemyss was a passenger in the Parthia for Europe. It was the best thing he could do.

She had given much thought to her coming meeting with her husband. Would he suspect anything, she won

dered? She hoped not; and she turned about the paper to see what had happened in New York. She had not read a newspaper for several days; her own news she had made, and she cared for no other. A black headline caught her eye: Failure of the Starbuck Oil Company. Great heavens!

All her fortune was still in that; save only the house upon Fifth Avenue. She read it with avidity. The failure appeared to be complete; and from the account she gathered also the facts of the great fire. It was believed to be incendiary the paper said. How terrible that people could commit such crimes; what were the laws for, and the decalogue? The house of Townley & Tamms had also failed; it was believed the assets would not realize ten per cent. As most of the loss fell upon trusts held for rich private individuals, it was thought the failure would have no further disastrous consequences upon the street, the paper added grimly. Mr. Phineas Tamms was known to be in Montreal; young Mr. Townley was also a fugitive. The Allegheny Central was also heavily involved, but it was believed this property might recover. Warrants were out for the arrest of Mr. Townley, Senior.

ror.

Flossie put the paper down with horShe found it impossible to believe that she was ruined; that she could really ever be poor.

And then the thought came to her, what a fortunate escape; Lucie still had money; but what would she have been, as his wife, undivorced perhaps, who had fled from him with Caryl Wemyss? She shuddered at the idea; well she knew how her world would have regarded her, poor, no longer able to dazzle her careless court into complaisance, no longer materially able to set the fashion she could lead so well. I cannot say she felt any remorse; women like Flossie Gower do not feel remorse; but she was at least devoutly thankful she had not made a worldly blunder.

How would Lucie take it? This was her one thought, now. He had been absent on his sporting trip; but was certain to be back the very day she left. How fortunate, after all, had been poor Wemyss's cowardice! She had all a

woman's ignorance of business; and she felt, for the first time in her life, a need of leaning on her husband. Poverty was the one thing she dreaded, more than death, more even than old age; in dishonor she did not much believe. But she had never been frightened in her life before.

The journey passed much more quickly than her journey on; and arriving, back at the great terminus she had never thought to see again, she got nimbly into a carriage and drove quickly to her house. It was Lucie himself who met her at the door.

"I am so glad to see you again, Flo," said he; and she let him kiss her twice. "I have been so terribly anxious!"

"Tell me, Lucie-is it all gone?"

"All what gone?" said he; and he took her in his arms again. "You left no word where you had gone; and I have been almost crying!" And the honest fellow did let drop two big salt tears upon her little hand.

"I have been to Boston-staying with my cousin-for a little rest. But do tell me have we lost everything?"

"Lost? Oh, yes, I believe the Starbuck Oil has pretty well gone up," said he. "But what does it matter? I've got enough for two, you know. My dear, I haven't told you, but I've made some money lately! Isn't it a joke that I should make money? And I can't tell you how glad I am that I can give you something at last! Your income shall be just what it always was-I'll take care of that." Flossie gave a sigh of relief; and actually kissed him, all herself.

Poor Lucie! He had never been so happy in his life. Not even when they had first been married; for though he was a simple gentleman, his heart had grown, since then; and hearts do more of God's work than intellects, even now in the world. And that very day, he went down and bought her diamonds, even finer than those he had given her upon their wedding-day.

Did Flossie change? I think not. It is only in novels that such natures change at nearly forty; it is only in novels, too, that the unrepentant are brought up with a round turn, and a moral pointed, in a flare of transformation-scene blue lights. But Flossie is

still rich, and still she leads her set; she is still successful, and will doubtless be so to the very end. It is true some people say she is in her decadence. She seems to have resigned herself to her final place in life; and other younger members of her set, Baby Malgam, perhaps, or Mrs. Jimmy De Witt, are passing her. She will have no catastrophe; and though (perhaps) against all morals of romance, it must be said that she is making simple Lucie happier than he has ever been before.

She still had one great scare, however. It was some weeks or months after this, that the servant brought Lucie word a lady wished to see him. It was in the early afternoon; and he said that it must be for Mrs. Gower; but no, she insisted, the man told him, that it was for him. She was a veiled lady, the servant said, and he ran to his dressingroom and gave orders for her to be ushered to the parlor.

Going down, to his astonishment, he met Justine. He commonly took little note of his wife's maids; but this one he remembered because she had been with them so long. "You must wish to see Mrs. Gower," he said. and find her."

"I'll go

But no, simpered the Frenchwoman, her business was with him.

"Has she not paid you your wages? she told me she had dismissed youand for cause."

A black scowl disfigured the handsome face. "Madame has turned me out-like a dog. And I have had no time to get even the dresses that I left. And-" the maid looked at him curiously. "I do know somesings about Madame Monsieur would like to know and Madame, she would give almost her beaux yeux not to have me tell."

Lucie's eyes opened wide; but in a moment their honest wonderment was changed to a look that Justine misinterpreted. "If Monsieur will make it worth my while-je connais la générosité de Monsieur-I can tell of Madame's voyage to Boston-sings zat he would like to know!"

She stopped; for Mr. Gower was struggling with many words. The soubrette looked cunningly at the gentleman; and he began with an indignant

burst; but then he mastered himself. He took her by the wrist, and led her forcibly to Mrs. Gower's room. It must be confessed that Flossie's color changed when she saw the strange pair enter. "Has this woman been fully paid?" said he to his wife.

"Of course," said Flossie. "I had to discharge her for insolence to me, and she went away vowing revenge." "James,

"I thought so," said Lucie. show this woman the door; and hark ye, Pauline, Fifine, whatever your name is, if you even ring this door-bell again, I'll have you arrested."

Ah, Miss Flossie, there are some advantages you had not understood, in marrying a gentleman, though not a clever one-are there not?

And this scene ended Flossie Gower's episode. She lived on, and still went to balls, and gave her dinners; some people even say that she fell in love with her husband. But this the author, at least, takes liberty to doubt; she liked him, in a way, for he made his own way hers so good-naturedly. I do not even know if she be contented; but she certainly has more than her deserts. Perhaps she still hears, with half a sigh, of Kitty Farnum's-the Countess of Birmingham's-success in England; and casts a glance of envy at that lady's varied photographs in the shop windows, if she ever walks down Broadway. But then her whilom protégée had married a peer of the realm; and I am sure that she is glad she has not married Caryl Wemyss.

But Mrs. Gower leads no longer. She even has little influence for ill; or if she has, she does not choose to exert it. She is a model no longer; the débutantes have taken other patterns. I am not sure that Mrs. Haviland even has not greater influence-but this is anticipating. The young men no longer cluster round her carriage at the races; poor Arthur's was perhaps the last of all the lives she injured.

Let us turn to others, in whom, as may be hoped, the reader takes more interest. But first, we turn one glance at Mr. Wemyss. One glance will be enough. No one, of course, ever knew of his great adventure; he has sometimes wished to tell it, but never wholly