"  Misar  Harrington,"  said  Bagasse,  in  a  voice,  a  little  lower
and  hoarser  than  usual,  "  yon  make  me  vair  proud — you  do
me  vair  mnsh  honor.  But  ah,  my  joay  haf  mush  melancolee
wis  hhn,  for  you  look  so  pale^  so  bad.  Ex-case  me,  Misar
Harrington— hut  was  is  ze  mattair  wis  you  ?  Why,  yon  look
so  white,  so  sorrowfool  ?  Ah,  tell  yon  old  Baga^e  zat  he  may
say  ze  leetel  word  wis  comfort  In  him  !  Tou  marry  ze  beauti-
fool,  dear  ladee  wife — man  Swu, !  zat  sal!  make  you  so  happy
zan  evairybody.  Why  zen  you  haf  zat  face  ?  Zat  is  not  ze
face  for  ze  new  husband— sacj-efiieM,  no  I     Now  why  is  zat  ?"

Harrii^ton  paused  a  moment  before  replymg,  struggling  to
repress  the  agitation  he  felt  not  only  at  the  rude  tenderness  of
the  old  Frenchman's  words  and  manner,  bnt  at  the  aching  sense,
it  brought  him  of  the  grief  that  had  clouded  his  sweet  and  per-
fect happiness.
"Don't  ask  me.  Bagasse,"  he  faltered.  "Kind  old  friend,  I
wish  I  could  tell  you,  but  there  are  reasons  "-- — -

A  low  knock  at  the  door  made  him  break  off  in  the  midst
of  his  sentence,

"No,  don't  go,"  he  said  to  the  fencing-master,  who  had
moved  to  rise.     "  Come  in,"  he  ciied.
The  door  opened  slowly,  and  to  the  ■  astonishment  of  Har-
rii^ton,  Driecol!  the  stevbdore  entered.  Harrington  smiled
vaguely,  and  bent  his  head  with  ^n  absent  and  wondering  sur
in  reply  to  the  abashed  and  awkward  bow  the  Irishman  made

"Why,  Mr,  Driscoll,"  te  said,  slowly,  "  I  didn't  expect  to

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***  HAEKIKGTOS.
