Paris. One of the ladies, seeing that she was about to remain in the carriage, jerked the information over a descending shoulder. F茅lise followed and stood for a moment more confused than ever in the blue glare and ant-hill hurry of the Gare de Montparnasse. A whole town seemed to have emerged from the train and to stream like a rout of refugees flying from disaster, men, women and children, laden with luggage, towards the barrier. Carried along, she arrived there at length, gave up her ticket, and, issuing from the station, found herself in a narrow street, at the end of which, still following the throng, she came to a thundering thoroughfare. Never, in all her imaginings of Paris, had she pictured such a soul-stunning phantasmagoria of flashing light and flashing movement. There were millions of faces passing her by on the pavement, in the illuminated interiors of omnibuses, in the dimmed recesses of taxi-autos, on waggons, on carts, on bicycles; millions in gaily lit caf茅s; before her dazzled eyes millions seemed to be reflected even in the quivering, lucent air. She stood at the corner of the Place de Rennes and the Boulevard de Montparnasse paralysed with fear, clutching her handbag tight to her side. In that perilous street thousands of thieves must jostle her. She could not move a step, overwhelmed by the immensity of Paris. A good-natured sergent de ville, possibly the father of pretty daughters, noticed her agonised distress. It was not his business to perform unsolicited deeds of knight errantry; but having nothing else to do for the moment, he caught her eye and beamed paternal encouragement. Now a sergent de ville is a sergent de ville (recognisable by his uniform) all France over. F茅lise held P猫re Chavrol, who exercised that function at Brant?me, in high esteem. This policeman had a fat, dark, grinning, scrubbily-moustached face which resembled that of P猫re Chavrol. She took her courage and her handbag in both hands. 鈥淓rnest,鈥?said Theobald, 鈥渓eave the room.鈥? 08彩票注册送16元 "We got through the first chute all right," said Bearie, "but the wind blew us on to the rapids above Green Island and the crib stuck on the rocks. We worked all day to get her off, but it was no use. At last there was a creak and a crash, and the whole thing went to 'smithereens.' One stick only remained on the rock, with Martin clinging to one end and me to the other. It worked like a 'see-saw'; when Martin came up I went down, and when I came up Martin went down. Though my eyes, ears, nose and mouth were full of water, I managed to call out,鈥? She said she knew she had not given up all for Christ鈥檚 sake; it was this that weighed upon her. She had given up much, and had always tried to give up more year by year, still she knew very well that she had not been so spiritually minded as she ought to have been. If she had, she should probably have been favoured with some direct vision or communication; whereas, though God had vouchsafed such direct and visible angelic visits to one of her dear children, yet she had had none such herself 鈥?nor even had Theobald. Machecawa and his friend O'Jawescawa became frequent visitors at the Wigwam. They would come in the morning, uninvited, and sit silently all day long before the open fire and observe all that was going on. The spinning-wheel and hand-loom were objects of unceasing interest to them, and though it proved a great distraction to the children in their studies, and to the girls in the performance of their domestic duties, to have them there, they were always treated not only with respect but with consideration and kindness. A DOUBLE TRAGEDY. "We saw the storm approaching," he said, "and thought we would take shelter here, and see what is going on. May I ask," he continued, turning to Colonel By, "whom I have the pleasure of addressing?" 鈥淲hy not? Am I not a man? Haven鈥檛 I lived my life? Haven鈥檛 I had my share of its joys and sorrows? Why should it surprise you that I have a daughter?鈥? Ancien Avou茅 de Londres, 鈥淭iens, tiens, my little F茅lise,鈥?said Bigourdin soothingly. 鈥淭here is no need for you to consult your mother. Both your father and your mother have a long while ago decided that you should marry Lucien. Do you think I would take a step of which they did not approve?鈥? Whom then should he take first? Surely he could not do better than begin with the tailor who lived immediately over his head. This would be desirable, not only because he was the one who seemed to stand most in need of conversion, but also because, if he were once converted, he would no longer beat his wife at two o鈥檆lock in the morning, and the house would be much pleasanter in consequence. He would therefore go upstairs at once, and have a quiet talk with this man.