When Sir Godfrey had found the commissary’s office, shown the indispensable passport, and received, as he had expected, but little prospect of speedy information, he yet rode homewards in considerable ease of mind; the thing had in fact passed from his thoughts as he took the nearer way from the grand avenues of the Champs Elysées, thronging with gaiety, by the overhanging shade of garden walls and backs of stables, across the open spaces flushed green with the afternoon light, alive with strolling girls in their teens, beside their prim _gouvernantes_, or children scattered about the groups of their sitting, gossipping, sewing _bonnes_; while here and there, into a line of secluded street, full of tall, stately, old-fashioned houses in massy blocks, or separate in their high-walled court-yards, sloped lazily the white, gushing glory from far above; till the way towards a bridge, or some glimpse of the bustle about the airy quays, renewed again the sense of being in Paris. But it seemed as if some of its occurrences, otherwise as apparently fragmentary as the street-cries or confused accents, bore every now and then a more connected purport to the baronet as he came in contact with them. He had already thrown a coin or two mechanically to some squalid cripple, or some one-eyed beggar in his route, thinking no more of it; as he turned into the thoroughfare near home, however, out of one of these sun-bright and silent streets, where a few figures crossed here and there, a singular little incident presented itself, which was but part of many such scenes throughout the quieter quarters of the French capital. It was one of the strangest symptoms of that strange time, that while the king had been suppressing dungeons and projecting the good of the people, while the nobles desired reform of abuses, and the whole nation seemed to breathe peace, philanthropy, and enthusiasm—the very fashion of the salons had conceived a sudden sensibility to the miseries and wants of the lowest class. The late winters had been severe, and the last desperate, amidst dear provisions: there had been fêtes, lotteries, and performances of classic dramas in the theatre, although for these last the curés had refused to distribute their unhallowed proceeds: yet greatest of all had been the activity of the ladies in the genteel faubourgs, who, in graceful _toilettes de quête_, the most becoming of dresses, and with purses bearing embroideries of flowers, cupids, and touching mottoes, turned their morning calls into a quest for alms. In the less aristocratic quarters, where morning calls were scarcely made, it had taken hold chiefly on the little girls, from mere childhood up to their teens; lasting longer, doubtless, because exercised only in the open air on the street-passengers, with all the amusement of a play mingled in its touch of reality. How interesting was it, too, to the subjects of the performance, as they were chosen from the passing