Annesley Beecher felt it “deuced odd” to be the travelling companion and protector of a very beautiful girl of nineteen, to whose fresh youth every common object of the road was a thing of wonderment and curiosity; the country, the people, the scores of passengers arriving or departing, the chance incidents of the way all amused her. She possessed that power of deriving intense enjoyment from the mere aspect of life that characterizes certain minds, and while thus each little incident interested her, her gay and lively sallies animated one who without her companionship had smoked his cigar in half-sulky isolation, voting journey and fellow-travellers “most monstrous bores.” As they traversed that picturesque tract between Chaude Fontaine and Verviers, her delight and enjoyment increased. Those wonderful little landscapes which open at the exit from each tunnel, and where to the darkness and the gloom succeed, as if by magic, those rapid glances at swelling lawns, deep-bosomed woods, and winding rivers, with peaceful homesteads dotting the banks, were so many surprises full of marvellous beauty. “Ah! Mr. Beecher,” said she, as they emerged upon one of these charming spots, “I'm half relenting about my decision in regard to greatness. I think that in those lovely valleys yonder, where the tall willows are hanging over the river, there might possibly be an existence I should like better than the life of even a duchess.” “It's a much easier ambition to gratify,” said he, smiling. “It was not of _that_ I was thinking,” said she, haughtily, “nor am I so certain you are right there. I take it people can generally be that they have set their heart on being.” “I should like to be convinced of your theory,” cried he, “for I have been I can't say how many years wishing for fifty things I have never succeeded in attaining.” “What else have you done besides wishing?” asked she, abruptly. “Well, that is a hard question,” said he, in some confusion; “and after all, I don't see what remained to me to do but wish.” “If that were all, it is pretty clear you had no right to succeed. When I said that people can have what they set their heart on, I meant what they so longed for that no toil was too great, no sacrifice too painful to deter them; that with eyes upturned to the summit they could breast the mountain, not minding weariness, and even when, footsore and exhausted, they sank down, they arose to the same enterprise, unshaken in courage, unbroken in faith. Have you known this?” “I can scarcely say I have; but as to the longing and pining after a good turn of fortune, I'll back myself against any one going.” “That's the old story of the child crying for the moon,” said she, laughing. “Now, what was it you longed for so ardently?” “Can't you guess?” “You wanted to marry some one who would not have you, or who was beneath you, or too poor, or too some-thing-or-other for your grand relations?” “No, not that.”