The little rector--thanks, he says, to the skill of Dr. Sevier!--recovered perfectly the use of his mangled foot, so that he even loves long walks. I was out walking with him one sunset hour in the autumn of--if I remember aright--1870, when whom should we spy but our good Kate Ristofalo, out driving in her family carriage? The cherubs were beside her,--strong, handsome boys. Mike held the reins; he was but thirteen, but he looked full three years better than that, and had evidently employed the best tailor in St. Charles street to fit his rather noticeable clothes. His mother had changed her mind about his being a bruiser, though there isn't a doubt he had a Derringer in one or another of his pockets. No, she was proposing to make him a doctor--"a surgeon," she said; "and thin, if there bees another war"-- She was for making every edge cut. She did us the honor to stop the carriage, and drive up to the curb-stone for a little chat. Her spirits were up, for Colonel Ristofalo had just been made a city councilman by a rousing majority. We expressed our regret not to see Raphael himself in the family group enjoying the exquisite air. "Ha, ha! He ride out for pleasure?"--And then, with sudden gravity,--"Aw, naw, sur! He's too busy. Much use ut is to be married to a public man! Ah! surs, I'm mighty tired of ut, now I tell ye!" Yet she laughed again, without betraying much fatigue. "And how's Dr. Sevier?" "He's well," said the clergyman. "And Mrs. Richling?" "She's well, too." Kate looked at the little rector out of the corners of her roguish Irish eyes, a killing look, and said:-- "Ye're sure the both o' thim bees well?" "Yes, quite well," replied he, ignoring the inane effort at jest. She nodded a blithe good-day, and rolled on toward the lake, happy as the harvest weather, and with a kind heart for all the world. We walked on, and after the walk I dined with the rector. Dr. Sevier's place was vacant, and we talked of him. The prettiest piece of furniture in the dining-room was an extremely handsome child's high chair that remained, unused, against the wall. It was Alice's, and Alice was an almost daily visitor. It had come in almost simultaneously with Laura's marriage, and more and more frequently, as time had passed, the waiter had set it up to the table, at the Doctor's right hand, and lifted Goldenhair into it, until by and by she had totally outgrown it. But she had not grown out of the place of favor at the table. In these later days she had become quite a school-girl, and the Doctor, in his place at the table, would often sit with a faint, continuous smile on his face that no one could bring there but her, to hear her prattle about Madame Locquet, and the various girls at Madame Locquet's school. * * * "It's actually pathetic," said Laura, as we sat sipping our coffee after the meal, "to see how he idolizes that child." Alice had just left the room.