We had been sitting in the old portico, with shawls wrapt about us, and watching the moonlight on the clumps of trees, as it silvered and sprinkled them with heavenly glory, and neither of us had for a long time spoken. Claire, who connected all still, solemn beauty with the thought of her lost mother, was, I doubted not, thinking of heaven and her; and I was myself recalling my short and eventful acquaintance with her father. Claire rose from her seat, and walked down the avenue a short distance, then turned and stood by a fountain, which played by the side of a larch tree. It was a pretty picture. The fountain, the tree, and the moon, that embathed the girl, the fountain, and the tree in soft splendor. Claire had removed her shawl from her shoulders, and stood with it dropping off her arm, as motionless as a statue. Her bright, waving hair lay over her shoulders—and like the spirit of the scene she stood. As I, too, followed down the walk, I was conscious of a second figure, which, as I approached, came out from the shadow of a tree. Once in the light, I recognized Herbert, and did _not_ scream. Neither did I beckon to him to look at, and fall in love with, the beautiful being before us, because I felt very certain that if it were to be done, there could not be a better time for him to do it without my aid. And with a self-command, which I believe is rare among match-makers, I beckoned to him to retire to the house, while I went forward to Claire. She was still motionless, absorbed in thoughts of a not painful character, as was evident from the placid expression of her lifted eyes. “You will take cold, Claire,” said I, gently. “Thank you,” she answered, in her sweet French accent, “I am not afraid. You know I am used to all hours and weathers.” “But I am going in now. My son has arrived. You have never heard me speak of him, I believe—but I have felt considerable anxiety about him. An anxiety which is now happily relieved by his arrival.” She looked a little surprised, but made no inquiry and followed me into the house. I was curious to see the effect of this her first acquaintance with an accomplished and eminently attractive man. Hitherto she had seen no person above the common peasantry of the small town of Chaillot, except Father Angelo. Three weeks after this evening, Herbert came into my room, whence Claire had just gone to take a walk, and throwing himself into a chair, wiped the wet from his forehead and hair in a state of unquestionable agitation. “Come, mother! help me—help me, or I sink!” “What, really overcome? You, the redoubtable! the renowned! the invincible! Can I believe my eyes!” answered I, laughing heartily—for love-sickness, like sea-sickness, gets no sympathy—and I was really pleased to see Herbert, for once, undoubtedly in earnest.