“To meet again,” said I; and we parted. As he disappeared over the brow of the hill, I could hear the poor fellow trying to lighten his crushed heart with his boisterous sea-song. The next morning Mr. Thornton and his daughter left for England. A few weeks after that I was in Paris. Months rolled by; September was come, and Roderick’s story had nearly slipped from my mind. One fine evening I was sauntering along the Champs Elysées, where one is sure to see at that time, all the notables that may be luxuriating in the French capital; when I recognized in a gay equipage the beautiful features of Miss Thornton. She was paler than when I had seen her last, but still very beautiful. I watched her some moments, to catch her eye; and when she did look toward me, I took the liberty of saluting her. She flushed, and turned her head aside, but did not acknowledge the salutation. “So much for my impudence,” said I; and I saluted no one else that evening. A day or two after, I was dining with some friends at Vantini’s. Opposite us at the table d’hôte, were two vacant chairs. “We are unfortunate to-day,” said my friend, “for I was anxious you should see a very pretty English girl who sits opposite. Clara,” said he, turning to his wife, “what is the name of our little beauty across the table? I never can think of it, for I can’t help calling her Miss Mary.” “Oh,” said Mrs. F., “I wish you to know them—so agreeable; and going on a tour through the United States. They are a Mr. and Miss Thornton—father and daughter; and as you are going soon, I do wish you could go together.” “So, so!” thought I; “here is a little bit of adventure if they only come in.” And I consoled myself with the thought that I could not come out of it worst. Soon a couple of servants ushered a lady and gentleman along the hall, and Mr. and Miss Thornton appeared before me, she glowing with health and beauty. They both greeted me warmly, which somewhat astonished my friends as well as myself. I was taken aback, but I had been not a little nettled, and was determined not to be outdone, so said as little as I could. “Why!” said Mrs. F., “you are old friends, then! All my anxiety was thrown away!” “I supposed we were,” said I, “until last Tuesday evening.” “Last Tuesday evening!” exclaimed Miss T. “Why, what happened? You puzzle me.” “Merely that I took the liberty of recognizing _an old friend_, and was _cut_—that’s all.” “You puzzle me still more. Where were you at the time?” “Below the place d’étoile.” “Are you sure it was on Tuesday?” “Perfectly sure.” She burst into a laugh, and her father smiled. “It must have been the longest cut I ever gave in my life. I only wish I _could_ cut that far off—I know some who should suffer”—and she laughed again. “It’s the first time I ever heard of a sane gentleman, standing in the Champs Elysées, to take off his hat to a lady in Brussels.” The laugh was decidedly against me, and we were soon on the best of terms.