The count had called for no other purpose than to delight his senses with the sight of flowers, of which he was excessively fond; but standing there among the magnificent array of colors, and breathing the delicious breath of jasmines and heliotropes, he saw nothing, was conscious of nothing, but the presence of a charming woman, whose every movement, every outline, was a study, from the poise of her regal head to the step of her beautiful feet. As the conversation continued, his wonder increased that there should be found in an out-of-the-way, unknown niche of the world like this Oakdale, a woman of such rare intelligence, such grace of bearing, and that clear and concise expression of thoughts, found very seldom among women, and not often among men, except a choice few. Then there was a modesty surrounding her like an atmosphere—not the modesty that is supposed to belong only to refined women, but the modesty of the philosopher, and which is as charming in men as in women, and equally rare in both. Yet she was self-poised, sure of herself, and when she raised her long, dark lashes, and flashed her splendid frank eyes upon him, he felt a diffidence in her presence, arising from his keen desire to please her, and which was as new to him as it was charming. While they were talking, Min came to the door and stopped, watching the count. As soon as he saw her, she made him a courtesy—a thing she seldom did impromptu, though she practiced it often before Clara and with her, Clara considering it an art, like musical execution, not to be attained except by commencing early. Min somewhat overdid it on this occasion, but the count returned the salutation very gravely and impressively. Min laughed. This just suited her, for she was, as the doctor said, a born courtier. “This is your brother’s child,” said the count, addressing Clara. “Why, she is wonderfully beautiful!” Minnie opened a conversation with the count, which soon developed so many purely family matters, that Clara suggested her going away. “Oh, do let me stay, auntie dear. I won’t talk so much any more.” After a little silence on her part, during which Min watched the count as a cat would a mouse, she asked, “Do you know what my name is?” “I do. It is Minnie.” “What is your name? please.” “It is Paul.” “Oh, that is a nice name. Paul, are you going to stay to dinner?” she asked, insinuating her hand into his. Both smiled at this outrageous freedom in the child; but Clara said, “Minnie, you must know——” “Now, auntie dear, _please_!” and she pressed her dimpled fingers tightly over her lips, as much as to say, “Not one more word shall they utter.”