[C] Mr. Wallace speaks of having collected over two hundred species in the Rio Negro; but as these were unfortunately lost, and never described, they cannot be counted as belonging among the possessions of the scientific world. DOCTOR JOHNS. XLIX. At about the date of this interview which we have described as having taken place beyond the seas,--upon one of those warm days of early winter, which, even in New England, sometimes cheat one into a feeling of spring,--Adele came strolling up the little path that led from the parsonage gate to the door, twirling her muff upon her hand, and thinking--thinking--But who shall undertake to translate the thought of a girl of nineteen in such moment of revery? With the most matter of fact of lives it would be difficult. But in view of the experience of Adele, and of that fateful mystery overhanging her,--well, think for yourself,--you who touch upon a score of years, with their hopes,--you who have a passionate, clinging nature, and only some austere, prim matron to whom you may whisper your confidences,--what would you have thought, as you twirled your muff, and sauntered up the path to a home that was yours only by sufferance, and yet, thus far, your only home? The chance villagers, seeing her lithe figure, her well-fitting pelisse, her jaunty hat, her blooming cheeks, may have said, "There goes a fortunate one!" But if the thought of poor Adele took one shape more than another, as she returned that day from a visit to her sweet friend Rose, it was this: "How drearily unfortunate I am!" And here a little burst of childish laughter breaks on her ear. Adele, turning to the sound, sees that poor outcast woman who had been the last and most constant attendant upon Madame Arles coming down the street, with her little boy frolicking beside her. Obeying an impulse she was in no mood to resist, she turns back to the gate to greet them; she caresses the boy; she has kindly words for the mother, who could have worshipped her for the caress she has given to her outcast child. "I likes you," says the sturdy urchin, sidling closer to the parsonage gate, over which Adele leans. "You's like the French ooman." Whereupon Adele, in the exuberance of her kindly feelings, can only lean over and kiss the child again. Miss Johns, looking from her chamber, is horrified. Had it been summer, she would have lifted her window and summoned Adele. But she never forgot--that exemplary woman--the proprieties of the seasons, any more than other proprieties; she tapped upon the glass with her thimble, and beckoned the innocent offender into the parsonage. "I am astonished, Adele!"--these were her first words; and she went on to belabor the poor girl in fearful ways,--all the more fearful because she spoke in the calmest possible tones. She never used others, indeed; and it is not to be doubted that she reckoned this forbearance among her virtues.