Is it not written that good Americans, when they die, go to Paris? So Elysium to all righteous sons of Cockayne is Brussels. And yet I was weary of it. No charms for me had the perpetual sabots and blouses, the _braves Belges_ in jaunty uniform, the bejewelled saunterers in the Galerie St. Hubert, the _gauche_ tourists desecrating the sombre stillness of the St. Gudule, _la belle Anglaise_ seeing for the first time the outrageous little manikin, the homely phaeton of good old King Leopold with its pair of very unroyal plugs, the tirailleurs in Lincoln green, the Parc with its music, fountains and maitrank, the Jardin des Plantes, the boulevard, and the Ecole d'Equitation. All lost on me. I stood at a window of the Hotel de Flandres gazing on the ever-moving panorama of the Grande Place with as little interest as though my eye rested on a vacant lot in Pumpkinville. Was it bile? No. Was it love? Yes. Another scene was ever before my eyes: An old red-brick house on the cliffs of Devonshire, half hid by giant oaks and elms, fragrant with honeysuckle and jessamine, stately with avenue, lawn, and rookery; and I saw leaning on the rustic gate beneath the chestnut trees Gwendoline Grey: her straw hat dangling by her side, her fresh young face set in a glory of light brown hair, her---- But it had all passed away now. The light was gone out of my life, for but three days ago I had received a letter from her mother deploring my altered prospects, returning my billets and love tokens, and assuring me that Gwendoline acquiesced in this painful decision. My altered prospects--_hinc illae lacrymae_. Nine months ago I was heir to a wealthy man, and now I was but bear-leader to the son of the Earl of Tottenbridge. Upon the loss of my father's property, which had come like an avalanche on us, I had left college and assumed the tutorship of the Hon. Nigel Fairleigh, as good a lad as ever handled a cricket bat. After a brief run through southern Europe, I had just delivered him up to his aunt, my lady Milton, who was to take him to Scotland, while I was free, according to compact, to enjoy a couple of months' vacation. How I had longed for this vacation--and now, where to go, what to do, I knew not. For three days I had stayed with a dull uncertainty on the spot where the blow had fallen on me. My meditations were broken by the entrance of a garcon announcing, "A gentleman for monsieur." "Ah, M. Danneris, I am glad to see you. Be seated." To say how I became acquainted with the chatty little Frenchman who sat before me would be a difficult matter. The offer of a cigar, an exchange of newspapers at the reading room, a passing _bon jour_ on the stairs, had ripened under his friendly gayety into a familiarity which had extended so far as to my passing more than one evening at his snug office in the Rue des Allumettes, where Francois Danneris, advocate, spun toils for litigious Flemish _bourgeoises_.