“The railway will bring them, however,” says Sylvia, beginning to hum a Strauss waltz. At this moment a carriage appears driving along the lane. It is a small basket-phaeton, drawn by a large horse, instead of a pony, and contains a lady and a gentleman. The wheels roll smoothly and easily over the shadow-dappled road; the lady holds her fringed parasol with coquettish grace; the sound of their gay voices floats to us. We begin to walk on, but Sylvia looks round. “After all, driving is pleasanter than walking,” she says. “Are you tired?” says Charley. “Take my arm.” Before she can accept or decline this civility, an exclamation is heard from the phaeton. “_Ciel!_” cries a voice with a French accent, “is not that Sylvia Norwood? I am sure it must be!—Victor, stop—stop a moment!” “But you are not sure, Adèle,” a man’s voice remonstrates. “I must make sure,” replies the other, eagerly. Then the tall horse is induced to stop, and we look at Sylvia. She turns toward the phaeton, and, as the lady springs lightly to the ground, advances, and holds out her hand. “You are Adèle Dupont,” she says. “I am very glad to meet you.” “It is—it is herself!” cries Miss Dupont, rushing forward, and embracing her with effusion. In the effort to refrain from smiling—knowing that the eyes of the gentleman in the phaeton are upon us—we all look so grave that one might suppose something very sad to be occurring. In reality I am much amused. I have heard of Miss Dupont—a creole, from New Orleans, with whom Sylvia was at school—and I know that the encounter is not altogether agreeable to the latter. She puts what is popularly known as “a good face” on the matter, however, and, when the embraces and kisses subside, says: “How singular that we should meet here, Adèle! Where do you come from?” “From the Warm Springs,” answers Adèle. “We reached there a month ago, and I should have been content to stay until it was time to go back to New Orleans, but some of our party wanted to travel. We arrived here day before yesterday. We are going—oh, everywhere! And you?” “I reached here with a party, last night. The length of our stay is indefinite—our plans are indefinite, also. Here is my sister, let me introduce you.” Miss Dupont is introduced to me, Eric is presented, also Charley. She says something graceful and flattering to each of us—being, evidently, one of the persons whose ease and readiness, especially in the line of compliments, make less-favored people feel stiff and awkward. Then she turns to Sylvia: “Now that you have made me acquainted with your sister and cousins,” she says, “I must introduce my brother to you.—Victor, can you leave the horse for a few minutes?”