Mrs. Clarkson, however, having carried the outposts and principal barriers successfully, was not to be thwarted by a mere matter of sentiment. She expressed her intention of departing forthwith for Detroit, assuring him that she would no longer remain in a country where such intolerant bigotry existed, and instructed him, if he loved her as he pretended, to sell his property in Canada and follow her thither. Clarkson was loth to leave his relations and the home of his childhood, but the temptress lured him gradually on, refusing at times even to see a man who valued his narrow-minded friends’ opinion rather than her love, and at length he consented to sell his farm for whatever it would bring, and to rejoin her in Detroit. This was another piece of generalship on the part of the widow, as, did they remain in Canada, she could not, in the event of her husband’s death hold the property which would revert to her hated sister-in-law; but that being now converted into cash she was at liberty to squander it during her husband’s life-time, retaining the fortune left by her first husband for the future use of herself and children. For a time Mr. Clarkson lived with his sister-in-law in a princely style in Detroit. They entertained largely and handsomely, and most of their guests neither cared nor enquired who they were, or whence they came. They had not been there more than six weeks when Mrs. Clarkson made the acquaintance of Count Von Alba, who for some time had been the lion of fashionable circles in Detroit. Von Alba was a Russian, who (for political reasons said his friends, for criminal reasons said his enemies) had emigrated to America and lived on his fortune (his friends insisted)--his wits, said his enemies again. Whichever surmise was correct, Von Alba was undoubtedly good-looking. He stood five feet eleven inches in his stockings, and was powerfully built; his complexion, like most Russians was dark, and his lofty forehead was surmounted with curls of the darkest brown. At the time of the Clarksons residence, the Count was about five-and-thirty years old; he had naturally a genial manner and a good-humored expression of countenance, and a scar on his forehead (obtained, he said, when a lad, at Inkerman) made him an object of feminine admiration, while he was at the same time greatly envied by the opposite sex. Von Alba was a sort of Admirable Crichton. He rode like Nimrod, danced like Terpsichore, drove like Jehu, shot like William Tell, and sang like Sims Reeves. It was in the _latter_ accomplishment, however, that he chiefly excelled; he would stand up at the end of a crowded drawing-room, and, playing a delicate accompaniment on his guitar, would vocalize one of the passionate love-songs of his native land. Sometimes he sang in English, then his defective pronunciation lent a strange charm to his singing, which, although it could scarcely be accounted for, made itself felt even in the bosoms of the dilettanti.