The signaling of storms and desolating cy-resentative of the family had neither the powclones to the unsuspecting seaman will, it is believed, mark a new era in our lake and coast navigation, and be the means of annually saving many lives and millions of dollars' worth of our floating property.

enced Monsieur Auguste's very willing exile; only it might well have done so.

ever.

In the midst of these reflections they reached the door of the great caravansary, from which flew forth a crowd of quick and obsequious attendants, eager to welcome milor and miladi, and save them, if that might be, the trouble of moving so much as an eyelid. Mr. Langton, with a muttered aside upon "a plague of French frogs forever hopping in the way," himself conducted his daughter to her rooms, and saw, first of all, every thing disposed for her requirements, possible or impossi

Ugly as it is, the establishment has its own sufficient reasons for existence. And they are better reasons than the deserted old château could boast in those utilitarian eyes to which a thing of beauty is not necessarily a joy forTenantless, ivy-grown, dilapidated here and there, the picturesque towers were of worth only as they helped increase the attractions of the thriving speculation on which they frowned down so grimly. The place had been admira-ble; then, with a strict injunction not to move bly chosen by one possessing a quick perception of the temporal, if not of the eternal, fitness of things. Just at one side of the rocky cliffs, it not only commands a wide, smooth beach, unsurpassed for sea-bathing, but the spring of medicinal waters from which it derives the better part of its reputation. The establishment is large, long, and straggling, a small village in itself, and filled, during the season, with that motley crowd which such a place is wont to assemble together.

From the railway station, twelve miles distant, you can reach St. Etienne by one of the diligences always in waiting for the incoming train. Or, if you do not grudge a slight extra expense, you can take an open carriage, and go at your own pace and will through the beautiful country. This had been the choice of two English travelers, father and daughter, on their way to the baths one soft May day in the year 1870.

As they neared their destination they began to overtake various loiterers scattered singly or in little groups along the road, all of whom turned to look, with a sort of idle curiosity, at the carriage and its occupants. Among them, but somewhat apart, was a young man with a pack on his shoulders, and a folded camp-stool in his hand. At the noise of wheels he too raised his eyes with a careless glance, which changed immediately into a gaze too absorbed even to notice the respectful flourish with which the driver touched his hat. Going on, the latter turned and spoke a few words in French to his passengers.

until his return, he took himself away to reconnoitre a little, according to his habit in any new surroundings.

The old château, of which he had had a glimpse before dismounting, especially interested him. A man of stirring, restless temperament, he delighted in those odds and ends of information readily acquired in traveling, and of about as much use to their possessors as so many fragments of china-ware which will never match, nor form, from all their variety, a single whole and serviceable dish. Having considered his new study from all accessible points without, Mr. Langton's next wish was to see something of its inside, and, impatient as usual, longed for some one to question at once. had not long to wait. Hearing a step on the rocks below the ledge where he had seated himself, he jumped up and accosted the newcomer, with little ceremony, in the best French he could muster.

He

But Mr. Langton's best French was singularly bad. He could ask for a dinner or a bed intelligibly enough, at any rate, to get what he wanted; but once off the beaten track, he stood, unsupported by better knowledge, as helpless as a child that has lost its way. Now, having begun half a dozen different sentences, and made an utter failure of each, he broke off short, to groan in English,

"Confound such a language! there's no making head or tail of it."

"I speak a little English, if monsieur prefers," remarked the other, with edifying gravity.

"And why the devil were you too polite to tell me that at first? There, there! I beg your

"What does he say?" asked the gentleman, bending forward. "Painter, eh? and hand-pardon." some enough for one of his own models, if he was well brushed. Uncommonly dusty; but that's all in the way of art—hey, Alice?"

"For calling me polite?" said the young man, with a smile.

"No, no, but for- Never mind! Now I look closer, it's the young painter."

"At monsieur's service," responded the oth

To this unique exposition of the artistic nature Miss Langton made no reply. It is doubtful if she even heard her father's words, occu-er, lifting his hat again. pied as she was in analyzing the look the young man had given her.

Too many admiring glances had been bestowed on Alice Langton to cause her any surprise now, but this was something else and much more than admiration; it was recognition, instantaneous and unmistakable, though qualified with a certain wonder. Yet that she had never before seen his face-a face not readily overlooked nor forgotten-she was equally certain.

66

Now, my friend, my name is Langton," said the English gentleman, abruptly, "and if you'll do me a favor you'll call me that, and not mosseer. You speak surprisingly well-for a Frenchman; and if you'd only leave those outlandish names alone, you would not be so much more out of the way than a real Englishman brought up on the Continent."

"As Mister Langtonne pleases," said the young artist, amused rather than annoyed by the oddities of his new acquaintance.

er.

"You don't ask how I know you're a paint

More French politeness, I suppose; but I'm an Englishman, thank Heaven! and I don't beat about the bush." Upon which remark followed a recital of the previous encounter.

This was especially fortunate, as it happened, for a little later Mr. Langton was summoned to England on pressing affairs that could not be shifted to other shoulders. He was obliged to go away, leaving his daughter to get well under the eye of the faithful Willetts-a sober, rather dull woman, but thoroughly devoted to Miss Langton. He went, too, having scarcely seen the commencement of the portrait, the ar

The acquaintance thus begun progressed so much to Mr. Langton's satisfaction that he was rather late in rejoining his daughter. He found her not taking the repose he had enjoined, but pacing restlessly up and down, stopping fre-rangements for which, with the restless energy quently before the window. characteristic of his whims, he had lost no time in making.

To say that Miss Langton was left to get well is not, however, precisely correct, as that implies that she was ill, which was not now the case. A low fever had hung about her during the earlier spring-time, but this had passed off, leaving no other effect than a certain languor, greatly exaggerated by the anxiety of her father for his only child. He had caught at the

"Oh, papa," she answered his remonstrance, "nothing tires me so much as lying still here with nothing to do. I had the couch moved up before the window, and looked out until I quite got myself into a fever envying you. I knew you were exploring this lovely place." "So I was, my dear," replied her father, complacently. "I've viewed it, I may say, from the four points of the compass. You remember the old shattow [such was Mr. Lang-physician's suggestion that change of air and ton's pronunciation] I pointed out to you? I've found out all about that. It belongs to the family of St. Etienne de-Lord knows what; they go back to Sharleymane, I believe. While I was sitting staring at it, who should turn up in the nick of time but our dusty young painter. A downright good fellow, if he is a Frenchman; knows the country like a book, and has got the best part of it on canvas. I've been looking at his things. That young man is going to make his mark, take my word for it. Such tone! such feeling!" enthusiastically finished Mr. Langton, who fancied himself a great connoisseur of art, and who really did care for it in his way.

"But you'll see for yourself," he began again, abruptly. "I've given him an order to paint your portrait."

"But, papa-" began Alice, turning round

in amazement.

"No buts, my dear, I beg. Remember what a comfort it will be by-and-by, when-ahem! And it's not an opportunity to be lost, I tell you, Alice."

"Shall I go at once?" asked Alice, smiling, and making as if to leave the room, "or can I wait until Miss Willetts comes?"

scene might benefit Alice, and when on the Continent had listened as eagerly to some friend who recommended the medicinal waters of St. Etienne. These he at once concluded the one thing needful to restore her constitution, and forthwith whisked her off thither to regain at her leisure her former strength.

She certainly did not look like an invalid. A little paler, perhaps, now than was her wont; but she had never been a rosy beauty, though exquisitely fair. A great deal of wavy hair, rather blonde than golden; large, pensive, dark eyes; a figure somewhat tall and slight, but with that firm, elastic grace of contour and motion which comes only from abundant health-such was the Alice Langton that was about to be transferred to the canvas of René Dessart. The peculiarity of the face lay in a little droop of the corners of the mouth and eyelids, not sufficiently marked to make the face a grave one, but just enough to give it in repose a certain expression which I may call pathetic.

She was to be painted in an old Venetian costume which had been found in turning over M. Dessart's sketches. When her father had consulted her on the subject she had said, “It is your picture, papa, and you shall choose." So he had chosen this; and although, as he himself avowed, the selection of the dress had

"Eh? Oh, you're laughing at me!" said her father, good - humoredly. "No, I think we'll wait till you're a little stronger, my dear. Sin-been made because it reminded him of a favorgular Miss Willetts's relatives must take this time to be ill. You'll be very uncomfortable without her, I'm afraid?"

ite one of Alice's, it was not the less effective, the coloring, at once brilliant and delicate, setting off to perfection Miss Langton's style of beauty. The lady in the original sits leaning a little forward from a high, dark chair, very faintly relieved with lines of gilding, the folds of her robe sweeping back to one side in stripes of the palest cream-color and rose. One hand holds, just beneath the low, square corsage, a round fan of soft white feathers, over which the

Miss Willetts was a decayed gentlewoman, to whom had been confided the care of Alice Langton's childish years, and who still remained with her in a nondescript position-half companion, half friend. She had been left, on the way, to stay with a sick niece living in a town some two days' journey from St. Etienne. This person, however, must have perceived and re-eyes look expectantly; the other rests on the pented her unwarrantable liberty in falling ill at so inconvenient a time, for she proceeded to mend with such rapidity that Miss Willetts was able to join her party in a very short while.

dark chair-arm; and a pet bird that has perched on the wrist half hidden in draperies of lacework, stretching forward his little bill, seems to listen too.

Mr. Langton had been rather late in predict- | of the room, she saw, half hidden behind an easel, ing that René Dessart would make his mark. a port-folio which, in slipping, had unfastened His name was already known in the artistic itself, and disarranged its too-plentiful contents. world. One of his pictures, exhibited in the She was free there to examine as she would; Salon, had won him much praise and the more she knew that, and, drawing out the port-folio, substantial tribute of a medal. Greater author- she began to look over the sketches. M. Dessart ities than his English patron looked confidently could not see her as she sat thus behind him, to a future worthy of the promise already given, but presently his quick ear noticed that the litand only lamented that he might endanger his tle rustle of the paper in turning had ceased alown success by a waywardness that took too together. slight account of popularity. Not that he despised either fame or money; but these, though very good in themselves, must yield if they clashed with theories and ideals whose truth he felt inflexible. Art first; success, if that were to be, after. So ran his creed, to which he held with the fidelity of a simple, earnest nature.

"May I know what is so happy as to engross mademoiselle ?" he asked. "She has not spoken for many minutes."

"Such a strange picture, Monsieur Dessart! I like it-more than I can say—and yet—” The artist, brush in hand, crossed the room, and looked over her shoulder.

"Ah! I had forgotten it was there," he said.

He was not ordinarily a portrait-painter, and the facility, even eagerness, with which he ac-"You see the resemblance ?" ceded to Mr. Langton's proposition might well, under the circumstances, have surprised that gentleman, only it never occurred to him to wonder at a young artist's accepting any commission whatever. Paint was paint, and to be turned into bread and cheese as well in one way as another. Alice, however, who could take a juster view of the case, did speculate somewhat upon the motives which had led M. Dessart out of his usual métier to make an exception in her favor.

"To me, you mean? Yes, I think so; only so much too Was it done very lately?" she asked, breaking off abruptly.

"Two months since. Mademoiselle will not finish? She was saying 'so much too-""

Whatever the cause, the result was, at any rate, an agreeable one. Indeed, these sittings soon became very pleasant to both of them. Their minds had so much in common, yet often at the same time such different points of view, that the interest of their conversation could not easily flag. Poor Miss Willetts, patient and silent, with her book in a corner, must have been pretty well bewildered with so much as she could comprehend of their widely ranging discussions, carried on sometimes in French, sometimes in English, which M. Dessart spoke fluently. Upon Miss Langton's remarking as much one day, he told her that, while a boy at school, his most intimate companion had been a young English lad, whom some chance had placed there also. They had lived thus intimately together for four years, had afterward entered the same studio, and dwelt together like brothers until death came between them.

"What I have of your language I owe to poor George. But my unfortunate accent, that is what he could not take from me; and I could never pass for your real English," he added, with a smile at the recollection of Mr. Langton's introductory words. Alice thought that that same accent, and little occasional odd turns of phrase, gave his speech a piquancy by no means to be wished away.

Alice, who had begun to speak impulsively, had stopped short in a speech which she thought seemed almost to demand a compliment. But now, directly questioned, she must either refuse to answer or make the matter more marked by hesitation.

"Too beautiful," she said, hurriedly.

"Too beautiful!" repeated the young man, with a tone and look at once the most subtly flattering and the farthest removed from common compliment possible. Her eyes turned for relief to the picture, and both continued to look at it in silence.

It was a little crayon sketch, perfectly simple in subject, and yet, as Alice had thought, with something peculiar about it. The sea, lashed and broken after a storm, was glooming under the sullen twilight beginning to close about it. On the rocks of the shore stood a girl, a black mantle wrapped round her white robe and half falling off her fair hair. Her eyes were turning from the dark, waste waters before her to the dark, vague sky behind, where a single line of light gleamed out of the blackness with an intensity almost startling. Nowhere else was there even a glimmer, save for one dim star, guessed at rather than seen, struggling to look through the cloud about it on the shock of billows below. In those lovely, dilated eyes there was a helplessness, a hopelessness, a lonely terror, whose fascination seemed for the moment to draw the beholder into that same atmosphere of desolation, where presence yet was not companionship.

"The storm and the sea," said Alice, almost unconsciously thinking aloud. "He is on the sea, and she is looking-"

Mindful of his sitter's recent illness, M. Dessart would not allow her to fatigue herself too long with one position. In the intervals of rest "For what will never come back." René she would loiter about the studio, looking at Dessart's low, sad voice completed the pause. this and that, or gazing out on the richly varied "But, Monsieur Dessart," said Alice at prospect beyond, talking the while with the art-length, abruptly, “two months ago you had not ist at his work. One day, thus making the tour seen me. Then it is not-"

him.

"A study from mademoiselle, she would ask? | selle chooses to overpay me—a thousand times— Mademoiselle, it is a study from a dream. Yes," she will, perhaps, permit that I make for myself he repeated, as Alice looked up at him in sur- a little copy of this," touching the canvas before prise, "a dream, a vision. When I came here first that scene, that face, haunted me day and night until I had placed it before my eyes. Then I saw you, and I knew my dream."

As he spoke Alice recalled that look of wondering recognition which had struck her on their first encounter.

"How strange! Yes, it is very like me,” turning again to the picture. "But, Monsieur Dessart, has my face that sad look ?"

"Its possibilities. Please God they may never be more." He spoke in a strange, absent way, with eyes that, gazing into vacancy, seemed to see other visions there.

own.

"Monsieur Dessart," said Alice, after a while, "I should so like this picture for my Or, perhaps," she continued, seeing that he made no reply, and fearing to have made a request which he might be equally unwilling to grant or to refuse-"perhaps you will be so kind as to make me a copy ?"

"Mademoiselle, I shall never copy the sketch. I do not dare. I fear the omen. What I wish is to forget it. Many times I have thought to destroy it, but something held my hand. Then I placed it out of sight, and thought, no eye shall see it; I will not remember. Pardon, mademoiselle, that I should not regard any wish of yours, but I have the fear for you."

How was she to refuse him what, after all, had he so chosen, he might have taken without the asking? So the exchange was settled to their mutual satisfaction.

Miss Langton did not realize how largely M. Dessart's society had contributed to her daily enjoyment until the artist went off on a few days' sketching tour, inveigled by a brother of the craft who had taken up his abode somewhat farther down the coast. Then she began to find St. Etienne a dull enough little place, and the patients, pursuing their tread-mill round of bathing, drinking, and bathing again, insufferably tedious. She was glad of any diversion, and looked forward with more interest than she would once have thought possible to a fête which was to be held at Quinet, the nearest railway station, and a thriving little town. It was one of the ordinary French fêtes, with the ordinary French characteristics-curious enough to a stranger, and the delight of the villagers, less critical than their Parisian brethren. There were the great panoramic displays, contained in a box-like building some dozen feet square; there were the jugglers going through their wonderful feats in the most matter-of-fact way, as if knives were made to be swallowed, and bodies to be cut in two and stuck together again without inconvenience to the owners; there were the circuses, with their horses that could count and tell the hour of day, and their acrobat turning leisurely on his head on the top of a tall pole, amidst the breathless ecstasy of the beholders; there was the traveling shooting-gallery, in appearance very like an itinerant daguerrean saloon, and adorned outside with a work of art representing two chairs and a coffin-like table, over which a high-colored and smiling gentleman, with eyes firmly fixed in the opposite direction, was firing a pistol, in presence of a woman and boy equally high colored, but with a solemnity of expression not exaggerated, perhaps, in view of so utter a lack of aim; there was the puppet army, of any nationality you happened to hate, whose movable heads you might have the satisfaction of knocking off with a death-dealing rubber ball at a sou the shot; while among these and many kindred marvels were scattered the refreshment-tables, with their detestable lemonade and "spice"I bread," which, if it did not tempt the eye like Dead Sea fruit, certainly turned to something as unpalatable on the lips. Add a crowd of peasants in holiday costume, their bright southern faces all alive, every gesture a speech, and you have a scene, for a time at least, very amus

He spoke with an earnestness, a solemnity even, which had its effect on Alice, little superstitious as she was. Of course she could not urge the subject further. But it staid in her thoughts, nevertheless; and though she spoke of other things, her mind was not with her words. M. Dessart very quickly perceived this.

"You think still of the picture, mademoiselle?" he said, stopping his brush to look at her, as she sat before him, when the sitting had recommenced, with that pensive shadow in her eyes, quite lost in reverie. "It haunts you, perhaps, as it once did me? Ah, well; I know, then, that one must exorcise the phantom; it will not rest otherwise. I must not venture to make the copy; but if mademoiselle will honor me by accepting the sketch, all unfinished as it is, we will hope the spell is broken in her hand." "But, Monsieur Dessart, you are too kind," cried Miss Langton, in surprised delight, with which mingled a little embarrassment. shall be very, very glad to have the picture, but I did not mean to seem such a beggar. I can only console myself," she added, laughing, "by thinking that if you had kept it, it would have been, perhaps, only to destroy it, as you said."

"And if I had kept it," said the artist, smiling and attractive. ing too, "I should soon have found that I was So Miss Langton found it. Having driven copying it in the spirit at least. Your eyes were getting sad as hers. So, do you see, it was nothing else than policy on my part. But," he continued, with some hesitation, "if mademoi

over rather late, she had not yet begun to weary of the novel experience. She was thinking how much her enjoyment of it would have been heightened by M. Dessart's appreciative com