In spite of the attractions of the city, our sojourn in Paris was not satisfactory.  Apart from the family trouble which oppressed us, it rained nearly all the time.  We were told that in order to see Paris at its best we should come in the spring.  In the month of May it was charming.  Then everybody would be out-of-doors, and we would see a whole city enjoying life.  As we wished to enjoy life without waiting for the spring, we determined to move southward, and visit during the winter those parts of Europe which then lay under blue skies and a warm sun.  It was impossible, at present, for Pomona and Jonas to enjoy life anywhere, and they would remain in Paris, and then, if they did not find their child in a reasonable time, they would join us.  Neither of them understood French, but this did not trouble them in the slightest.  Early in their Paris wanderings they had met with a boy who had once lived in New York, and they had taken him into pay as an interpreter.  He charged them a franc and a half a day, and I am sure they got their money’s worth.

Soon after we had made up our minds to move toward the south, I came home from a visit to the bankers, and joyfully told Euphemia that I had met Baxter.

“Baxter?” said she, inquiringly; “who is he?”

“I used to go to school with him,” I said; “and to think that I should meet him here!”

“I never heard you mention him before,” she remarked.

“No,” I answered; “it must be fifteen or sixteen years since I have seen him, and really it is a great pleasure to meet him here.  He is a capital fellow.  He was very glad to see me.”

“I should think,” said Euphemia, “if you like each other so much that you would have exchanged visits in America, or, at least, have corresponded.”

“Oh, it is a very different thing at home,” I said; “but here it is delightful to meet an old school friend like Baxter.  He is coming to see us this evening.”

That evening Baxter came.  He was delighted to meet Euphemia, and inquired with much solicitude about our plans and movements.  He had never heard of my marriage, and, for years, had not known whether I was dead or alive.  Now he took the keenest interest in me and mine.  We were a little sorry to find that this was not Baxter’s first visit to Europe.  He had been here several times; and, as he expressed it, “had knocked about a good deal over the Continent.”  He was dreadfully familiar with everything, and talked about some places we were longing to see in a way that considerably dampened our enthusiasm.  In fact, there was about him an air of superiority which, though tempered by much kindliness, was not altogether agreeable.  He highly approved our idea of leaving Paris.  “The city is nothing now,” he said.  “You ought to see it in May.”  We said we had heard that, and then spoke of Italy.  “You mustn’t go there in the winter,” he said.  “You don’t see the country at its best.  May is the time for Italy.  Then it is neither too hot nor too cold, and you will find out what an Italian sky is.”  We said that we hoped to be in England in the spring, and he agreed that we were right there.  “England is never so lovely as in May.”