Marjory did not look deeply offended, even at the “absurd inscription;” and the conversation continued, upon different and indifferent subjects, until John bethought himself of his duty, and came to find her.  She introduced her squire to him, and after a few minutes more of pleasant conversation they separated, Mr. Owen—­such was the natural philosopher’s name—­having received John’s assurance of a speedy call upon him, and given his address with an alacrity which proved, John thought, that they were kindred spirits.

As they walked home, John suddenly exclaimed, “You know I never remember faces, Peg, but somehow I feel as if I had seen that fellow before.  He’s an uncommonly good fellow, and Mrs. Grove says he is very fond of my hobby, as you call it, so I shall go to see him soon.”

Of course Marjory gave him an outline of her evening’s adventure “upon this hint,” and he laughed heartily at the whole thing, assuring her that he had never believed for a moment in such an absurd possibility as she had fancied.

Well, what of it all?  Nothing particular.  Mr. Owen and John are fast friends by this time.  Marjory is beginning to take an interest in natural history.  Also, she has lost all faith in conviction upon circumstantial evidence.  She is “o’er young to marry yet,” her aunt thinks, and so do I of course, for this is not a love-story:  I wish that to be distinctly understood.

MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

THE MYSTERY OF MASSABIELLE.

It was a mild and pleasant day in the middle of February, and the bright sunlight streamed through the windows of the poor little room where Madame Soubirons sat alone.  The table, with its dishes neatly arranged for the noonday meal, stood in the middle of the room.  A pot hung in the large fireplace, and a skillet sat upon the few remaining coals.  There was nothing with which to replenish the fire, and Madame Soubirons sat gazing at the flickering embers with a rueful face.  “A cold hearth is more chilling than the mountains,” she said; and she rose and went out of the poor little apartment, which, with all its poverty, would not have been cheerless had a bright fire glowed upon the neatly-kept hearth, and sat down upon the doorstep, where the sunlight fell warmly.

From this position was afforded a view of a picturesque and romantic landscape, presenting in the foreground a portion of the quaint village of Lourdes, with the cross of the old church brightly gleaming in the sunlight above the thickly-clustered cottage roofs.  Farther away stood the great mill, and grimly from its rocky seat frowned the ancient castle, of which the people of Lourdes never wearied of telling that it had been besieged by Charlemagne centuries ago.  In the distance glanced the river Gave, fighting its rock-riven way to the sea.  The prospect, growing continually more grand as it receded, was finally hedged about by the majestic Pyrenees, which lifted their glimmering snows against the pale winter sky.