“Why, has not Eugene told you all you wish to know?  Apropos!  I saw him at a party last night, playing the devoted to that little beauty, Netta Dupres.  We were all in Paris at the same time.  I don’t fancy her; she is too insufferably vain and affected.  It is my opinion that she is flirting with Eugene, which must be quite agreeable to you.  Oh, I tell you, Beulah, I could easily put her mind, heart, and soul in my thimble!”

“I did not ask your estimate of Miss Dupres.  I want to know something of your European tour.  I see Eugene very rarely.”

“Oh, of course we went to see all the sights, and very stupid it was.  Mr. Lockhart scolded continually about my want of taste and appreciation, because I did not utter all the interjections of delight and astonishment over old, tumbledown ruins, and genuine ‘masterpieces’ of art, as he called them.  Upon my word, I have been tired almost to death, when he and ma descanted by the hour on the ‘inimitable, and transcendent, and entrancing’ beauties and glories of old pictures, that were actually so black with age that they looked like daubs of tar, and I could not tell whether the figures were men or women, archangels or cow drivers.  Some things I did enjoy; such as the Alps, and the Mediterranean, and St. Peter’s, and Westminster Abbey, and some of the German cathedrals.  But as to keeping my finger on the guide-book and committing all the ecstasy to memory, to spout out just at the exact moment when I saw nothing to deserve it, why, that is all fudge.  I tell you there is nothing in all Europe equal to our Niagara!  I was heartily glad to come home, though I enjoyed some things amazingly.”

“How is Mr. Lockhart’s health?”

“Very poor, I am sorry to say.  He looks so thin and pale I often tell him he would make quite as good a pictured saint as any we saw abroad.”

“How long will you remain here?”

“Till Uncle Guy thinks Mr. Lockhart is well enough to go to his plantation, I suppose.”

“What makes you so restless, Pauline?  Why don’t you sit still?” asked Beulah, observing that her visitor twisted about as if uncomfortable.

“Because I want to tell you something, and really do not know how to begin,” said she, laughing and blushing.

“I cannot imagine what should disconcert you, Pauline.”

“Thank you.  Truly, that is a flattering tribute to my sensibility.  Beulah, can’t you guess what I have to tell you?”

“Certainly not.  But why should you hesitate to disclose it?”

“Simply because your tremendous gray eyes have such an owlish way of looking people out of countenance.  Now, don’t look quite through me, and I will pluck up my courage, and confess.  Beulah—­I am going to be married soon.”  She hid her crimsoned cheeks behind her hands.

“Married! impossible!” cried Beulah.

“But I tell you I am!  Here is my engagement ring.  Now, the most astonishing part of the whole affair is that my intended sovereign is a minister!  A preacher, as solemn as Job!”