Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.

She was right.  There was no need of any words when they got home, for Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from seeing.  Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be home, and when Jo went down, she found that she would be spared the hard task of telling Beth’s secret.  Her father stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came in, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went to comfort her without a word.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

NEW IMPRESSIONS

At three o’clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais—­a charming place, for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills.  Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival.  Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing the latest celebrity who has arrived—­Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands.  The equipages are as varied as the company and attract as much attention, especially the low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind.

Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance.  He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American—­a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches.  There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde girl in blue.  Presently he strolled out of the promenade and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach toward Castle Hill.  The quick trot of ponies’ feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came rapidly down the street.  The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in blue.  He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.