eye, a complexion rosy as a girl's, fair hair brushed flat across his forehead, thirty years of truth-telling, cricket-playing, and the practice of three or four elementary ethical principles, not to mention an excellent tailor, all went to make this young man a refreshing and an encouraging spectacle.     

       “Bah!” I said to myself. “My friend may not be the poet-laureate or the philanthropic M. Carnegie, but at least he is no spy.”      

       By nature I am neither bashful nor immoderately timid, and it struck me that some talk with a native might be of service. My spirits, too, were rising fast. The train had not yet been stopped and searched; we were nearing the great London, where he who seeks concealment is as one pin in a trayful; the hour was early in the day, and the sun breaking out made the wet grass glisten.     

       Yes, it was hard to remain silent on that glorious September morning, even though dark thoughts sat upon the same cushion.     

       “Monsieur,” I said, “the sun is bright.”      

       With this remark he seemed to show his agreement by a slight smile and a murmured phrase. The smile was pleasant, and I felt encouraged to continue.     

       “Yet it does not always follow that the heart is gay. Indeed, monsieur, how often we see tears on a June morning, and hear laughter in March! It must have struck you often, this want of harmony in the world. Has it not?”      

       I had been so carried away my thoughts that I had failed to observe the lack of sympathy in my fellow-traveller's countenance.     

       “Possibly,” he remarked, dryly.     

       “Ah,” I said, with a smile, “you do not appreciate. You are English.”      

  

  

       “I am,” he replied. “And you are French, I suppose?”      

       At his words, suspicion woke in my heart. It was only as a Frenchman that I ran the risk of arrest.     

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