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 "Or the mob," said the young man, "when they sacked the Tuileries."

"Is she not precious, the little girl in the blue frock?"

At the sound of soft accents, Northcote, a little startled, swung round to confront a lady. She had come upon him noiselessly, and was standing at his side.

"Hullo, Angel!" said Mr. Whitcomb, bestowing a kiss upon her; "this is late for you. Allow me to present Mr. Northcote, England's future Lord Chancellor."

Northcote found himself to be holding the hand of a singularly beautiful woman. All that art can devise to enhance the sure, strong, and original groundwork of nature was displayed about her, chastely yet abundantly. Diamonds were strewn in the flounces of her gown; three tight bands of pearls clasped her throat; her shoulders gleamed; her hair had the evanescent hues of the fleeciest silk—each tress was the fruit of cunning and labor. Yet through every curve of her gorgeous fairness there peeped forth an almost quaint simplicity. Her eyes were bright; her features, each of which seemed to add a personal brilliancy to her expression, had a lustre at once naïve and opulent, as becomes one who accepts greedily all the thousand and one glittering and delightful minutiæ that money adds to life; who has both hands out-*stretched to receive them; who carries them joyously, like a child, to her bosom; who presses them to her lips.

"His name is Northcote," said the solicitor, patting her white arm. "From the window of his