THE MAN FROM AMERICA.

It was the sort of window which was common in Paris about the end of the
seventeenth century. It was high, mullioned, with a broad transom
across the centre, and above the middle of the transom a tiny coat of
arms--three caltrops gules upon a field argent--let into the
diamond-paned glass. Outside there projected a stout iron rod, from
which hung a gilded miniature of a bale of wool which swung and squeaked
with every puff of wind. Beyond that again were the houses of the other
side, high, narrow, and prim, slashed with diagonal wood-work in front,
and topped with a bristle of sharp gables and corner turrets. Between
were the cobble-stones of the Rue St. Martin and the clatter of
innumerable feet.

Inside, the window was furnished with a broad bancal of brown stamped
Spanish leather, where the family might recline and have an eye from
behind the curtains on all that was going forward in the busy world
beneath them. Two of them sat there now, a man and a woman, but their
backs were turned to the spectacle, and their faces to the large and
richly furnished room. From time to time they stole a glance at each
other, and their eyes told that they needed no other sight to make them
happy.

Nor was it to be wondered at, for they were a well-favoured pair.
She was very young, twenty at the most, with a face which was pale,
indeed, and yet of a brilliant pallor, which was so clear and fresh, and
carried with it such a suggestion of purity and innocence, that one
would not wish its maiden grace to be marred by an intrusion of colour.
Her features were delicate and sweet, and her blue-black hair and long