this new sensation of a first literary success, full of the keen
pleasure this visit to the beautiful city was giving her, bubbling
over with the joy of life, happy in the almost daily companionship
of the man she liked most in the world after her father, there was
only one thing lacking--home! She had left New York only a month
before, and she was homesick already. Her father she missed most.
She was fond of her mother, too, but the latter, being somewhat of
a nervous invalid, had never been to her quite what her father had
been. The playmate of her childhood, companion of her girlhood,
her friend and adviser in womanhood, Judge Rossmore was to his
daughter the ideal man and father. Answering Jefferson's question
she said:

"I had a letter from father last week. Everything was going on at
home as when I left. Father says he misses me sadly, and that
mother is ailing as usual."

She smiled, and Jefferson smiled too. They both knew by experience
that nothing really serious ailed Mrs. Rossmore, who was a good
deal of a hypochondriac, and always so filled with aches and pains
that, on the few occasions when she really felt well, she was
genuinely alarmed.

The _fiacre_ by this time had emerged from the Rue de Rivoli and
was rolling smoothly along the fine wooden pavement in front of
the historic Conciergerie prison where Marie Antoinette was
confined before her execution. Presently they recrossed the Seine,
and the cab, dodging the tram car rails, proceeded at a smart pace
up the "Boul' Mich'," which is the familiar diminutive bestowed by
the students upon that broad avenue which traverses the very heart