up their courage--they were even gay. Hardships were nothing, but that
Paris should be surrendered at last--that was a humiliation which
nothing could compensate. Many of the gay dancers whom we had known had
fallen in battle, among them, René Vergniaud. He was shot in the heart
in an engagement with the Prussians in the environs of Paris.

I spent my next summer vacation with Miss St. Clair in Detroit.

"When is Mr. Denham coming home?" I asked one evening when we were alone
together.

"I do not know: he does not speak of coming home. I am a little puzzled
about Fred. He has written me a great deal lately about a certain
Fräulein Teresa, the daughter of one of his professors, who takes such
excellent care of her younger brothers and sisters, and who is such a
wonderfully economical, housewifely little body--just a new edition of
Werther's Charlotte. I do not think that he really likes her," she
continued after musing a little: "he just holds her up as a model for me
to copy. I shouldn't wonder if she was only imaginary, to make me feel
how far I come short of his ideal. Fred says that he worships the very
ground I tread on--slightly hyperbolical and very original, you
perceive," with a satirical curve of her pretty lips--"but he never
seems half satisfied with me. He ought to know by this time that I must
be just my own little self, and not a second-hand imitation of somebody
else."

The next day came a letter with a German postmark, which was so eloquent
on the subject of Fräulein Teresa that it elicited the following reply:

"DETROIT, August 5, 1871.