The next morning I started on my return to Boston.

Early in October a servant handed me a card bearing the name Francisco
Alvala. I had ceased to think of the boy, not having heard a word from
him; but here he was, looking very manly, browned with the sun and sea,
and beautiful as Endymion when Diana stooped to kiss him and all the
green leaves in the white moonshine were tremulous with sympathy.

After the first greeting he asked, "How is Miss St. Clair? and when did
you see her last?"

I told him of my recent visit.

"She is not married, then?"

"On the contrary, she is free. The engagement with Mr. Denham has been
broken."

"What did I tell you? Did I not say it would be _I_?" in a burst of
triumph.

As a good Boston woman I am chagrined to record that Bunker Hill and all
the local lions, which I was at some pains to impress on his memory, did
not prove so attractive as the earliest Western train.

Why make a long story of what every one foresees? In the course of the
autumn and winter the count made flying visits to Washington,
Philadelphia, New Orleans, and even San Francisco, but it was noticeable
that the way to all these places lay through Detroit. He spoke English