delicate pink and deep-red roses blossoming above our heads and
dropping their petals at our feet all the way. Francisco said he
would make my life like that walk among the roses, all sweetness
and beauty, but that he cannot tell.

"There is the old cathedral, with a wonderful head of Saint Francis
and a whole forest of columns; and when you come we will bribe the
sacristan not to lock you in, as they did at St. Roch. I shall
never be a Roman Catholic, but I go to mass sometimes, for there is
no Protestant service here, and one cannot be quite a heathen where
everybody is so devout. What I dislike most is to have a chaplain
in the house, walking about in his black petticoat, but of course I
never say a word to Francisco.

"By and by we are going to our house in Madrid. _Our house in
Madrid_! does not that sound very strange? It all seems so unreal
that I am afraid of waking up and finding it a dream.

"Do, dear Madame Fleming, give up slaving in that old school and
come and live with Francisco and me. He says he wishes you would,
and it would make everything seem more real if I had you here.
Think of it, now. You will, won't you? As ever, your dear child,

"HELEN ALVALA."

This true story suggests a little sermon in two heads: 1st. To all
possible and probable lovers: It was not the count's rank or wealth, but
the fervor and constancy of ideal love and his whole-souled, exclusive
devotion, that won the heart of the American girl. 2d. To all sensible
American parents: Do not permit your pretty young daughters to make a