good, and respect for what is venerated by another. Put this word away
in thy soul in memory of thy friend the Père St. Esprit."




CHAPTER VIII.

THE TOBOGGAN SLIDE.

"What is there in this blossom-hour should knit
An omen in with every simple word?"

--ISABELLA VALANCEY CRAWFORD.


During the next few days I could do nothing of interest to me but make
prudent enquiries about Alexandra Grant. I remember an answer of Little
Steele's "Ah--_That_ is a beautiful girl!"

"You _were_ beautiful, Alexandra!"

I caught glimpses of her on the street and in her carriage; memory marks
the spots by a glow of light; they are my holy places. I saw her open
her purse for a blind man begging on a church step. I watched her turn
and speak politely to a ragged newsgirl. One day, when Quinet and I,
coming down from College and seeing a little boy fall on the path, threw
away our books and set him on his feet, it was _her_ face of approval
that beamed out of a carriage window on the opposite side of the street.