"She seemed to me a very charming girl," I rejoined. "And I learned
that she speaks four languages."

"It is not only that," said Mrs. Church, in a tone which suggested
that this might be a very superficial species of culture. "She has
made what we call de fortes etudes--such as I suppose you are making
now. She is familiar with the results of modern science; she keeps
pace with the new historical school."

"Ah," said I, "she has gone much farther than I!"

"You doubtless think I exaggerate, and you force me, therefore, to
mention the fact that I am able to speak of such matters with a
certain intelligence."

"That is very evident," I said. "But your daughter thinks you ought
to take her home." I began to fear, as soon as I had uttered these
words, that they savoured of treachery to the young lady, but I was
reassured by seeing that they produced on her mother's placid
countenance no symptom whatever of irritation.

"My daughter has her little theories," Mrs. Church observed; "she
has, I may say, her illusions. And what wonder! What would youth be
without its illusions? Aurora has a theory that she would be happier
in New York, in Boston, in Philadelphia, than in one of the charming
old cities in which our lot is cast. But she is mistaken, that is
all. We must allow our children their illusions, must we not? But
we must watch over them."

Although she herself seemed proof against discomposure, I found