his birth and who was mounted upon a horse with a face even
longer than his own.

And who is this tall young man who draws nearer to Gertrude
with every revolution of the horse? Ah, who, indeed? Ah,
who, who? I wonder if any of my readers could guess that
this was none other than Lord Ronald.

The two were destined to meet. Nearer and nearer they came.
And then still nearer. Then for one brief moment they met.
As they passed Gertrude raised her head and directed towards
the young nobleman two eyes so eye-like in their expression
as to be absolutely circular, while Lord Ronald directed
towards the occupant of the dogcart a gaze so gaze-like that
nothing but a gazelle, or a gas-pipe, could have emulated
its intensity.

Was this the dawn of love? Wait and see. Do not spoil
the story.



Let us speak of Gertrude. Gertrude DeMongmorenci McFiggin
had known neither father nor mother. They had both died
years before she was born. Of her mother she knew nothing,
save that she was French, was extremely beautiful, and that
all her ancestors and even her business acquaintances had
perished in the Revolution.

Yet Gertrude cherished the memory of her parents. On her