so like us in heart," remarked the young man at her side.

There was something about this speech which I did not altogether like,
though I could not detect anything like sarcasm in the tone of the
speaker.

"And yet," continued the lovely girl, "you never saw him living--never
heard his sweet voice, which still seems to come back to me like a
melody from the distance."

"Was he your father?" I asked.

The question seemed to surprise her very much. "_He_ is our
father," she returned, with a glance at the old gentleman, which seemed
strange, for he certainly looked aged enough to be her great-grandfather.

He smiled and said: "You forget, my daughter, that I am as little known
to this stranger to our country as all the great and illustrious
personages he has mentioned are to us."

At this point I began to lose interest in the conversation. It was
enough for me to feel that I held that precious hand in mine, and
presently I felt tempted to administer a gentle squeeze. She looked at
me and smiled, then glanced over my whole person, the survey finishing
at my boots, which seemed to have a disagreeable fascination for her.
She shivered slightly, and withdrew her hand from mine, and in my heart
I cursed those rusty, thick-soled monstrosities in which my feet were
cased. However, we were all on a better footing now; and I resolved for
the future to avoid all dangerous topics, historical and geographical,
and confine myself to subjects relating to the emotional side of our