across the street by his fair companion, and into the midst of the little
group with whom Savarin had paused to speak. Accidentally brushing
against Savarin himself, he raised his eyes with a start, about to mutter
some conventional apology, when Julie felt the arm on which she leant
tremble nervously. Before him stood Isaura, the Countess de Vandemar by
her side; her two other companions, Raoul and the Abbe Vertpre, a step or
two behind.

Gustave uncovered, bowed low, and stood mute and still for a moment,
paralysed by surprise and the chill of a painful shame.

Julie's watchful eyes, following his, fixed themselves on the same face.
On the instant she divined the truth. She beheld her to whom she had
owed months of jealous agony, and over whom, poor child, she thought she
had achieved a triumph. But the girl's heart was so instinctively good
that the sense of triumph was merged in a sense of compassion. Her rival
had lost Gustave. To Julie the loss of Gustave was the loss of all that
makes life worth having. On her part, Isaura was moved not only by the
beauty of Julie's countenance, but still more by the childlike
ingenuousness of its expression.

So, for the first time in their lives, met the child and the stepchild of
Louise Duval. Each so deserted, each so left alone and inexperienced
amid the perils of the world, with fates so different, typifying orders
of womanhood so opposed. Isaura was naturally the first to break the
silence that weighed like a sensible load on all present.

She advanced towards Rameau, with sincere kindness in her look and tone.

"Accept my congratulations," she said, with a grave smile. "Your mother