granddaughter brought a bottle of—what do you think? Pontet Canet! It was nectar, and cost—three francs a bottle!
When we drove away Miss Randolph was reflective. I would have liked to offer a penny for her thoughts, but that sort of indulgence is not in the sphere of a chauffeur. Presently she broke out, however. "Did you ever see anything so lovely as that girl?" she exclaimed. "She's all white and gold and rose. Her presence in that sombre place reminds me of a shaft of warm, golden light breaking through the dark canopy of pines. She's like a maiden in Hans Christian Andersen. And her name's Angèle. Isn't that perfect? It seems cruel that such a creature, who would make a sensation in Paris or London or New York, must bloom and ripen and wither at last, unknown, in that wilderness. Oh, how I should love to snatch her away?"
"What would you do with her, miss, if you could?" I ventured to ask, at my humblest—which in Aunt Mary's eyes, is my best. "Would you take her for your maid?"
"A maid?" echoed my Goddess scornfully. "Why, if I meant such a crime as that, I should expect white bears to come out of these woods and devour me. No; I would give her pretty dresses, and arrange a good marriage for her."
"Is that what young girls in America like, miss," I meekly inquired, "to have marriages arranged for them?"
"No; they hate it, and go away from America to show that they hate it—sometimes; but this would
