several succeeding days; but my heart was heaviest when I smiled most, and my nights were spent in tears. Thus the prescribed week went by, and then another week; and still he neither came nor wrote. There had been time, and more than time, for the letter to be forwarded from Chambery to Broomhill, and from Broomhill back to Chambery. At length the suspense became intolerable, and I made up my mind to bear it no longer. I went to Mrs. Sandyshaft, and announced my determination to start for Chambery the following day.

"The stupidest thing you could do, Bab," said she., "That's precisely the way to miss him. Where two people are looking for each other, one should always stop still."

"How can I tell that he is not that one? How can I tell that he is not lying on a bed of sickness ?"

"If he were, he would have had his letter; and either have written himself, or caused somebody to write."

"Well these are but conjectures; and I mean to go. I shall at least have the satisfaction of hearing whatever there is to hear; and at all events I shall not be breaking my heart in idleness here in Rome."

"Your mind's made up?"

VOL. III.

S

"Firmly. I am now going to secure my place to Civita Vecchia."

"No need. If you must go, I'll go with youunder protest-and we'll take post-horses. What about the monster?"

"Baby and Goody must go, of course."

"A pretty piece of folly, to be sure; and the day after to-morrow, the first of January! Bab, Bab, you're a greater idiot than I took you to bethe greatest idiot I ever knew, except myself."

259

CHAPTER XVIII.

WHITHER?

"I thank you, valiant Cassio.

What tidings can you tell me of my lord?"-OTHELLO.

FROM Rome to Civita Vecchia with post-horses; from Civita Vecchia to Marseilles by steamer, with a bitter wind blowing from the north-east, and brief but sudden storms of snow and rain sweeping over the sea; from Marseilles to Lyons by railway; and from Lyons by post-chaise to Chambery. A dreary journey of many days' duration, intensely cold and comfortless, and made doubly difficult by the helplessness of my companions. The last day was the worst of all. We were fifteen hours on the road; six of which were spent in snow and darkness, struggling slowly up among mountain

roads rendered almost impassable by several days of bad weather. Worn out with fatigue and cold, we reached Chambery an hour after midnight, and were driven to the Hôtel du Petit Paris. Here my first inquiry was for Hugh. The sleepy waiter knew nothing of the name. I described him; but he was confident that no such gentleman had been there. I asked what other hotels there were in the town. He replied that there were several; but none so good as the Petit Paris. There was La Poste; and there was L'Aigle Noir. Madame might inquire at both to-morrow; but it was unlikely that any English traveller would prefer either to the Hôtel du Petit Paris. As for the other inns, they were auberges, and out of the question. With this I was obliged to be content till morning.

I was so weary that I slept heavily, and never woke till between nine and ten o'clock the following day. The sunlight met my eye like a reproach. It was a glorious morning, cold but brilliant, with something hopeful and re-assuring in the very air. I rose, confident of success, and went to the post-office before breakfast. A young man lounging at the door with a cigar in his mouth followed me into the office, and took his place at the bureau. I asked if he could give me the address of an English gentleman, Farquhar by

name, who I had reason to believe was staying, or had been staying in Chambery.

The clerk shook his head. He knew of no such person.

"There are, perhaps, some letters awaiting Mr. Farquhar's arrival?"

"Nay, one I think there must be; for I know that it was despatched nearly a month since. Will Monsieur oblige me by looking?"

Monsieur retired, reluctantly, to a distant corner of the bureau; took a packet of letters from a pigeon-hole in a kind of little cupboard between the windows, shuffled them as if they were cards, tossed them back into the pigeon-hole, and returned with the same shake of the head. There were no letters for Madame's friend. Absolutely none.

I turned away, disappointed, but incredulous. At the threshold, I paused. It might be a mere mistake of pronunciation, after all. I took out my pocket-book, pencilled the words "Hugh Farquhar, Esquire," very plainly on a blank leaf, and handed it to the clerk. His face lighted up directly.

"Ah, that name?" said he.

qu'il y a des lettres. I beg

"Mais, oui; je crois Madame's pardon a

thousand times; but Madame said an English gen

tleman, and this name is surely Polish or Russian?"