Nevertheless， nothing could be more clearly indicated than that the hair of M. Melihac was very yellow， and his short， huge-lapeiled waistcoat white， striped with scarlet. An enormous cravat coyered his chin； the heavy collar of his yellow coat rose behind his ears， while its tails fell to his ankles； and the tight trousers of white and yellow stripes were tied with white ribbons about the middle of the calf； he wore white stockings and gold-buckled yellow shoes， and on the back of his head a jauntily cocked black hat. Miss Betty innocently wondered why his letters did not speak of P倀ion， of Vergniaud， or of Dumoriez， since in the historical novels which she read， the hero's lot was inevitably linked with that of everyone of importance in his generation； yet Georges appeared to have been unacquainted with these personages， Robespierre being the only name of consequence mentioned in his letters； and then it appeared in much the same fashion practised by her father in alluding to the Governor of the State， who had the misfortune to be unpopular with Mr.
Carewe. But this did not dim her great-uncle's lustre in Miss Betty's eyes， nor lessen for her the pathetic romance of the smile he wore.
Beholding this smile， one remembered the end to which his light footsteps bad led him； and it was unavoidable to picture him left lying in the empty street behind the heels of the flying crowd， carefully forming that same smile on his lips， and taking much pride in passing with some small， cynical speech， murmured to himself， concerning the mutility of a gentleman's getting shot by his friends for merely being present to applaud them. So， fancying him thus， with his yellow hair， his scarlet- itriped waistcoat， and his tragedy， the young girl felt a share of family greatness， or， at least， of picturesqueness， descend to her. And she smiled sadly back upon the smile in the picture， and dreamed about its original night after night.
Whether or no another figure， that of a dark young man in a white hat， with a white kitten etching his wrist in red， found any place in her dreams. at this period， - it is impossible to determine. She did not see him again. it is quite another thing， hazardous to venture， to state that he did not see her. At all events， it is certain that many people who bad never beheld her were talking of her； that Rouen was full of contention concerning her beauty and her gift of music， for a song can be heard through an open window. And how did it happen that Crailey Gray knew that it was Miss Carewe's habit to stroll in her garden for half an hour or so， each evening before retiring， and that she went to mass every morning soon after sunrise？ Crailey Gray never rose at， or near， sunrise in his life， though he sometimes beheld it， from another point of view， as the end of the evening. It appears that someone must have told him.
One night when the moon lay white on the trees and housetops， Miss Betty paused in her evening promenade and seated herself upon a bench on the borders of the garden， "touched，" as the books of the time would have put it， "by the sweet tranquillity of the scene，" and wrought upon by the tender incentive to sighs and melancholy which youth in loneliness finds in a loveliness of the earth. The breeze bore the smells of the old- fashioned garden， of violets and cherry blossoms， and a sound of distant violins came on the air playing the new song from the new opera.
"But I also dreamt， which pleased me most， That you loved me just the same--" they sang； and with the lilt of them and the keen beauty of the night， the inherited pain of the ages rose from the depths of the young girl's heart， so that she thought it must break； for what reason she could not have told， since she was without care or sorrow that she knew， except the French Revolution， yet tears shone upon the long lashes. She shook them off and looked up with a sudden odd consciousness. The next second she sprang to her feet with a gasp and a choked outcry， her bands pressed to her breast.
Ten paces in front of her， a gap in the shrubbery where tall trees rose left a small radiant area of illumination like that of a lime-light in a theatre， its brilliancy intensified by the dark foliage behind. It was open to view only from the bench by which she stood， and appeared， indeed， like the stage of a little theatre a stage occupied by a bizarre figure.
For， in the centre of this shining patch， with the light strong on his face， was standing a fair-haired young man， dressed in a yellow coat， a scarlet and white striped waistcoat， wearing a jauntily cocked black hat on his bead. And even to the last detail， the ribbon laces above the ankle and the gold-buckled shoes， be was the sketch of Georges Meilhac sprung into life.
About this slender figure there hung a wan sweetness like a fine mist， almost an ethereality in that light； yet in the pale face lurked something reckless， something of the actor， too； and though his smile was gentle and wistful， there was a twinkle behind it， not seen at first， something amused and impish； a small surprise underneath， like a flea in a rose-jar.
Fixed to the spot by this apparition， Miss Betty stood wildly staring， her straining eyelids showing the white above and below the large brown iris.
Her breath came faster and deeper， until， between her parted lips it became vocal in a quick sound like a sob. At that he spoke.
"Forgive me！" The voice was low， vibrant， and so exceedingly musical that he might have been accused of coolly selecting his best tone； and it became only sweeter when， even more softly， in a semi-whisper of almost crucial pleading， he said， "Ah--don't go away！"
In truth， she could not go； she had been too vitally stirred； she began to tremble excessively， and sank back upon the bench， motioning him away with vague gestures of her shaking hands.
This was more than the Incroyable had counted upon， and far from his desires. He started forward with an exclamation.
"Don't come near me！" she gasped. "Who are you？ Go away！"
