The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. " This went on for ten days. ‘But I don’t trust you an inch.
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