Verdun, Châlons, Épernay, one after another, were left behind; then Meaux, and, at last, one cold but sunny afternoon late in December, the coach rolled through a faubourg, passed under an arch, and rumbled along the Rue St. Martin, whence it was to take its passengers to a hotel in the Rue St. Honore. But, at Dick's desire, the coachman drove first to the Pont Neuf, and there stopped. Through the right-hand window the four passengers could see the Louvre and the Tuileries, as well as the buildings at the opposite side of the Seine; through the left-hand window they could see, above the mass of roofs and spires, the towers of Notre Dame, flashing back the horizontal sun-rays.
"It is like in the picture-book," said Dick, softly,—for his fancy had long since transfigured the stiff engravings he had studied in his childhood. Then he turned and looked at the friendly faces within the coach,—Gerard's, old Tom's; last of all, the face beside him, whose dark eyes met his.
"Do you know, I was always sure," he said, "that the road to Paris was to be my road to happiness."
SELECTIONS FROM
L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S
LIST OF NEW FICTION.
Selections from
L. C. Page and Company's
List of New Fiction.
An Enemy to the King.