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by Alphonse Daudet Standing on the steps of his little town-house in the Rue de Lisbonne, freshly shaven, with sparkling eyes, and lips parted in easy enjoyment, his long hair slightly gray flowing over a huge coat collar, square shouldered, strong as an oak, the famous Irish doctor, Robert Jenkins, Knight of the Medjidjieh and of the distinguished order of Charles III of Spain, President and Founder of the Bethlehem Society.

Charles represented the solid, confidence-inspiring element, while the handsome and elegant Alphonse imparted to the firm a certain lustre which was far from being without value. Every one who came into the counting-house at once remarked his handsome figure, and thus it seemed quite natural that all should address themselves to him.

Sometimes it is a handkerchief, as in Othello; or a pair of slippers, as in Don Juan; sometimes it is the mistake of your wife, who cries out "Dear Alphonse!" instead of "Dear Adolph!" Sometimes a husband, finding out that his wife is in debt, will go and call on her chief creditor, and will take her some morning to his house, as if by chance, in order to bring about a catastrophe.

He knew him well enough to be sure that when the refined, delicate Alphonse had sunk so low, he must have come to a jutting headland in life, and be prepared to leap out of it rather than let disgrace reach him. At this thought Charles sprang up. That must not be.

There was a moment of stupor when we heard that we had to pay two hundred million francs in cash immediately, for our finances were in such a pitiful state that we shuddered at the idea that we might not be able to make up the sum of two hundred millions. Baron Alphonse de Rothschild, who was shut up in Paris with his wife and brothers, gave his signature for the two hundred millions.

How easily might not the adroit and lucky Alphonse come across many a brilliant business opening, and make plenty of money without a word of it reaching Charles's ears. Perhaps, after all, he was getting on well. Perhaps it would end in people saying: "See, at last Monsieur Alphonse shows what he is fit for, now that he is quit of his dull and crabbed partner!"

"What! you do not know whether you have received a letter from your cousin?" continued Clemence, laughing affectedly. "Ah! Alphonse no, that is, yes; but it was a long time ago." "How cold and indifferent you are all of a sudden to this dear Alphonse!

On one side of it, half a dozen broad shelves supported a goodly row of well-bound volumes, among which the time-honored golden names of Shakespeare and Scott glittered invitingly, together with such works as Chapman's Homer, Byron's "Childe Harold," the Poems of John Keats, Gibbon's Rome, and Plutarch; while mingled with these were the devotional works in French of Alphonse de Liguori, the "Imitation," also in French, and a number of books with titles in Norwegian, altogether an heterogenous collection of literature, yet not without interest as displaying taste and culture on the part of those to whom it belonged.

"Just what I told him, sir," interrupted the landlord. "Young men will be reckless." "I am going back to town to keep an engagement," Nevill resumed. "Can I do anything for you?" "If you will, old chap," Jack said gratefully. "Stop at my studio," giving him the address, "and send my man Alphonse here with a dry rig." "I'll go right away," replied Neville. "I can get a cab at Kew Bridge.

To the rescue, colonel, quickly, quickly, to the rescue." "Bedad, he's in a bad way entoirely!" said Garry, as he and the colonel, with myself at their heels, entered the after cabin, where we saw Captain Alphonse sitting up in the skipper's cot, and gesticulating frantically. "What can he be after sayin' now, sor?"