introduced to his daughter, Mlle. de Passy. Capt. Conyngham, with that diffidence so characteristic of men who are great in battle, spoke but a few commonplace words. to the count's beautiful daughter and then entered into a long discussion with the count on the relative positions of the Colonies, Great Britain, and France, in the existing conflict.

Not so with the commodore. He was as greatly pleased to meet a fair maiden as he was an enemy's ship; not, however, with the same desire for conquest and capture. Women attracted him for the time being, but they could not hold him. During all wars there come short intervals of peace, and it was during these that the commodore indulged in playful dalliance which other men might have called love.

Mlle. de Passy was diplomatic, and she led him on by degrees until he was obliged to tell of his achievements. She listened as Desdemona had to Othello, and although she did not love him for the perils through which he had passed, she did admire him for the victories he had won. In her enthusiasm she cried: "How grand it must be to be an American."

"I am a

"But I am not one," said the commodore. Scotchman and a born subject of King George. I am a traitor to my country, and why? Because it has grown purse-rich and power-proud; because it oppresses its subjects and denies men their just rights. My enemies call me a soldier of fortune, and so I am, in that I draw my sword in what I deem to be a righteous cause."

But they could not talk on forever of war, and the theme was changed to music. Mlle. de Passy had a sweet voice and could sing with great expression. Besides this accomplishment, she could play her own accompaniments on the clavier. To her surprise and delight, the commo

dore's voice joined with hers in one of the songs, and then they sang duets together. The next step was quickly taken; they began to talk of poetry, and when a handsome man and a beautiful woman discuss poetry, there is danger upon both sides if both have susceptible hearts, and still more danger if but one is susceptible.

Mlle. de Passy confessed that she had written several poems which she had read to her father and some of her friends.

"I, too," said the commodore, "have written poems, but their reading has usually beeen confined to my own eyes and those of the fair lady to whom they were addressed."

"Ah," said the young lady, "I understand you now. You play with love, but you do not feel it."

"A most correct diagnosis," said the commodore. "The French ladies are beautiful, witty, and wise."

"Have you placed our attractions in the proper order?" asked the young lady.

“I am sure of it," replied the commodore.

"Then our wisdom is the least of our attributes?" said she.

"Because it is needed the least," was his reply. "There are few men whom beauty and wit would not bring to their knees. Wisdom is not needed until after marriage; then it does not attract the attention and commendation that beauty and wit did before that event."

Dr. Franklin now joined the party at the Great House, being accompanied by Wilfrid, who had written a long letter to Frances, in the doctor's study.

All were merry at dinner, although Wilfrid thought, a hundred times at least, how much happier he might have been if Frances had been one of the party. Success to the American cause, the defeat of England, and the glory

of France were the burden of the toasts. The party did not break up until a late hour, but it was not too late for the commodore, when he reached his room, to sit down and write industriously for more than an hour. He scratched out so many words and inserted so many others that he was obliged to make a clean copy. This done, he folded and sealed it and wrote a name upon the outside.

The next morning, the commodore and Capt. Conyngham took their departure, saying that they must go at once to Dunkirk to superintend the repairs upon their vessels.

When the commodore shook hands with Mlle. de Passy, he left a folded paper in her hand. “I have read it," he whispered, "but no one else but you must see it. We may not meet again, but I shall never forget the happiness which I enjoyed last evening."

As soon as she could find an opportunity, Mlle. de Passy ran to her own room and broke the seal; then she opened the paper and read:

TO SAPPHO.

Were I, dear maid, “Paul Jones, King of the Sea,"

I find such merit in thy virgin song,

A coral crown with bays I'd give to thee,

A car, which on the waves would smoothly glide along.

The Nereids all about thy side should wait,

And gladly sing in triumph of thy state:

"Vivat, vivat, the happy virgin muse!

Of Liberty the friend, who tyrant power pursues!"

Or, happier lot! were fair Columbia free

From British tyranny-and youth still mine,

I'd tell a tender tale to one like thee,

With artless looks and breast as pure as thine.

If she approved my flame, distrust apart,
Like faithful turtles, we'd have but one heart;
Together then we'd tune the silver lyre,

As love or sacred freedom should our lays inspire.

But since, alas, the rage of war prevails,
And cruel Britons desolate our land,
For Freedom still I spread my willing sails,

My unsheath'd sword my injured country shall command. Go on, bright maid! the muses all attend

Genius like thine, and wish to be its friend.

Trust me, although conveyed through this poor shift,

My parting thoughts are grateful for thy gift.

DR.

CHAPTER XXIII

"YOU ARE MY ENEMY AND I AM YOURS!"

R. FRANKLIN sat beside the table in his study. A great pile of letters and documents was at his right hand, while, before him, lay a sheet of foolscap upon which his hand, holding a quill pen, rested.

It was not the usual position which he assumed when at work, but, on the day in question, there was a very potent reason why he did not sit up to the table as was his wont. His right foot had been swathed in flannel until it was at least six times its usual size, and over all was bound a bright bandana handkerchief. The unwieldly foot, thus encased, rested upon a footstool, but this support evidently did not afford the doctor much relief from pain, for there were continued manifestations of the fact that he was suffering from severe twinges of his old enemy, the gout.

Franklin had the happy faculty of looking at the pleasant side of every situation in which he was placed. A glance at the written page before him will exemplify this forcibly. It was written in the form of a dialogue: "FRANKLIN: Eh! oh! eh! What have I done to merit these cruel sufferings?

"GOUT: Many thing; you have ate and drank too freely, and too much indulged those legs of yours in their indolence.

"FRANKLIN: Who it is that accuses me?