He marvelled at the vast white pile of the Fifth Avenue Hotel; he frowned at the Worth Monument; he stared inexhaustibly into the shop-windows; he exclaimed with admiration at the stupendous piles of masonry which contained the goods of New York's merchant princes.

It seemed to be his opinion that the possessors of so much palpable wealth must be the true aristocracy of the country.
And one afternoon it happened that as they were strolling along Broadway, between Twenty-third Street and Union Square, and were crossing one of the side-streets, a horse belonging to one of Lord and Taylor's delivery-wagons became frightened, and bolted round the corner.
One of the hind wheels of the vehicle came in contact with Grace's shoulder, and knocked her down.

The blow and the fall stunned her.

Don Miguel's grief and indignation were expressed with tropical energy; and a by-stander said, "Better carry her into the store, mister; it's their wagon run her down, and they can't do less than look after her." The counsel seemed reasonable, and Don Miguel, with the assistance of a policeman, lifted his wife and bore her into the stately shop.

One of the floor-walkers met them at the door; he cast a glance at their burden, and exclaimed, "Why, it's Miss Parsloe!" And immediately a number of the employees gathered round, all regarding her with interest and sympathy, all anxious to help, and--which was what mystified Don Miguel--all calling her by name! How came they to know Grace Parsloe?
Nay, they even glanced at Don Miguel, as if to ask what was HIS business with the beautiful unconscious one! "This lady are my wife," he said, with dignity.