Barbara in Brittany

by E. A. Gillie

"She glanced over her shoulder at the sea."

It was some little time before Jean really realised she was not close behind him; then he stopped running and waited for her.

"Go on," she shouted. "Don't wait for me, I can catch you up later."

"But it is impossible for me to leave you," he called back on regaining his breath. "But, oh! run if you can, for the water comes very near."

One more fleeting glance behind and Barbara broke into a run again, though her breath came in gasps.

"They are seeing us from the Mont," panted Jean. "They have come out to watch the tide rise. Give me your hand. Do not stop! Do not stop!"

Barbara felt that, do as she would, her breath could hold out no longer, and she slackened her pace to a walk once more. Then a great shout went up from the people on the ramparts, and they began waving their hands and handkerchiefs wildly. To them the two figures seemed to be moving so slowly and the great sea behind so terribly fast. Barbara could hear its swish, swish, near enough now, and she felt Jean's hand tremble in her own. "Run yourself," she said, dropping it. "Run, and I'll follow."

But he merely shook his head. To speak was waste of breath, and he meant his to last him till he reached the rocks.

He pulled the girl into a trot again, and they plodded on heavily. It was impossible for him to speak now, but he pointed at the rocks below St. Michel where two men were scrambling down, and Barbara understood that they were coming to aid.

The sea was very close—horribly close—when two fishermen met the couple, and, taking Barbara's hands on either side, pulled her on, while Jean panted a little way behind. The watching crowd above had been still with fear until they saw the rocks reached; then they shouted again and again, while the many who had scrambled down part of the way hastened forward to see who the adventurous couple were, and to give a helping hand if necessary.

One of the first to reach them was the little widower, his cravate loose, his hat off, and tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Jean!" he wailed. "What have I done that you should treat me so? What would your sainted mother say were she to see you thus?"

But neither Jean nor Barbara was capable of saying a word, and though the fishermen were urgently assuring the girl that she was not safe yet, that they must go round the rocks to the gate on the other side, she remained sitting doubled up on a rock, feeling that her breath would never come into her body again.

"Let her rest a moment," suggested one wiser than the rest. "She cannot move till she breathes. There is yet time enough. Loosen her collar, and let her breathe."

The sea was gurgling at the foot of the rocks when Barbara regained her breath sufficiently to move, and she was glad enough to have strong arms to help her on her way.

Jean and his father reached the gate first, and, therefore, Mademoiselle Thérèse had already exhausted a little of her energy before Barbara appeared. But she was about to fling herself in tears upon the girl's neck when a bystander interposed.

"Let her breathe," he said. "Let her go to the inn and get nourishment." And Barbara, the centre of an eager, excited French crowd, was thankful, indeed, to shelter herself within Madame Poulard's hospitable walls.

"We will probably have to stay here a week till she recovers"—Mademoiselle Thérèse had a sympathetic audience—"she is of delicate constitution;" and the good lady was perhaps a little disappointed when Barbara declared herself perfectly able to go home in the afternoon as had been arranged.

"What should prevent us?" she asked, when after a rest and something to eat she came down to the terrace. "It was only a long race, and a fright which I quite deserved."

"Yes, indeed, a fright!" and the Frenchwoman threw up her hands. "Such fear as I felt when I came out to see the tide and saw you fleeing before it. Your aunt!—Your mother!—My charge! Such visions fleeted before my eyes. But never, never, never will I trust you with Jean any more," and she cast a vengeful look at the widower and his son, who were seated a little farther off.

"But it wasn't his fault at all," the girl explained. "On the contrary, I proposed it, and he joined me out of kindness. He pulled me along, too, over the sand. Oh, indeed, you must not be angry with Jean."

"It was very deceptive of him not to tell me—or his father. Then we could both have come with you—or explained to you that the tide rose early to-day. We heard it was to come early when you were out last night. They say," she went on, shaking her head, "if it had been an equinoctial tide, that neither of you would have escaped—there would have been no shadow of a hope for either—you would both have been drowned out there in the damp, wet sand."

Mademoiselle Thérèse showing signs of weeping again, Barbara hastened to comfort her, assuring her that she would never again go out alone to see St. Michel from that side, which she thought was a perfectly safe promise to make. But her companion shook her head mournfully, declaring that it would be a very long time before she brought any of her pupils to Mont St. Michel again.

"They might really get caught next time," she said, and Barbara knew it was no good to point out that probably there would never be another pupil who was quite so silly as she had been.

"Nevertheless," the girl said to herself, looking back at the grand, gray pile from the train, "except for the fright I gave them, it was worth it all—worth it all, dear St. Michel, to see you from out there." And Jean, looking pensively out of the window, was thinking that since it was safely over, the adventure was one which any youth might be proud to tell to his companions, and which few were fortunate or brave enough to have experienced.

CHAPTER IX.

MADEMOISELLE VIRÉ.

"The Loirés' chief virtues are their friends," Barbara had written home, and it was always a surprise to her to find that they knew so many nice people. A few days after the adventurous visit to Mont St. Michel she made the acquaintance of one whom she learned to love dearly, and about whom there hung a halo of romance that charmed the girl.

"Her story is known to me," Mademoiselle Thérèse explained on the way to her house, "and I will tell it you—in confidence, of course." She paused a moment to impress Barbara and to arrange her thoughts, for she dearly loved a romantic tale, and would add garnishing by the way if she did not consider it had enough.

"She is the daughter of a professor," she began presently. "They used to live in Rouen—gray, beautiful, many-churched Rouen." The lady glanced sideways at her companion to see if her rhetoric were impressive enough, and Barbara waited gravely for her to continue, though wondering if mademoiselle had ever read The Lady of Shalott.

"An officer in one of the regiments stationed in the quaint old town," pursued mademoiselle, "saw the professor's fair young daughter, and fell rapturously in love with her. Whereupon they became betrothed."

Barbara frowned a little. The setting of the story was too ornate, and seemed almost barbarous.

"And then?" she asked impatiently.

"Then—ah, then!" sighed the story-teller, who thought she was making a great impression—"then the sorrow came. As soon as his family knew, they were grievously angry, furiously wrathful, because she had no dot; and when she heard of their fury and wrath she nobly refused to marry him until he gained their consent. 'Never,' she cried" (and it was obvious that here mademoiselle was relying on her own invention), "'never will I marry thee against thy parents' wish.'"

She paused, and drew a long breath before proceeding. "A short time after this, the regiment of her lover was ordered out to India, in which pestiferous country he took a malicious fever and expired. She has no relatives left now, though so frail and delicate, but lives with an old maid in a very small domicile. She is cultivated to an extreme, and is so fond of music that, though her house is too small to admit of the pianoforte entering by the door, she had it introduced by the window of the salon, which had to be unbricked—the window, I mean. She has, moreover, three violins—one of which belonged to her ever-to-be-lamented fiancé—and, though she is too frail to stand, she will sit, when her health permits, and make music for hours together."

Mademoiselle Thérèse uttered the last words on the threshold of the house, and Barbara did not know whether to laugh or to cry at such a story being told in such a way. The door was opened by the old maid, Jeannette, who wore a quaint mob cap and spotless apron, and who followed the visitors into the room, and, having introduced them to her mistress, seated herself in one corner and took up her knitting as "company," Mademoiselle Thérèse whispered to Barbara.

The latter thought she had never before seen such a charming old lady as Mademoiselle Viré, who now rose to greet them, and she wondered how any one who had known her in the "many-churched Rouen days" could have parted from her.

She talked for a little while to Mademoiselle Thérèse, then turned gently to Barbara.

"Do you play, mademoiselle?"

"A little," the girl returned hesitatingly; "not enough, I'm afraid, to give great pleasure."

But Mademoiselle Viré rose with flushed cheeks.

"Ah! then, will you do me the kindness to play some accompaniments? That is one of the few things my good Jeannette cannot do for me," and almost before Barbara realised it she was sitting on a high-backed chair before the piano in the little salon, while Mademoiselle Viré sought eagerly for her music.

The room was so small that, with Mademoiselle Thérèse and the maid Jeannette—who seemed to be expected to follow her mistress—there seemed hardly room to move in it, and Barbara was all the more nervous by the nearness of her audience.

It certainly was rather anxious work, for though the little lady was charmingly courteous, she would not allow a passage played wrongly to go without correction. "I think we were not quite together there—were we?" she would say. "May we play it through again?" and Barbara would blush up to her hair, for she knew the violinist had played her part perfectly. She enjoyed it, though, in spite of her nervousness, and was sorry when it was time to go.

"You will come again, I hope?" her hostess asked. "You have given me a happy time." Then turning eagerly to Jeannette, she added, "Did I play well to-day, Jeannette?"

The quaint old maid rose at once from her seat at the door, and came across the room to put her mistress's cap straight.

"Madame played better than I have ever heard her," she replied.

Barbara had been so pleased with everything that she went again a few days later by herself, and this time was led into the garden, which, like the house, was very small, but full of roses and other sweet-smelling things. Madame—for Barbara noticed that most people seemed to call her so—was busy watering her flowers, and had on big gloves and an apron. When she saw the girl coming, she came forward to welcome her, saying, with a deprecatory movement towards her apron—

"But this apron!—These gloves! Had I known it was you, mademoiselle, I should have changed them and made myself seemly. Why did you not warn me, Jeannette?"

"Madame should not work in the garden and heat herself," the old woman said doggedly; "she should let me do that."

But madame laughed gaily.

"Oh, but my flowers know when I water them, and could not bear to have me leave them altogether to others." Then, in explanation to her visitor, "It is an old quarrel between Jeannette and me. Is it not, my friend? Now I am hot and thirsty. Will you bring us some of your good wine, Jeannette?"

They were sitting in a little bower almost covered with roses, and Barbara felt as if she must be in a pretty dream, when the maid came back bearing two slender-stemmed wine-glasses and a musty bottle covered with cobwebs.

"It is very old indeed," madame explained.

"Jeannette and I made it, when we were young, from the walnuts in our garden in Rouen."

Having filled both glasses, she raised her own, and said, with a graceful bow, "Your health, mademoiselle," and after taking a sip she turned to Jeannette, repeating, "Your health, Jeannette." Whereupon the old woman curtsied wonderfully low considering her stiff knees.

Barbara did not like the wine very much, but she would have drunk several glasses to please her hostess, though, fortunately, she was not asked to do so. They had a long talk, and the old lady related many interesting tales about the life in Rouen and in Paris, where she had often been, so that the time sped all too quickly for the girl. When she got home she found two visitors, who were sitting under the trees in the garden waiting to have tea. One was an English girl of about fourteen, whom Barbara thought looked both unhappy and sulky. The other was one of the ladies whose school she was at.

"This is Alice Meynell," Mademoiselle Thérèse said with some fervour, "and, Alice, this is a fellow-countrywoman of your own." But the introduction did not seem to make the girl any happier, and she hardly spoke all tea-time, though Marie did her best to carry on a conversation. When she had returned to work with Mademoiselle Loiré, the business of entertainment fell to Barbara, who proposed a walk round the garden.

At first the visitor did not seem to care for the idea, but when the mistress with her suggested it was too hot to walk about, she immediately jumped up and said there was nothing she would like better. There seemed to be few subjects that interested her; but when, almost in desperation, Barbara asked how she liked France, she suddenly burst forth into speech.

"I hate it," she cried viciously. "I detest it and the people I am with, who never let me out of their sight. 'Spies,' I call them—'spies,' not teachers. They even come with me to church—one of them at least—and I feel as if I were in prison."

"But surely there is no harm in their coming to church with you?" Barbara said. "Besides, in France, you know, they have such strict ideas about chaperones that it's quite natural for them to be careful. Mademoiselle Thérèse goes almost everywhere with me, and I am a good deal older than you are."

"But they're not Protestants—I'm sure they're not," the girl returned hotly. "They shouldn't come to church with me; they only pretend. Besides, they don't follow the other girls about nearly as carefully. The worst of it is that I have to stay here for the holidays, too."

She seemed very miserable about it, and Barbara thought it might relieve her to confide in some one, and, after a little skilful questioning, the whole story came out.

Her mother was dead, and her father in the West Indies, and though she wrote him often and fully about everything, she never got any answers to her questions, so that she was sure people opened her letters and put in different news. She was afraid the same thing was done with her father's letters to her, because once something was said by mistake that could have been learned only by reading the news intended for her eyes alone.

"He never saw the place," the girl continued. "He took me to my aunt in England, who promised to find me a school. She thought the whole business a nuisance, and was only too glad to find a place quickly where they'd keep me for the holidays too. She never asks me to go to England—not that I would if she wanted me to."

There were angry tears in the girl's eyes, and Barbara thought the case really did seem rather a hard one, though it was clear her companion had been spoiled at home, and had probably had her own way before coming to school.

"It does sound rather horrid," Barbara agreed, "and three years must seem a long time; but it will go at last, you know."

The girl shook her head.

"Too slowly, far too slowly—it just crawls. I never have any one to talk things over with, either, you see, for I can't trust the French girls; they carry tales, I know. Even now—look how she watches me; she longs to know what I'm saying."

Barbara looked round, and it was true that the visitor seemed more interested in watching them than in Mademoiselle Thérèse's conversation; and, directly she caught Barbara's eye, she got up hastily and said they must go. Alice Meynell immediately relapsed into sulkiness again; but, just as she was saying good-bye, she managed to whisper—

"I shall run away soon. I know I can't stand it much longer."

The others were too near for Barbara to do more than give her a warm squeeze of the hand; but she watched the girl out of sight, feeling very sorry for her. If she had lived a free-and-easy life on her father's plantation, never having known a mother's care, it was no wonder that she should be a little wild and find her present life irksome.

"She looks quite equal to doing something desperate," Barbara thought, as she turned to go in to supper. "I must try to see her again soon, for who knows what mad ideas a girl of only fifteen may take into her head!"

CHAPTER X.

THE "AMERICAN PRETENDER."

"An invitation has come from Monsieur Dubois to visit them at Dol," Mademoiselle Thérèse exclaimed with pride, on opening her letters one morning. "It is really particularly kind and nice of him. He includes you," she added, turning to Barbara.

The girl had to think a few moments before remembering that Monsieur Dubois was the "family friend" for whose sake the sisters had sunk their grievances, and then she was genuinely pleased at the invitation.

"Now, which of us shall go?" mademoiselle proceeded. "It is clear we cannot all do so," and she looked inquiringly at her sister.

"Marie and I are much too busy to accept invitations right and left like that," Mademoiselle Loiré replied loftily. "For people like you and Mademoiselle Barbara, who have plenty of leisure, it will be a very suitable excursion, I imagine."

Barbara looked a little anxiously at the younger sister, fearing she might be stirred up to wrath by the veiled slur on her character; but probably she was pleased enough to be the one to go, whatever excuse Mademoiselle Loiré chose to give. Indeed, her mood had been wonderfully amicable for several days. "Let me see," she said, looking meditatively at Barbara. "You have been longing to ride something ever since you came here, and since you have not been able to find a horse, how would it do to hire a bicycle, and come only so far in the train with me and ride the rest of the way?"

Barbara's eyes shone. This was a concession on Mademoiselle Thérèse's part, for she had hitherto apparently been most unwilling for the girl to be out of her sight for any length of time, and had assured her that there was no possibility of getting riding lessons in the neighbourhood. What had brought her to make this proposal now Barbara could not imagine.

"That would be a perfectly lovely plan," she cried. "You are an angel to think of it, mademoiselle." At which remark the lady in question was much flattered.

The next morning they started in gay spirits, Mademoiselle Thérèse arrayed in her best, which always produced a feeling of wonderment in Barbara. The lady certainly had not a Frenchwoman's usual taste, and her choice of colours was not always happy, though she herself was blissfully content about her appearance.

"I am glad you put on that pretty watch and chain," she said approvingly to her companion, when they were in the train. "I always try to make an impression when I go to Dol, for Madame Dubois is a very fashionable lady."

She stroked down her mauve skirt complacently, and Barbara thought that she could not fail to make an impression of some kind. She was entertained as they went along, by stories about the cleverness and position of the lawyer, and the charms of his wife, and the delights of his daughter, till Barbara felt quite nervous at the idea of meeting such an amount of goodness, fashion, and wit in its own house.

Mademoiselle Thérèse allowed herself just a little time to give directions as to the route the girl was to take on leaving her, and Barbara repeated the turnings she had to take again and again till there seemed no possibility of making a mistake.

"After the first short distance you reach the highroad," mademoiselle called after her as she left the carriage, "so I have no fear about allowing you to go; it is a well-trodden highroad, too, and not many kilometres."

"I shall be all right, thank you," Barbara said gleefully, thinking how nice it was to escape into the fresh, sunny air after the close third-class carriage. "There is no sea to catch me this time, you know."

Mademoiselle shook her finger at her. "Naughty, naughty! to remind me of that terrible time—it almost makes me fear to let you go." At which Barbara mounted hastily, in case she should be called back, although the train had begun to move.

"Repeat your directions," her companion shrieked after her, and the girl, with a laugh, murmured to herself, "Turn to the right, then the left, by a large house, then through a narrow lane, and voilà the high-road!" She had no doubt at all about knowing them perfectly. Unfortunately for her calculations, when she came to the turning-point there were two lanes leading off right and left, and on this point Mademoiselle Thérèse had given her no instructions. There was nobody near to ask. So, after considering them both, she decided to take the one that looked widest. After all, if it were wrong, she could easily turn back.

She had gone but a little way, however, when she saw another cyclist approaching, and, thinking that here was a chance to find out if she were right before going any farther, she jumped off her machine and stood waiting. When the new-comer was quite close to her she noticed that he was not a very prepossessing individual, and remembered that she had been warned in foreign countries always to look at people before speaking to them. But it was too late then. So making the best of it, she asked boldly which was the nearest way to Dol. The man stared at her for a moment, then said she should go straight on, and would soon arrive at the highroad.

"But I will conduct you so far if you like, madame," he added.

Barbara had seen him looking rather intently at her watch and chain, however, and began to feel a little uneasy.

"Oh, no, thank you," she rejoined hastily. "I can manage very well myself," and, springing on to her bicycle, set off at a good speed. He stood in the road for a few minutes as if meditating; but, when she looked back at the corner, she saw that he had mounted too, and was coming down the road after her. There might be no harm in that; but it did not add to her happiness; and the watch and chain, which had been Aunt Anne's last gift to her, seemed to weigh heavily upon her neck.

There was no thought now of turning; but, though she pedalled her hardest, she could not see any signs of a highroad in front of her, and was sure she must have taken the wrong lane. Indeed, to her dismay, when she got a little farther down the road, it narrowed still more and ran through a wood. She was quite sure now that the man was chasing her, and wondered if she would ever get to Dol at all. It seemed to be her fate to be chased by something on her excursions, and she was not quite sure whether she preferred escaping on her own feet or a bicycle.

At first he did not gain upon her much, and, if she had had her own machine, and had been in good training, perhaps she might have outdistanced him; but there did not appear to be much chance of that at present. She was thankful to see a sharp descent in front of her, and let herself go at a break-neck speed; but, unfortunately, there was an equally steep hill to climb on the other side, and she would have to get off and walk.

She was just making up her mind to turn round and brave it out, and keep her watch—if possible—when she saw something on the grass by the roadside, a little ahead of her, that made her heart leap with relief and pleasure—namely, a puff of smoke, and a figure clad in a brown tweed suit. She was sure, even after a mere hurried glance, that the owner of the suit must be English, for it bore the stamp of an English tailor, and the breeze bore her unmistakable whiffs of "Harris."

She did not wait a moment, but leaped from her bicycle and sank down panting on the grass near, alarming the stranger—who had been nearly asleep—considerably. He jerked himself into a sitting position, and burned himself with his cigarette.

"Who the dickens——" he began; then hastily took off his cap and begged the girl's pardon, to which she could not reply for breathlessness. But he seemed to understand what was needed at once, for, after a swift glance from her to the man who was close at hand now, he said in loud, cheerful tones—

"Ah! Here you are at last. I am glad you caught me up. We'll just have a little rest, then go calmly on our way. You should not ride so quickly on a hot day."

The man was abreast of them now, and looked very hard at both as he passed, but did not stop, and Barbara heaved a long sigh of relief.

"I'm so very sorry," she said at last. "Please understand I am not in the habit of leaping down beside people like that, only I've had this watch and chain such a very short time, and I was so afraid he'd take them."

"And how do you know that they will be any safer with me?" he asked, with a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

"Because I saw you were an Englishman, of course," she rejoined calmly.

The young man laughed.

"Pardon me, you are wrong, for I am an American."

Barbara's cheeks could hardly grow more flushed, but she felt uncomfortably hot.

"I am so sorry," she stammered, getting up hurriedly; "I really thought it was an Englishman, and felt—at home, you know."

"Please continue to think so if it makes you any happier; and—I think you had better stay a little longer before going on—the fellow might be waiting farther down the road."

Barbara subsided again. She had no desire to have any further encounter with the French cyclist.

Meanwhile, the stranger had taken one or two rapid glances at her, and the surprise on his face grew. "Where are the rest of the party?" he asked presently.

"The rest of the party has gone on by train," and Barbara laughed. "Poor party, it would be so horribly alarmed if it could see me now. I always seem to be alarming it."

"I don't wonder, if it is always as careless as on the present occasion. Whatever possessed he, she, or it, to let you come along by yourself like this? It was most culpably careless."

"Oh, no, indeed. It is what I have been begging for since I came to Brittany—indeed it is. She gave me most careful directions as to what turnings to take"—and Barbara repeated them merrily—"it was only that I was silly enough to take the wrong one. And now I really must be getting on, or poor Mademoiselle Thérèse will be distracted. Please, does this road lead to Dol?"

"Dol?" he repeated quickly. "Yes, certainly. I am just going there, and—and intend to pass the night in the place. I'm on a walking tour, and—if you don't mind walking—I know there's a short cut that would be almost as quick as cycling; the high road is a good distance off yet."

Barbara hesitated. The fear of meeting any more tramps was strong upon her, and her present companion had a frank, honest face, and steady gray eyes.

"I don't want Mademoiselle Thérèse to be frightened by being any later than necessary," she said doubtfully.

"I really think this will be as quick as the other road—if you will trust me," he returned. And Barbara yielded.

It certainly was a very pretty way, leading across the fields and through a beech wood, and they managed to lift the bicycle over the gates without any difficulty. The girl was a little surprised by the unerring manner in which her companion seemed to go forward without even once consulting a map; but when she complimented him on the fact he looked a little uncomfortable, and assured her that he had an excellent head for "direction."

It was very nice meeting some one who was "almost an Englishman," and they talked gaily all the time, till the square tower of Dol Cathedral came into view—one of the grandest, her guide assured her, that he had seen in Brittany. They had just entered the outskirts of the town when they passed a little auberge, where the innkeeper was standing at the door. He stared very hard at them, then lifted his hat, and cried with surprise, "Back again, monsieur; why, I thought you were half way to St. Malo by this time."

Then the truth struck Barbara in a flash, and she had only to look at her companion's face to know she was right.

"You were going the other way," she cried—"of course you were—and you turned back on my account. No wonder you knew your way through the wood!"

He gave an embarrassed laugh. "I'm sorry—I really did not mean to deceive you exactly. I have a good head for 'direction.'"

"And you came all that long way back with me I It was good of you. I really——"

But he interrupted her. "Please don't give me thanks when I don't deserve them. This town is such a quaint old place I am quite glad to spend the night here. And—I really think you ought not to go hither and thither without the rest of the party—I don't think your aunt would like it. The house you want is straight ahead." Then he took off his cap and turned away, and Barbara never remembered, until he had gone, that though he had seen her name on the label on her bicycle she did not know his.

She christened him, therefore, the "American Pretender," firstly, because he looked like an Englishman, and secondly, because he pretended to be going where he was not. After all, she was not very much behind her time, and, fortunately, Mademoiselle Thérèse had been so interested in the lawyer's conversation that she had not worried about her. Barbara did not speak of her encounter with the cyclist, but merely said she had got out of her way a little, and had found a kind American who had helped her to find it; which explanation quite satisfied "the party."

The lawyer's château, as it was called, seemed to Barbara to be very like what French houses must have been long ago, and she imagined grand ladies of the Empire time sweeping up the long flight of steps to the terrace, and across the polished floors. The salon, with its thick terra-cotta paper, and gilded chairs set in stiff rows along the walls, fascinated her too, and she half expected the lady of the house to come in, clad in heavy brocade of ancient pattern. But everything about the lady of the house was very modern, and Barbara thought Mademoiselle Thérèse's garments had never looked so ugly. The girl enjoyed sitting down to a meal which was really well served, and she found that the lawyer, though clever, was by no means alarming, and that his wife made a very charming hostess.

Mademoiselle Thérèse was radiating pride and triumph at having been able to introduce her charge into such a "distinguished" family, and as each dish was brought upon the table, she shot a glance across at Barbara as much as to say, "See what we can do!—these are my friends!"

Poor Mademoiselle Thérèse! After all, when she enjoyed such things so much, it was a pity, Barbara thought, that she could not have them at home.

She was enjoying, too, discussing various matters with the lawyer, for discussion was to her like the very breath of life.

"She will discuss with the cat if there is no one else by," her sister had once said dryly, "and will argue with Death when he comes to fetch her."

At present the topic was schools, and Barbara and Madame Dubois sat quietly by, listening.

"I am not learned," madame whispered to the girl, with a little shrug, "and I know that nothing she can say will shake my husband's opinion—therefore, I let her speak."

Mademoiselle was very anxious that his little girl should go to school, and was pointing out the advantages of such education to the lawyer.

The latter smiled incredulously. "Would you have me send her to the convent school, where they use the same-knife and fork all the week round, and wash them only once a week?" he asked contemptuously.

"No," mademoiselle agreed. "As you know, Marie used to be there, and learned very little—nothing much, except to sew. No, I would not send her to the convent school. But there are others. A young English friend of mine, now—Mademoiselle Barbara knows her too—she is at a very select establishment—just about six girls—and so well watched and cared for."

Barbara looked up quickly. She wondered if she dared interrupt and say she did not think it was such an ideal place, when the lawyer spoke before her.

"Parbleu!" he said with a laugh, "I should prefer the convent! There at least the religion is honest, but—with those ladies you mention—there is deceit. They pretend to be what they are not."

"Oh, but no!" Mademoiselle Thérèse exclaimed. "Why, they are Protestants."

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.

"Believe it if you will, my dear friend, but we lawyers know most things, and I know that what I say is true. When my little Hélène goes to school she shall not go to such. Meanwhile, I am content to keep her at home."

"So am I," murmured Madame Dubois. "Schools are such vulgar places, are they not?"

But Barbara, to whom the remark was addressed, was too much interested in this last piece of news to do more than answer shortly. For if what the lawyer said were true—and he did not seem a man likely to make mistakes—then Alice Meynell might really have sufficient cause to be miserable, and Barbara wondered when she would see her again, which was to be sooner than she expected.

CHAPTER XI.

BARBARA TURNS PLOTTER.

The day after her expedition to Dol, Barbara saw Alice Meynell again, and in rather a strange meeting-place—namely, the public bath-house. The house in which the Loirés lived was an old-fashioned one, and had no bath, and at first Barbara had looked with horror upon the bath-house. She had become more reconciled to it of late, and, as it was the only means of obtaining a hot bath, had tried to make the best of it. It was a funny little place, entered by a narrow passage, at one end of which there was a booking-office, and a swing door, where you could buy a "season-ticket," or pay for each visit separately.

On one side of the passage there were rows of little bathrooms, containing what Barbara thought the narrowest most uncomfortable baths imaginable. A boy in felt slippers ran up and down, turning on the water, and a woman sat working at a little table at one end—"to see you did not steal the towels," Barbara declared. It was here she met Alice Meynell, under the care of an old attendant, whom the girl said she knew was a spy sent to report everything she said or did.

"Mademoiselle, who came with me to call the other day, has taken a great dislike to you," Alice whispered hurriedly in passing; "and when I asked if I might go to see you again, said, 'No, it was such a pity to talk English when I was here to learn French.' I am quite determined to run away."

The boy announced that the bath was ready, and the old attendant, putting her watch on the table, said—

"Be quick, mademoiselle. Only twenty minutes, you know."

Before leaving the place, Barbara managed to get a moment's speech, in which she begged Alice not to do anything until they met again, and meanwhile she would try hard to think of some plan to make things easier; for the girl really looked very desperate, and Barbara had so often acted as the confidante of her own brother and sister that she was accustomed to playing the part of comforter.

It seemed to her that if Alice wanted to run away, she had better do it as well as possible, for the girl was wilful enough to try to carry out any wild plan she might conceive. Barbara thought of many things, but they all seemed silly or impossible, and finally got no further than making up her mind to meet Alice again at the bath-house.

The events of the afternoon, moreover, put her countrywoman out of her head for the time being, for she found what she had been longing for ever since she came—a riding-master.

Mademoiselle Thérèse had long talked of taking her across the bay to Dinard, to visit some friends there, but hitherto no suitable occasion had been found. The delights of a boot and shoe sale, of which mademoiselle had received notice, reminded her of her intentions of showing Barbara "that famous seaside resort," and after an early lunch they set out for Dinard.

"Business first," mademoiselle said on landing; "we will hasten to the sale, and when I have made my purchases we will stroll into the park, and then visit my friend."

"If you don't mind I will stay outside and watch the people," Barbara proposed, on reaching the shop and seeing the crowds inside. "I won't stray from just near the window, so you may leave me quite safely—and it looks so hot in there."

Her companion demurred for a moment, but finally agreed, and Barbara with relief turned round to watch the people passing to and fro.

Dinard seemed very gay and fashionable, she thought, and there was quite a number of English and Americans there. Surely in such a place one might find a riding-school. There was a row of fiacres quite close to the pavement, and, seized by this new idea, she hurried up to one of the drivers and asked him if he knew of any horses to be hired in the town.

She had feared her French might not be equal to the explanation, and was very glad when he understood, and still more pleased to hear that there was an excellent manège,[1] which many people visited. After inquiring the name of the street, she returned to her shop window, longing for mademoiselle to come out. Her patience was nearly exhausted when that lady finally appeared, having bought nothing.

"I tried on a great many boots and some shoes," she explained, "and did not care for any. Indeed, I really did not need new ones; but I have seen samples of much of their stock."

In the midst of the intense satisfaction of this performance, the girl brought her news of a riding-school, which evidently was not very welcome to her companion. She had, as a matter of fact, known of the existence of such a place, but did not approve of "equestrian exercise for women "; moreover, she had pictured so much exertion to herself in connection with the idea of riding lessons, that she had been very undesirous of Barbara's beginning them, and had, therefore, not encouraged the idea. But the secret of the school being out, she resolved to make the best of it, and agreed to go round at once and see the place.

They had little difficulty in finding it, and were ushered into an office, where a very immaculate Frenchman received them, and inquired how he could serve them. On hearing their errand he smiled still more pleasantly, and in a few minutes everything was settled. Barbara was to come over twice a week and have lessons, and, if she cared, might begin that afternoon. The only drawback was that she had no skirt, which, he assured her with a sweeping bow, he could easily remedy, for he had an almost new one on the premises, and would think it an honour to lend it to her.

He was politeness itself, and seemed not in the least damped by Mademoiselle Thérèse's evident gloom. He conducted her up to the gallery at one end of the school, and explained that she could watch every movement from that vantage-point.

"It will be almost as good as having a lesson yourself, madame," he said politely, twirling his fierce gray mustachios.

At the other end of the school was a large looking-glass, which he told Barbara was to enable the pupils to observe their deportment; but she noticed that he always stood in the middle of the ring, where he watched his own actions with great pleasure.

The girl thought it a little dull at first, for she had been given an amiable old horse who knew the words of command so well that the reins were almost useless, and who ambled along in a slow and peaceful manner. But Monsieur Pirenne was entirely satisfied with his pupil, and he assured her, "if she continued to make such stupendous progress in the next lesson, he would have the felicity of taking her out in the following one."

At this Mademoiselle Thérèse shook her head pensively.

"Then I must take a carriage and follow you," she said.

Barbara laughed.

"Oh, dear, mademoiselle, do think how impossible that would be," she explained, seeing the lady looked somewhat offended. "If we took to the fields how could you follow us in a carriage? No; just think how nice it will be to see so much of your friend while I am out."

This view of the case somewhat reconciled Mademoiselle Thérèse to the idea, though her contentment vanished when she found that the wind had increased considerably during the afternoon, and that the mouth of the river was beginning to look a little disturbed.

They stood on the end of the quay, waiting the arrival of the steamboat, and mademoiselle shook her head gloomily.

"It is not that I am a bad sailor, you know," she explained; "but, when there is much movement, it affects my nerves and makes me feel faint."

Barbara looked steadfastly out to sea. She did not want to hurt Mademoiselle Thérèse's feelings by openly showing her amusement.

"It is very unpleasant to have such delicate nerves," her companion continued; "but I was ever thus—from a child."

"But at this time of year we shall not often have a stormy passage," comforted Barbara.

At that moment a gust of wind, more sudden than usual, playfully caught Mademoiselle Thérèse's hat, and bore it over the quay into the water.

"My hat!" she shrieked. "Oh, save my hat!"

Barbara ran forward to the edge, but it had been carried too far for her to reach even with a stick or umbrella.

"My hat!" mademoiselle cried again, turning to the people on the pier, who were waiting for the ferry. "Rescue my hat—my best hat!"

At this stirring appeal several moved forward and looked smilingly at the doomed head-gear; and one kind little Frenchman stooped down and tried to catch it with the end of his stick, but failed. Mademoiselle grew desperate.

"If you cannot get the hat, get the hat-pins," she wailed. "They are silver-gilt—and presents. Four fine large hat-pins."

Then, seeing that several people were laughing, she grew angry.

"And you call yourselves men, and Frenchmen! Can none of you swim? Why do you stand there mocking?"

"It is such an ugly hat," an Englishman murmured near Barbara. "It would be a sin to save such an inartistic creation."

"But she will get another just as bad," Barbara said, with dancing eyes. "And—it is her best one!"

"Cowards!" mademoiselle cried again, leaning futilely over the quay. "I tell you, it is not only the hat, but the hat-pins. Oh! to see it drown before my eyes, and none brave enough to bring it back!"

This piece of rhetoric seemed to move one French youth, who slowly began to unlace his boots, though with what object one could not be quite sure.

"It is such a particularly ugly hat," the Englishman continued critically. "Those great roses like staring eyes on each side, with no regard for colour or anything else."

"But the colour won't be nearly so bright after this bath," Barbara suggested; then added persuasively, "And really, you know, she took a long time over it. Couldn't you reach it easily from that boat—the ferry is so near now, and it would drive her distracted to see the roses churned up by the paddle-wheels."

The Englishman looked from the agitated Frenchwoman to the blots of colour on the water, that were becoming pale and shapeless; then he moved lazily towards the boat. Just as he was getting into it he looked back at Barbara.

"She won't embrace me—will she?" he asked. "If so——"

"Oh, no," Barbara assured him. "Hand it up to her on the end of the oar."

"Well," he said, unshipping one, "it is against my conscience to save anything so hideous. But the fault lies with you, and as you will probably go on seeing it, you will have punishment enough."

A few minutes later Mademoiselle Thérèse received the sodden hat with rapture, anxiously counting over the hat-pins, while the French youth, with some relief, laced up his boot again.

"How noble!" mademoiselle exclaimed. "How kind! Your countryman too, Miss Barbara! Where is he that I may thank him?"

"If you linger you will miss the ferry," Barbara interposed. "See, here it is, mademoiselle," and her companion reluctantly turned from the pursuit of the stranger to go on board, clasping her hat in triumph. Barbara thought, as she followed her, that if the fastidious rescuer had but seen her joy in her recovered treasure, he would have felt rewarded for his exertions in saving a thing so ugly.

[1] Riding-School.

CHAPTER XII.

THE PLOT THICKENS.

The next time Barbara went to the baths she chose the day and the hour at which Alice had told her she was usually taken, and was greatly pleased when she saw the girl waiting in the passage. But as soon as the old servant saw her she edged farther off with her charge, who lifted her eyebrows in a suggestive manner, as if to say, "You see, my spy has been warned." It seemed as if it would be impossible to hold any conversation at all, but, fortunately, they were put into adjoining cubicles, and Barbara found a crack, which she enlarged with her pocket-knife.

She felt as if she might be Guy Fawkes, or some such plotter from olden times, and wondered what he would have done if he really had been present. But having seen how difficult it was even to speak to Alice, she was afraid the girl would take things into her own hands and do something silly.

Probably it was this feeling of urgency that stimulated her, and the vague ideas which had been floating in her brain suddenly crystallised, and a plan took shape which she promptly communicated to Alice. The latter, she proposed, should go to Paris, to the pastor's family at Neuilly, Barbara lending her the necessary money, for the girl was only given a very little at a time. From Paris she could write to her father and explain things, without any danger of having the letter examined or altered.

The only, and certainly most important, difficulty in the carrying out of this plan was that there seemed no opportunity to escape except at night, and even then it would need great care to slip past Mademoiselle Eugénie, who slept at one end of the dormitory. Barbara did not like the night plan, because it would mean climbing out of the window and wandering about in the dark, or—supposing there were a train—travelling to Paris; and either alternative was too risky for a girl in a foreign country, who did not know her way about.

Gazing up at the ceiling in perplexity over this new hitch, Barbara discovered a way out of it, for there was a glazed window not so high but that Alice could manage to climb up, and if she got safely out (this was another inspiration), she was to run to the widower's house and hide there till the time for a train to Paris. Once safely in that city, Barbara felt it would be a weight lifted from her mind, for she really was not very happy at sharing in an enterprise which, even to her inexperience, seemed more fitted for some desperado than a sane English girl.

Having begun, however, she felt she must go through with it to the best of her ability, and undertook to write to Neuilly, to arrange with the widower's son, and to bribe the bath-boy to give the girl the only cubicle with a window. As a matter of fact, Barbara would have rather sent the girl to Mademoiselle Viré's, but the latter was so frail that the excitement might be injurious to her, and it was hardly fair to introduce such a whirlwind into her haven of peace.

She had an opportunity of speaking to Jean that very day, for he had offered to give her some lessons in photography, and she was going to have her first one in the afternoon. The boy was quite delighted with the thought of having something "to break the monotony of existence," and declared that it was an honour to share in any plan for the secure of the oppressed.

"We will inclose her in the photographic cupboard, mademoiselle," he said eagerly, "so that none can see her. Oh, we will manage well, I assure you."

Barbara sighed, fearing she was doing almost as mean a thing as Marie, and was very doubtful as to what her mother and Aunt Anne would say when they heard of the adventure.

"I shall go to the look-out station and blow away these mysteries," she said to herself, when the photography lesson was over; and the very sight and smell of the sea made her feel better. The steamer from Dinard had just unloaded its passengers, and was steaming hurriedly back again with a fresh load, when among those who had landed she noticed one that seemed not altogether strange to her. She drew nearer, and was sure of it, and the visitor turning round at the same moment, the recognition was mutual. It was the "American Pretender."

"I was just going to ask where Mademoiselle Loiré lived," he said gaily, "with the intent of calling upon you. How obliging of you to be here when the steamboat arrived."

Barbara laughed.

"I often come here to look across at dear St. Malo, and get the breeze from the sea," she explained. "Besides, I like watching the ferries, they are so fussy—and the people in them too, sometimes. But how did you get here?"

"Not having met any more rash and runaway damsels whom I had to escort back to Dol, I succeeded in reaching St. Malo, and it is not unusual for visitors to go to Dinard and St. Servan from there. But, apart from that," he went on, "I found out something so interesting that I thought I must call and tell you—being in the neighbourhood."

"That was awfully nice of you," said Barbara gratefully, "and I'm so curious to hear. Please begin at once. You have plenty time to tell me before we reach the house, and mademoiselle must excuse me talking just a little English."

"I think the occasion justifies it," he agreed, smiling; then added apologetically, "I hope you won't mind it being a little personal. I told you I had come to Europe with my uncle, didn't I? My father left me to his care when I was quite a little chap, and he has been immensely good to me. We are great friends, and always share things—when we can. He could not share this walking tour because he had business in Paris, but I write him long screeds to keep him up in my movements. In answer to the letter about our Dol adventure, my uncle wrote back to say that he had known an English lady long ago called Miss Anne Britton, and he wondered if this were any relation—the name was rather uncommon."

The American paused, and looked at his companion.

"Please go on," she cried, "it is so very exciting, and surely it must have been Aunt Anne."

"He knew her so well," the young man continued slowly, "that—he asked her to marry him, and—she refused."

Barbara drew a long breath.

"Oh! Fancy Aunt Anne having a romantic story like that! I should like to write and ask her about it. But, of course, I can't; she might not like it." Then, turning quickly to the American, she added, "I suppose your uncle won't mind your having told me, will he?"

The young man flushed. "I hope not. He doesn't often speak of such things; and, though I knew there had been something of the kind, I didn't know her name. Of course——" He hesitated.

"Yes?" said Barbara.

"Of course, I know you will consider it a story to think about—and not to speak of. But I thought, as it was your aunt, it would interest you."

"It does. I'm very glad you told me, because it makes me understand Aunt Anne better, I think. Poor Aunt Anne! Although, perhaps, you think your uncle is the one to be sorriest for."

"I am going to join him in Paris to-morrow," he replied a little irrelevantly.

"To Paris! To-morrow!" echoed Barbara, the thought of Alice rushing into her mind. "Oh, I wonder—it would be much better—I wonder if you could do me a favour? It would be such a relief to tell an English person about it."

"An American," he corrected. "But perhaps that would do as well. I hope it is not another runaway bicycle?"

"But it just is another runaway expedition—though not a bicycle," said the girl, and thereupon poured into his ears the story of Alice Meynell and her woes.

At first he laughed, and said she was in danger of becoming quite an accomplished plotter; but, as the story went on, he grew grave.

"It is a mad idea, Miss Britton," he said. "I am sorry you are mixed up in the matter. Would it not have been better for you to write to the girl's father and tell him all this?"

Barbara looked vexed.

"How silly of me!" she exclaimed. "Do you know, I never thought of that; and, of course, it would have been quite simple. It was foolish!"

"Never mind now," he said consolingly, seeing how downcast she looked. "I am sure it must have been difficult to decide; and now that the enterprise is fairly embarked on, we must carry it through as well as possible. I think the station here would be one of the first places they would send to when they found she had gone; but we can cycle to the next one and send the machines back by train—she will be so much sooner out of St. Servan."

Barbara agreed gratefully. She was glad that there would be no need for the dark cupboard, and felt much happier now that the immediate carrying out of the plan was in some one else's hands. So she fixed an approximate hour for the "Pretender" to be ready next day, and then said good-bye.

"I will postpone my call on Mademoiselle Loiré till another time," he remarked. "I only hope that nothing will prevent that terrible young lady of yours getting off to-morrow."

"I hope not," sighed Barbara. "She may not even manage to get to the baths at all. If so, we'll have to think of something else."

"Komm Tag, komm Rat," he said cheerily, as he turned away. "Perhaps we may yet want the cupboard."

Barbara hoped not, although Jean was greatly disappointed when he heard of the alteration in the plans, and the only way the girl could console him was by telling him that, if ever she wanted to hide, she would remember the cupboard, which, she thought was a very safe promise!

CHAPTER XIII.

THE ESCAPE.

The following day was damp and dark, and the weather showed no signs of improving, which was depressing for those who had great plans afoot. Mademoiselle Thérèse thought Barbara was showing signs of madness when she proposed going to the baths, and was not a little annoyed when her disapproval failed to turn the girl from her purpose. Barbara had grave doubts about Alice being allowed to go, but she felt she, at least, must at all costs be there. She had time to remind the bath-boy of his bargain, and to promise him something extra when next she came, if he were true to his word, and was just ready to return home, when Alice arrived with the old maid. She succeeded in giving her a little piece of paper with some directions on it, but was able to say nothing; and, after a mere nod, left the bath-house.

She was very curious to see where the window by which the girl was to escape opened, and, going down the passage that ran along the side of the building, found that it opened into a yard, which seemed the storehouse for old rubbish—a safe enough place to alight in. When she returned to the street she saw the "Pretender" coming along, wheeling two bicycles; and her relief at seeing him was mingled with compunction at giving him such a lot of trouble.

It really was rather cool to drag a comparative stranger into such a matter, even if his good nature had prompted him to offer his assistance. But, somehow, the mere fact of his talking English had seemed to do away with the need of formal introduction, and the knowledge that his uncle had known Miss Britton in bygone days would be a certificate of respectability sufficient to satisfy her mother, she thought.

"I am so sorry it's wet," she said. "It makes it so much worse for you to be hanging about."

"It is hardly the day one would choose for a bicycle ride," he returned cheerfully; "but, like the conductors in Cook's Tours, I feel I have been chartered for the run, and weather must make no difference. But you should go straight home. It would be too conspicuous to have two people loitering about. I will let you know as soon as possible how things go, and if you don't hear till to-morrow, it will mean we are safely on our journey."

Barbara saw the wisdom of returning at once, but did so with reluctance, and, finding that she was quite unable to give proper attention to her work, wrote a long letter home, relieving her mind by recounting the adventure in full. It was a good thing that the first plan—of hiding Alice in the neighbouring house—had not been carried out, for, about three quarters of an hour later, Mademoiselle Eugénie came hurrying up to see if the girl was with them, and on hearing she was not, at once proposed—with a suspicious glance at Barbara—that she should inquire at the next house.

She asked the girl no questions, however, perhaps guessing that if she did know anything she would not be very likely to tell. It was Mademoiselle Thérèse who, in the wildest state of excitement, questioned every one in the house, Barbara included, and the latter felt a little guilty when she replied that the last time she had seen the missing girl was in the baths.

Before very long the bellman was going round proclaiming her loss, and describing the exact clothes she wore; and Barbara was afraid, when she heard him, that there would soon be news of her; for she had been wearing the little black hat and coat that all the girls at Mademoiselle Eugénie's were dressed in. But the evening came, and apparently nothing had been heard of the truant. Mademoiselle Loiré and Marie did hardly any lessons, such was the general excitement in the house, but discussed, instead, the various possibilities in connection with the escape.

Perhaps there was a little triumph in the hearts of the two elder women, for they had always felt rather jealous that Mademoiselle Eugénie had more boarders than they, even although they did not lay any claim to being a school. They would have given a great deal to be able to read Barbara's thoughts, but she looked so very unapproachable that they shrugged their shoulders and resigned themselves, with what patience they could, to wait.

Barbara's anxiety was greatly relieved the next evening by letters which she received from both the "Pretender" and Alice. The first wrote briefly, and to the point. He said he had delivered the girl safely to the people at Neuilly, whom Alice had taken to, and that there seemed to be "good stuff" in her, too, for he had given her some very straight advice about making the best of things, which she had not resented. Further, that Barbara need have no more anxiety, as he had cabled to her father to get permission for her to stay at Neuilly, in case of any trouble arising when it was discovered where she was. Barbara folded up the letter with a sigh of relief that the matter had gone so well thus far, and opened Alice's communication, which was largely made up of exclamation marks and dashes.

She was very enthusiastic about Neuilly, and was sure she would be quite happy there, and that the heat would only make her feel at home. She had smiled with delight at intervals all day, she said, when she thought of the rage of Mademoiselle Eugénie, and her futile efforts to trace her. She supposed a full description of her clothes had been given, but that would be no good, as the American had brought her a tweed cap and a cycling cape, and they had thrown her hat away by the roadside. She concluded by saying that Mr. Morton had been very kind, though he did not seem to have a very high opinion of her character, and had given her enough grandfatherly advice to last her a lifetime, and made her promise to write to Mademoiselle Eugénie.

Barbara tore up both letters, and then went out to visit Mademoiselle Viré, and relieved her mind by telling her all about it.

"It seems so deceptive and horrid to keep quiet when they are discussing things and wondering where she is," she concluded. "But she was to write to Mademoiselle Eugénie to-day, and I really don't feel inclined to tell her or the Loirés the share I had in it."

"I hardly think you need, my child," Mademoiselle Viré said, patting her on the shoulder. "Sometimes silence is wisest, and, of course, you tell your own people. I do not know, indeed, if I had been young like you, that I should not have done just the same; and perhaps, even if I had been Alice, I might have done as she did."

Barbara laughed, and shook her head. She could never imagine the elegant little Mademoiselle Viré conniving at anybody's escape, especially through a bath-house window! But it cheered her to think that the little lady was not shocked at the escapade; and she went back quite fortified, and ready for supper in the garden with the widower and his family, whom Mademoiselle Thérèse had been magnanimous enough to invite.

CHAPTER XIV.

A WAYSIDE INN.

It was wonderful how quickly the excitement about Alice Meynell died down. Mademoiselle Thérèse went to call upon her former instructress, who told her, with evident reluctance, that the girl had gone to Paris with a friend who had appeared unexpectedly, and her father wished her to remain there for the present.

"Of course," Mademoiselle Thérèse said, in retailing her visit, "she will wish to keep it quiet; such things are not a good advertisement, and they will speak of it no more. I think, indeed, that Mademoiselle Eugénie will call here no more. She suspects that we helped to make the child discontented. I am thankful that we have no such unpleasant matters in our establishment. We have always had an excellent reputation!" and the sisters congratulated each other for some time on the successful way in which they had always arranged matters for their boarders.

It was while her sister was still in this pleasant mood of self-satisfaction that Mademoiselle Loiré proposed to go to St. Sauveur (a little town about twelve miles away), and collect the rent from one or two houses they owned there. As Mademoiselle Thérèse talked English best, and had the care of the English visitors, she had most of the pleasant excursions, so that Barbara was quite glad to think the elder sister was now to have a turn. Marie always went to St. Sauveur with her aunt, as she had a cousin living in the town, with whom they usually dined in the evening; and an invitation was graciously given to Barbara to accompany them both.

The girl often thought, in making these excursions here and there, how nice it would have been could she have shared them with her mother and the children; and then she used to make up her mind more firmly than ever that she would begin teaching French directly she got home, so that some day she could help to give the pleasure to Frances that her aunt was giving to her.

Donald had written on one occasion, that in view of so many excursions he wondered when the work came in; to which she had replied that it was all work, as she had to talk French hard the whole time! And, indeed, a day never passed without her getting in her lesson and some grammatical work, though it sometimes had to come before breakfast or after supper.

On this occasion they were to start very early, as Mademoiselle Loiré explained that they would stop for a little while at a wayside inn, where an old nurse of theirs had settled down. It was therefore arranged to drive so far, and take the train the rest of the way, and Barbara, who had heard a great deal about "the carriage," pictured to herself a little pony and trap, and was looking forward to the drive immensely. What was her astonishment, therefore, when she saw drawn up before the door next day, a little spring cart with a brown donkey in it.

"The carriage!" she gasped, and hastily climbed into the cart lest Mademoiselle Loiré should see her face. They all three sat close together on the one backless seat, and drove off gaily, Mademoiselle Loiré "handling the ribbons," and all the little boys in the street shouting encouragement in the rear.

The donkey went along at an excellent, though somewhat erratic, pace, for every now and then he sprang forward with a lurch that was somewhat disconcerting to the occupants of the cart. The first time, indeed, that he did so, Barbara was quite unprepared, and, after clutching wildly at the side of the cart and missing it, she subsided into the straw at the back, from which she was extricated by her companions, amid much laughter.

"Would you prefer to sit between us?" Mademoiselle Loiré asked her, when she was once more reinstated in her position. "You would perhaps feel firmer?"

"Oh, no, thank you," said Barbara hastily. "I will hold on to the side now, and be prepared."

"He does have rather a queer motion," Mademoiselle Loiré; remarked complacently; "but he's swift, and that is a great matter, and you soon get used to his leaps. I should think," she went on, looking at the donkey's long gray ears critically, "he would make a good jumper."

"I should think he might," replied Barbara, subduing her merriment. "I don't think our English donkeys jump much, as a rule; but the Brittany ones seem much more accomplished."

"Undoubtedly," her companion continued calmly. "My sister says when she was in England she tried to drive a donkey, and it backed the carriage into the ditch. They must be an inferior breed." To which remark Barbara was powerless to reply for the time being.

The drive was a very pretty one, and the donkey certainly deserved his driver's praises, for he brought them to the inn in good time. It was a quaint little place, standing close to the roadside, but, in spite of that fact, looking as if it were not greatly frequented. As they drove up, they saw an old woman sitting outside under a tree, reading a newspaper; but, on hearing the sound of wheels, she jumped up and ran to the gate. As soon as Mademoiselle Loiré had descended she flung herself upon her; and Barbara wondered how the latter, who was spare and thin, supported the substantial form of her nurse.

She had time to look about her, for her three companions were making a great hubbub, and, as they all spoke together, at the top of their voices, it took some minutes to understand what each was saying. Then Barbara was remembered and introduced, and for a moment she thought the nurse was going to embrace her too, and wondered if it would be worse than a rush at hockey; but, fortunately, she was spared the shock, and instead, was led with the others into a musty parlour.

"I am so pleased to see you," the landlady said, beaming upon them all, "for few people pass this way now the trams and the railway go the other route; and since my dear second husband died it has seemed quieter than ever." Here she shook her head dolefully, and dabbed her bright, black eyes, where Barbara could see no trace of tears.

"Sundays are the longest days," the woman went on, trying to make her hopelessly plump and cheery face look pathetic, "because I am so far away from church. But I read my little newspaper, and say my little prayer—and mention all your names in it" (which Barbara knew was impossible, as she had never heard hers before that morning)—"and think of my little priest."

Mademoiselle Loiré nodded to show she was listening, and Marie hastily stifled a yawn.

"I call him mine," the landlady explained, turning more particularly to Barbara, "because he married me the last time, and my second husband the first time."

Barbara thought of the guessing story about "A blind beggar had a son," and decided she would try to find out later exactly whom the priest had married, for the explanation was still going on.

"Of course, therefore, he took an interest in his death," and the widow's voice grew pathetic. "So he always keeps an eye on me, and sends me little holy newspapers, over which I always shed a tear. My second husband always loved his newspaper so—and his coffee."

The word coffee had a magical effect, and her face becoming wreathed in smiles again, she sprang to her feet in a wonderfully agile way, considering her size, and ran to a cupboard in the corner, calling loudly for a maid as she went.

"You must have thirst!" she exclaimed, "terrible thirst and hunger; but I will give you a sip of a favourite beverage of mine that will restore you instantly."

And she placed upon the table a black bottle, which proved to be full of cold coffee sweetened to such a degree that it resembled syrup. Poor Barbara! She was not very fond of hot coffee unsweetened, so that this cold concoction seemed to her most sickly. But she managed to drink the whole glassful, except a mouthful of extreme syrup at the end, though feeling afterwards that she could not bear even to look at coffee caramels for a very long time. They sat some time over the refreshments provided for them, and their donkey was stabled at the inn to await their return in the evening. Then bidding a temporary adieu to their hostess, they went on to the town by train.

Mademoiselle Loiré went at once to get her rent, which, she explained, always took her some time, "for the people were not good at paying," and left the girls to look at the church, which was a very old one. After they were joined by mademoiselle they strolled along to Marie's relations. The husband was a seller of cider, which, Marie explained to Barbara, was quite a different occupation from keeping an inn, and much more respectable. Both he and his wife were very hospitable and kind, and especially attentive to the "English miss."

It was quite a unique experience for her, for they dined behind a trellis-work at one end of the shop, and, during the whole of dinner, either the father or daughter was kept jumping up to serve the customers with cider. The son was present too, but no one would allow him to rise to serve anybody, for he was at college in Paris, and had taken one of the first prizes in France for literature. It was quite touching to see how proud his parents and sister were of him, and he seemed to Barbara to be wonderfully unspoiled, considering the attention he received.

It seemed her fate to have strange food offered her that day, and when the first dish that appeared proved to be stewed eels, Barbara began to dread what the rest of the menu might reveal. Fortunately, there was nothing worse than beans boiled in cream, though it was with some relief that she saw the long meal draw to a close. Coffee and sweetmeats were served in a room upstairs, in which all the young man's prizes were kept, and which were displayed with most loving pride and reverence by the mother and sister, while the owner of them looked on rather bashfully from a corner.

The young man was one of the type of Frenchmen who wear their hair cut and brushed the wrong way, like a clothes-brush. Barbara was beginning to divide all Frenchmen into two classes according to their frisure: those that wore their hair brush-fashion, and those that had it long and oiled—sometimes curled. These latter sometimes allowed it to fall in locks upon their foreheads, tossing it back every now and then with an abstracted air and easy grace that fascinated Barbara. They were usually engaged in the Fine Arts, and she could never quite decide whether the hair had been the result of the profession, or vice versa.

After talking for some time, Barbara had her first lesson in écarté, which she welcomed gladly, as helping to keep her awake. Then the whole family escorted their visitors to the station, where they stood in a row and waved hats and hands for a long time after the train had left. It was getting rather late when they reached the little inn once more, and Barbara was thankful that she had the excuse of a substantial dinner to fall back upon when she was offered more of the landlady's "pleasant beverage."

When the good-byes had been said it was growing dark, and the girl, thinking of their last adventurous drive, wondered if Mademoiselle Loiré was any more reliable. However, after the first mile, she cast dignity aside, and begged to be allowed to sit down in the hay at the back of the cart and go to sleep, either the eel or her efforts to make herself agreeable having created an overpowering desire for slumber, and she was still dreaming peacefully when they drove into St. Servan, and rattled up the narrow street to their own door.

CHAPTER XV.

THE STRIKE.

It was now the beginning of August, and just "grilling," as Donald would have expressed it.

It seemed almost as difficult to Barbara to leave the sea as it is to get out of bed on a winter morning.

"It must be so very nice to be a mermaid—in summer," she said, looking back at the water, as she and Marie went up the beach one morning.

"Yes," returned Marie, "If they had short hair. It must take such a lot of combing."

Marie was not so enthusiastic about bathing as her companion. Perhaps her want of enthusiasm was due to the fact that she was not allowed to bathe every day, because "it took up so much time that might be devoted to her studies." At first Mademoiselle Thérèse had tried to persuade Barbara that it would be much better for her to go only once or twice a week too.

"There are so many English at the plage," she complained, "that I know you will talk with them; and it is a pity to come to France to learn the language and waste your time talking with English, whom you can meet in your own country."

"But I won't talk with them," Barbara had assured her. "You know how careful I have been always to speak French—even when I could hardly make myself understood."

The girl's eyes twinkled, for Mademoiselle Thérèse had a mania for speaking English whenever possible, and at first always used that language when with her pupil, until Barbara had asked her if she had got so accustomed to speaking English that it was more familiar to her than French! Since then, she only used English in public places, or when she thought English people were near.

"It is such a good advertisement," she explained complacently. "You never know what introductions it may make for you."

Barbara had used the same argument in favour of bathing every day, and had prevailed, though she had really been very particular about speaking French—not, I fear, from the desire of pleasing Mademoiselle Thérèse, but because of the thought of the home people, and what she meant to do for them.

"I can't understand how you can bear riding in this weather," Marie remarked, as they toiled slowly home in the sun. "It would kill me to jog up and down on a horse in a sun as hot as this."

"Not when you're accustomed to it," Barbara assured her. "You would want to do it everyday then. I'm going to ride to St. Lunaire this afternoon."

"Then Aunt Thérèse won't go for the walk after supper. What a happiness!" Marie cried, for Mademoiselle Loiré was not so strict as her sister.

The latter had grown quite reconciled to her journeys to Dinard now, and, as a matter of fact, was looking forward with regret to the time they must cease. She found the afternoons in the Casino Gardens with her friend very pleasant, and came back each time full of ideas for altering everybody's clothes.

This she was not permitted to do, however, for Mademoiselle Loiré had an unpleasant remembrance of similar plans on a previous occasion, which had resulted in many garments being unpicked, and then left in a dismembered condition until Marie and she had laboriously sewed them up again! This particular afternoon Mademoiselle Thérèse was in a very complacent mood, having just retrimmed her hat for the second time since its immersion, and feeling that it was wonderfully successful.

"If I had not been acquainted with the English language, and had so many pressing offers to teach it," she said, as they were walking up to the riding-school, "I should have made a wonderful success as a modiste. Indeed, I sometimes wonder if it might not have been less trying work."

"That would depend on the customers, wouldn't it?" Barbara returned; but did not hear her reply, for she had caught sight of Monsieur Pirenne at the manège door, and knew that he did not like to be kept waiting. Mademoiselle Thérèse always waited to see them mounted, feeling that thereby she ensured a certain amount of safety on the ride; moreover, there was a ceremony about the matter that appealed to her.

Monsieur Pirenne always liked to mount Barbara in the street, and, before getting on to his own horse, he lingered a while to see that there were a few people present to witness the departure, for, like Mademoiselle Thérèse, he had a great feeling for effect. After seeing Barbara safely up, he glanced carelessly round, flicked a little dust from his elegantly-cut coat, twirled his mustachios, and leaped nimbly into the saddle, without the help of the stirrup.

A flutter of approval went round the bystanders, and Mademoiselle Thérèse called out a parting word of warning to Barbara—just to show she was connected with the couple—before they moved off. Their progress down the street was as picturesque as Monsieur Pirenne could make it; for whatever horse he might be on, he succeeded in making it caracole and curvet, saying at intervals, with a careless smile—

"Not too near, mademoiselle. Manon is not to be trusted."

"I believe he would do the same on a rocking-horse," Barbara had once written home; but she admired and liked him in spite of these little affectations—admired him for his skill in horsemanship, and liked him for his patience as a master.

This ride was one of the nicest she had yet had, as the road, being bordered for a great part of the way by the links, made capital going. It was when they had turned their faces homeward, and were just entering the town, that something very exciting happened. They had fallen into a walk, and Barbara was watching the people idly, when she recognised among the passers-by the face of the "solicitor" of Neuilly! She felt sure it was he, although he was just turning down a side street; and after the shock of surprise she followed her first impulse, and, putting her horse at a gallop, dashed after him.

Monsieur Pirenne, who was in the middle of saying something, received a great fright, and wondered whether she or her horse had gone mad. He followed her at once, calling after her anxiously, "Pull up, mademoiselle, pull up! You will be killed!"

The solicitor did not see her, but just before she reached him he stepped on to a passing tram and was whirled away, and before Barbara had decided whether to pursue an electric tram or not, Monsieur Pirenne had reached her side and seized her reins. He looked really frightened, and annoyed too, but when Barbara told him that the horse had only been running in accordance with the will of her mistress, he composed himself a little, merely remarking that it was hardly comme il faut to gallop in the streets like that.

"But, Monsieur Pirenne," Barbara said eagerly, "I know you would have done the same if you had known the story;" and therewith she began to tell it to him. He was immensely interested, for there is nothing a Frenchman enjoys more than an adventure, and at the end of the tale he was almost as excited as she was.

"Could we trace him now?" he questioned eagerly. "But—I fear the chance is small—the description is so vague, and you did not even see the name on the tram, and we have no proofs. Yet, mademoiselle, if you will go to the préfecture with me, I will do my best."

But Barbara shook her head decidedly. The thought of police courts, especially French ones, alarmed her, and the warnings she had received to keep out of any more "complications" were still very fresh in her mind.

"I think I should rather not go to the préfecture, monsieur," she said quickly. "I do not think it would be any good either."

"I agree with you perfectly." And Monsieur Pirenne bowed gallantly. "Therefore, shall we proceed on our way? Does mademoiselle regret that she did not catch him?" he asked, after a while.

"I am sorry he is not caught—but I am not sorry I did not catch him, though that seems rather contradictory, doesn't it?"

"By which mademoiselle means that she does not know what she would have done with one hand on the miscreant's collar, the other on the reins, and a crowd around her?" the Frenchman inquired politely.

"That's just it," laughed Barbara. "You have exactly described it—though I should be glad if some one caught him and made him give back the money."

"I will keep my eyes open on your behalf, and shall let you know if anything happens," he said sympathetically; and Barbara, remembering his kindness, did not like to remind him that, never having seen the man, he could not possibly be of much service to her.

When Mademoiselle Thérèse heard that she had seen the solicitor again, she was almost as excited as Barbara had been, and at once proposed that they should spend the rest of the evening in Dinard, looking for him; and it was not until the girl pointed out that he might now be on his way to England, or a long way off in another direction, that she became reconciled to returning home.

Excitement seemed in the air that evening, and when they arrived at the St. Servan quay there were more idlers than usual. They wondered what was the cause, and when Mademoiselle Thérèse, with her customary desire to get at the bottom of everything, asked the reason, she was told that the strike among the timber-yard men, which had been threatened for some time, had begun that afternoon, and that work was suspended.

It was all the more astonishing because it had come so suddenly, and Barbara could hardly tear mademoiselle away from the spot until she suggested that those at home might not have heard of it yet, and that she might be the first to tell it to them. Hurrying through the town, they heard great shouting from the other side of the quay, which made mademoiselle nearly break into a run with eagerness. As it happened, however, the news had already spread to their street, and they found Mademoiselle Loiré equally anxious to tell the new-comers what she knew of the matter.

As it was the first strike for many years, the townspeople looked upon it with a strange mingling of pride and fear. It was stirred up by an agitator called Mars, and had broken out simultaneously in other ports too. More gendarmes were sent for in case of need, though Mademoiselle Loiré said it was hoped matters might be arranged amicably by a meeting between masters and men.

They were still discussing the subject, when a loud shouting was heard, and they all ran to a disused bedroom in the front of the house and looked out.

A crowd of men, marching in fours, were coming up the street, led by one beating a drum, and another carrying a dirty banner with "Liberté, Equalité, Fraternité" upon it. Barbara's eyes sparkled with excitement, and she felt almost as if she were back in the times of the Revolution, for they looked rather a fierce and vicious crew.

"They are some of the strikers," Mademoiselle Thérèse cried. "We must withdraw our heads from the windows in case the men get annoyed with us for staring." But she promptly leaned still farther out, and began making loud remarks to her sister, on the disgracefulness of such behaviour.

"You will be heard," Mademoiselle Loiré returned, shaking her head at her sister. "You are a silly woman to say such things so loudly when the strikers are marching beneath."

But the remonstrance had no effect, and the sight of all the other windows in the street full of spectators encouraged and inspired Mademoiselle Thérèse, and made her long for fame and glory.

"It is ridiculous of the mayor to allow such things," she said loudly, with an evident desire to be heard. "The men should be sharply dealt with, and sent back to their work."

The result of her words was unexpected; for several of the crowd, annoyed at the little serious attention they had hitherto received, and worked up to considerable excitement, by the shouting and drumming began to pick up stones and fling them at the house. At first they were merely thrown against the house, then, the spirit of mischief increasing, they were sent with better aim, and one crashed through the window above Mademoiselle Thérèse's head.

"We shall all be killed!" shrieked her sister, "and just because of your meddling ways, Thérèse." But she called to deaf ears, for now Mademoiselle Thérèse, enjoying notoriety, kept popping her head in and out of the window, dodging the stones and shouting out threats and menaces, which were returned by the crowd, till at last Mademoiselle Loiré cried out pitifully that some one must go and fetch the widower.

"One man even might be a protection," she moaned, though how, and whether against her sister or the strikers, did not seem very clear to Barbara. But as that seemed to be Mademoiselle Loiré's one idea, and as Marie and the maid-servants were all crying in a corner, she thought she had better fetch him. Running downstairs and across the garden, she climbed over the wall by the wood pile, and boldly knocked at the widower's back door, thereby frightening him not a little. He came very cautiously along the passage, and inquired in rather shaky tones who was there.

As soon as Barbara had assured him that this was not an attack in the rear, he flung open the door, and welcomed her most cordially. Barbara wondered where he had been not to have heard Mademoiselle Loiré's wailings, and suspected that perhaps he had heard them and had retired hastily in consequence! He certainly looked a little depressed when he received the message, which was to the effect that he should come and address the crowd from the Loirés' window, and bid it to proceed on its way.

"I think," he said pensively, after some moments' consideration, "that if I am to go at all, I had better go out by my own front door and speak to the crowd from the street. They will be more likely to listen to me there, than if they thought I was one of Mademoiselle Loiré's household."

"That is very brave of you, monsieur," Barbara said, and the little man swelled with pride. Perhaps it was the thought of the glorious part he was about to play before the whole street that upheld him, as he certainly was rather timid by nature.

"If you are going out to face that mob," said Jean, drawing himself up, "I will accompany you."

"Noble boy!" cried the little man, embracing him. "We will live or die together. Come!" And off they went, while Barbara hurried across the garden and over the wall again, not wishing to miss the spectacle in the street. But her dress caught in the wood, and, as it took her some time to disentangle it, the widower had finished his speech by the time she arrived at the window. But he seemed to have made an impression, for the crowd was beginning slowly to move on, urged by what persuasions or threats she could not discover, as the Loirés had not heard much either.

But as long as the strikers went, the ladies did not much mind how they had been persuaded, and when the last man had straggled out of sight, and the sound of the drum was dying away, both the sisters, followed by Marie, rushed downstairs and flung open the front door.

"Enter!" Mademoiselle Loiré cried. "Enter, our preserver—our rescuer!" and, as soon as he crossed the threshold, Mademoiselle Thérèse seized one hand and her sister the other, till Barbara wondered how the poor little man's arms remained on. Marie, meanwhile, did her part by the son, and, as they all spoke at once, there was almost as much noise in the house as previously there had been outside.

"Our noble preserver, what do we not owe to you!" shouted Mademoiselle Thérèse, trying to drown her sister, who was speaking at his other ear.

"Facing the mob like a lion at bay—one man against a thousand!" Barbara knew there had not been a hundred, but supposed a poetical imagination must be allowed free play.

"He stood there as calmly as in church," Marie interpolated, though she knew that the widower never went there, "with a cool smile playing about his lips—it was a beautiful sight;" and Barbara regretted exceedingly that her dress had detained her so long that she had missed it.

Compliments continued to fly for some time, like butterflies in June; then, from sheer exhaustion, the sisters released him, and wiped their eyes from excess of emotion. Barbara was just assuring herself that the widower's arms did seem to be all right, when he turned round, and, seizing both her hands, began to shake them as violently as his had been shaken a few minutes before.

Barbara was much bewildered, not knowing what she had done to deserve this tribute, and wondering if the widower were doing it out of a spirit of revenge, and a desire to make somebody else's hands as tired as his own. But one glance at his glowing, kindly face dispelling that idea, Barbara concentrated all her attention on the best way to free herself, and avoid going through a similar ordeal with all the others, which, she began to fear, might be her fate.

She escaped it, however, for Mademoiselle Loiré had hastened away to bring up some wine from the cellar, in honour of the occasion, and they were all invited into the salon to drink to each other's healths before parting. The widower was called upon to give a speech, to which Mademoiselle Thérèse replied at some length, without being called upon; and it was getting quite late before the two "noble preservers" retired to their own home.

When they had gone, Mademoiselle Loiré suggested that all danger might not yet be past, and, as the men might return again later, she thought it would be wiser to make preparations. So the two frightened maid-servants being called in to assist, the shutters were closed before all the windows, and heavy furniture dragged in front of them. When this was done, and all the doors bolted and barred, Mademoiselle Thérèse proposed to take turns in sitting up and keeping watch. Barbara promptly vetoed the motion, declaring she was going to bed at once, and, as no one else seemed inclined to take the part of sentinel, they all retired.

"I hope we may be spared to see the morning light," Mademoiselle Thérèse said solemnly. "I feel there is great risk in our going to bed in this manner."

"Then why don't you sit up, sister?" Mademoiselle Loiré said crossly, for the last hour or two had really been very tiring. But to this her sister did not deign to reply, and, taking up her candle, went up to bed. When Barbara gained the safe precincts of her own room she laughed long and heartily, and longed that Donald or Frances could have been there to see the meeting between rescuer and rescued.

In spite of their fears of evil they all spent a peaceful night, the only result of their careful barricading being that it made the servants cross, as they had to restore things to their places. The town was apparently quiet enough too—though Mademoiselle Thérèse would not allow any one to go out "in case of riot"—and when the additional gendarmes came in the evening there was little for them to do. It was supposed that the men and employers had come to some understanding, and that the strikers would soon return to their work.

"But, you see," Mademoiselle Thérèse said to Barbara, "how easily a revolution arises in our country. With a little more provocation there would have been barricades and the guillotine just as before."

"But while the widower and his son live so near us," Barbara replied, "we need surely have no fear."

And, though Mademoiselle Thérèse looked at her sharply, the girl's face was so sedate that the lady supposed she was treating the matter with seriousness.

CHAPTER XVI.

BARBARA PLAYS DETECTIVE.

The morning lesson was over, and Mademoiselle Thérèse had betaken herself to Barbara's couch, which the girl knew always meant that she was going to make her an indefinite visit, and tell her some long story. This time, it was about her visit to England and what she had done when teaching there; and, as Barbara had heard it all before more than once, it was a little difficult to show a proper interest in it.

"Yes," mademoiselle went on, "it was a time full of new experiences for me, by which I hope I profited. I got on extremely well with your countrywomen, too, and the girls all loved me, and, indeed, so did your countrymen, for I received a great many offers of marriage while there. I grew weary of refusing them, and was so afraid of hurting their feelings—but one cannot marry every one, can one?"

"Certainly not, mademoiselle," Barbara returned gravely. "It would be most unwise."

"That is just what I felt. Now, the German fräulein——"

Barbara sighed, wondering if it were the tenth or eleventh time she had heard the tale of the "German fräulein"; but before she had decided the point, there was a knock at the door, and the maid-servant brought up the message that mademoiselle was wanted below by a visitor.

She rose at once, shook out her skirt, and patted her hair.

"That is just the way," she said. "I am never allowed much time for rest. You would not believe how many people seek me to obtain my advice. I will return in a few minutes and finish my story."

When she had gone, Barbara looked longingly at the couch. It was such a hot day, and the lesson had been a long one; but she was afraid it was not much good to settle down with the promise of the story hanging over her head. The result proved she was right, for very soon Mademoiselle Thérèse came hurrying back again, full of smiles and importance. The landlady of the inn, Au Jacques Cartier, wished her to go there, she said, to act as interpreter between herself and an Englishman, who could speak hardly any French. Would Barbara like to come too?

Thinking it might be entertaining, Barbara got ready hastily and ran down to join Mademoiselle Thérèse and the landlady, who had come in person "to better make clear matters."

"This Englishman and his son," she explained, as they went along, "have only been with us a day or two, but already we wish them to go, yet cannot make them understand. Of course, I do not wish to hurt his feelings, but now, in August, I could let the room twice over to people who would be much less trouble, and whom the other guests would like better."

"But what is wrong with these?" asked Mademoiselle Thérèse critically. "I must know all the affair or I cannot act in it."

She drew herself up very straight, and Barbara wondered if she were thinking of Portia in the Merchant of Venice.

"Well, this gentleman asked for a 'bath every morning,'" the landlady replied in an injured tone, "and after we procured for him a nice little washing-tub, with much trouble, he said it was too small."

"That is not sufficient reason to send him away;" and Mademoiselle Thérèse shook her head.

"No. But then he cannot understand what goes on at table d'hôte, and he and his son are such silent companions that it casts a gloom over the rest. Of course," with an apologetic glance at Barbara, "some Englishmen are very nice to have; but this one"—she shook her head as if the matter were quite beyond her—"this one I do not like, and perhaps without hurting his feelings, you, mademoiselle, could make quite clear to him that he must go."

By this time they had arrived at the hotel, which was close to the Rosalba Bathing Place, and overlooked that little bay. Barbara, thinking the interview would be a delicate one, and that she would but add to the unpleasantness of the situation, said she would wait in the orchard till she was called.

From it one could get a beautiful view across the River Rance, to the wooded slopes beside Dinard, and, finding a seat beneath a lime-tree, Barbara sat down. She had been there about a quarter of an hour, and was almost asleep, when she heard stealthy footsteps coming through the grass beside her, and the next moment her startled eyes fell upon the solicitor's son of Neuilly remembrance!

She got rather a fright at first, but he certainly got a much worse one; and before he had recovered it had flashed across her mind quite clearly that the man who was at that moment talking to Mademoiselle Thérèse, was the solicitor himself. Before she could move from her place, the son had cast himself down on his knees, and was begging her incoherently to spare him and his father—not to inform against them. The thought of going to prison, he said, would kill him, as it had his mother, as it nearly had his sister; and if she would spare them, he would take his father away at once.

To see the boy crying there like a child almost made Barbara give way and let things go as they liked; but then she remembered how meanly his father had cheated the people in Neuilly—a widow's family too—and what a life he seemed to have led his own wife and children; then, calling to mind his horrid manner and cruel, sensuous face, she steeled herself against him.

"I shall certainly inform against your father," she said gravely. "And I think the best thing that you and your sister can do, is to get away at once, before it is too late."

The boy wrung his hands. "My sister has gone already," he moaned, "to some Scotch relations—simple people—who said they would take her in if she would have nothing more to do with our father. But I could not go—there was money only for one."

Barbara looked at the pathetic figure before her, and suddenly forgot all her promises not to get entangled in any more plots or other dangerous enterprises, and almost before she realised what she was doing, she was scribbling a message in French on the back of an envelope.

From where they stood they could see the little house of Mademoiselle Viré, and the entrance to the lane in which it stood. Pointing out the roof of the house to her companion, she told him to run there with the note, and, if the people let him in, to wait until she came.

She felt it was a very bold, and perhaps an impertinent thing to do, but she was almost sure that Mademoiselle Viré would do as she asked. As soon as she saw him so far on his way, she ran to the inn, and went through to the kitchen, where a maid was cooking.

"Bring your master to me, as quickly as possible," the girl said peremptorily. "You need not be afraid" she added, seeing that the woman—not unnaturally—looked upon her with suspicion. "I will touch nothing, and the quicker you come back the better I shall be pleased."

The maid eyed her doubtfully for a few minutes, then shrugged her shoulders and ran out of the room. Her master would, at least, be able to get rid of this obnoxious stranger, she thought. He came quickly enough, with an anxious expression on his rosy face, and Barbara had to tell the story twice or thrice before he seemed to understand. It was rather unpleasant work telling a foreigner about the evil deeds of a fellow-countryman, but it seemed the right thing to do, though the thought of it haunted the girl for some time.

When once the landlord understood matters, he acted very promptly, sending some one for the police, and then with a telegram to Neuilly. He said he had had his doubts all along, because the gentleman had seemed queer, and the people sleeping next him had complained that they were sure he beat his son, for they used to hear the boy crying.

The landlord then went down into the hall to wait until Mademoiselle Thérèse's interview was over, and Barbara, leaving a message to the effect that she had grown tired and had gone on, ran back to their house.

Having succeeded in entering unobserved, she got her purse and hurried off to Mademoiselle Viré.

The old maid looked at her with a mingling of relief and curiosity, but was much too polite to ask any questions.

"The young man is here," she said, and led the way into the little dining-room, where her mistress was sitting opposite the boy with a very puzzled face, but doing her best to make him take some wine and biscuit. Mademoiselle Viré had always appeared to Barbara as the most courteous woman she had ever met, and, in presence of the frightened, awkward youth, her gracious air impressed the girl more than ever.

Knowing that he could not understand French she told his story at once, and her listener never showed by a glance in his direction that he was the subject of conversation. They both came to the conclusion that the best thing he could do would be to go to St. Malo, and take the first boat to England. It left in the evening about seven, so that by next morning he would be safe at Southampton.

Then Barbara said, in the way she had been wont to advise Donald, "I think you should go straight to your sister, and take counsel with her as to what you should do. I will lend you money enough for what you need."

"You are kind," the boy said, with tears in his eyes. "I'll pay you back as soon as I get any money—as soon as ever I can, I do promise you—if only I get safely to England." He had such a pitiful, frightened way of looking over his shoulder, as if he expected to see his father behind him all the time, that Barbara's wrath against the man arose anew, and she felt she could not be sorry, whatever his punishment might be.

"Good-bye," she said kindly. "I must go away now. I think, when you arrive in England, you might write to Mademoiselle Viré, and say you arrived safely. I shall be anxious till I hear."

The boy almost embarrassed Barbara by the assurances of his gratitude, and she breathed more freely when she got into the open air.

"How glad I ought to be that Donald isn't like that," she thought, the remembrance of her frank, sturdy brother rising in vivid contrast in her mind.

When she got back, Mademoiselle Thérèse was enjoying herself thoroughly, recounting the adventure to her own household and to the widower and his sons whom she had called in to add to her audience. She described the whole scene most graphically and with much gesticulation, perhaps also with a little exaggeration.

"The anger of the man when he found he must accompany the officers was herculean," she said, casting up her eyes; "he stormed, he raged, he tore his hair" (Barbara remembered him as almost quite bald!), "he insisted that his son must come too."

"How mean!" the girl cried indignantly.

"But the son," mademoiselle paused, and looked round her audience—"the son," she concluded in a thrilling whisper, "had gone—fled—disappeared. One moment he was there, the next he was nowhere. Whereupon the papa was still more angry, and with hasty words gave an exact and particular description of him in every detail. 'He must be caught,' he shouted, 'he must keep me company.' Such a father!" Mademoiselle rolled her eyes wildly. "Such an inhuman monster repelled me, and—I fled."

Barbara, feeling as if they should applaud, looked round vaguely to see if the others were thinking of beginning; but at that moment she was overpowered by Mademoiselle Thérèse suddenly flinging herself upon her and kissing her on both cheeks.

"This!" she said solemnly, holding Barbara with one hand and gesticulating with the other—"this is the one we must thank for the capture. She directed the landlord—her brains planned the arrest—she will appear against him in court."

"Oh, no!" Barbara cried in distress, "I really can't do that. They have telegraphed for Madame Belvoir's son from Neuilly—he will do. I really could not appear in court."

"But you can speak French quite well enough now—you need not mind about that; and it will be quite an event to appear in court. It is not every girl of your age who can do that."

Mademoiselle spoke almost enviously; but the idea was abhorrent to Barbara, who determined, if possible, to avoid such an ordeal.

The next afternoon they had a visit from one of Madame Belvoir's sons, who had come across to see what was to be done about the "solicitor." Barbara was very glad to see him, for it brought back remembrances of the first happy fortnight in Paris.

It was rather comforting to know, too, that the result of one of the plots she had been concerned in had been satisfactory, for the news about Alice was good. She was getting on well with French, and all the Belvoirs liked her very much. The "American gentleman" had been to see her twice, and her father had not only given her permission to stay, but had written to Mademoiselle Eugenie to that effect, and was coming over himself to see her.

CHAPTER XVII.

A MEMORY AND A "MANOIR."

No amount of wishing on Barbara's part could do away with the necessity for her appearing in court, and the ordeal had to be gone through.

"If I were a novelist, now," she said ruefully to Mademoiselle Thérèse, "I might be able to make some use of it, but as I am just a plain, ordinary person——"

Her chief consolation was that the boy had written saying he had joined his sister and that he "had never been so happy in his life." He was going to be a farmer, he said, and Barbara wondered why, of all occupations, he had fixed upon one that appeared to be so unsuitable; but, as a proof of his good intentions, poor boy, he had sent her ten shillings of the money she had lent him, and promised to forward the rest as soon as he could. It was some comfort also, as Mademoiselle Viré pointed out, that the man would be safely out of the way of doing further harm for the present.

Barbara quite agreed with her, but thought she would have felt the comfort more if some one else had played her part. But when the whole unpleasant business was over, and Barbara had vowed that nothing would ever prevail upon her to go into court again—even if it were to receive sentence herself—she sought out Mademoiselle Viré, with a proposal to do something to "take away the bad feeling."

"Make music," the little lady said. "That is, I think, the only thing I can offer you, my child. Music is very good for 'bad feelings.'"

"Yes, oh, yes, it is; but this is something I have been wanting for a long time, and now I feel it is the right time for it. Dear Mademoiselle Viré, will you come for a drive with me?"

A delicate flush coloured the old lady's cheeks, and Barbara watched her anxiously. She knew she was very poor, and could not afford to do such things for herself, and she was too frail to walk beyond the garden, but she also greatly feared that she might have made the offer in a way to hurt her friend's feelings.

The little lady did not answer for some time, then she looked into the eager face before her and smiled.

"If I said I would go, where could you get a carriage to take us?"

"Oh, I have found out all about that," the girl replied joyfully. "I shall not ask you to go in a donkey-cart, nor yet in a fiacre. I have found out quite a nice low chaise and a quiet pony that can be hired, and I will drive you myself."

It took only a little consideration after that, and then mademoiselle gave her consent to go next day if it were fine.

"If Jeannette would care to come," Barbara said, before leaving; and the old woman, who had been sitting very quietly in her corner while the arrangements were being made, looked at her mistress with a beaming face, and read her pleasure in the plan before she spoke.

"I am so glad you thought of her," Mademoiselle Viré whispered as she said good-bye to her visitor, "for though, of course, I should never have asked you to include her, yet she has been so patient and faithful in going through sorrows and labour with me, that it is but fair she should share my pleasures, and I should have felt grieved to leave her at home on such a day."

Barbara had one more invitation to give, which went rather against the grain, and that was to Mademoiselle Thérèse, whom she felt she could not leave out; but she was unfeignedly glad when the lady refused on the score of too much English correspondence.

The following day being gloriously fine, they started for the drive in great contentment, going by Mademoiselle Viré's choice towards La Guimorais, a little village some seven kilometres away on the coast. The pony was tractable and well behaved, and they rolled along slowly under the shady trees and past the old farms and cottages, Mademoiselle Viré's face alone, Barbara thought, being worth watching, while Jeannette sat opposite, her hands folded in her lap.

Just before reaching La Guimorais the road branched off towards a lonely manoir, empty now, and used by some farmer for a storehouse. Yet there was still a dignity about it that neither uncared-for garden nor ruined beauty could destroy.

"May we go close, quite close to it?" Mademoiselle Viré asked, and Barbara turning the pony's head into the lane, pulled up beside the high gray walls.

"The master once, the servant now, but still noble," the old lady whispered, as her eyes, wandering lovingly over it all, lingered at last upon a bush of roses near the gate. The flowers were almost wild, through neglect and lack of pruning, and not half so fine as many in the little lady's own garden; but Barbara, noticing the longing look, slipped out and gathered a handful.

"The farmer would spare you those, I think, madame, if it pleases you to have them."

"He would surely spare them to me," madame repeated, and buried her face in their fragrance. Then she laid them in her lap.

"Drive on, my dear, I have seen all I wish," she said. She was silent till they passed into the main road again. Then she said, with a backward look at the manoir—

"I once stayed there for a very happy summer with my father, and a well-beloved friend. They are both in Paradise now, and I hope, by God's good grace and the intercessions of our Lady, I am nearer them each year."

Her face was perfectly serene, but poor old Jeannette's was all puckered up, and the tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. As for Barbara, she did not speak for a time.

The village was a quaint little place, just a few houses dropped together beside the sea, which sang to them for ever.

"Let us not go in out of the clean, strong air," Mademoiselle Viré said, as they stopped in front of the inn. "May we drink tea at the door?"

They slipped the reins through a ring in the flags in front of the house, and sipped their tea, while the children of the place came and stared solemnly at the strangers.

They drove home in the evening sunlight between the orchards, where the apples hung heavy on the trees, Mademoiselle Viré talking in her happy way as usual, entertaining Barbara with tales of what she had seen and heard. But when they drew up at her door, and the girl helped her out, she looked anxiously into her friend's face. Had it been too tiring for her?

"You are thinking I may be tired!" the old lady said, smiling at her. "Then I will tell you, my dear. I am just tired enough to go to bed and have dreams, happy dreams. When one is so old, one is so near the end of memory, so near the beginning of realities, that the former ceases to be sad. I thank you for the pleasure you have given Jeannette and myself, it will last us long; and now, good-night."

She kissed her, and Barbara turned back to the pony chaise.

"For her sake," she said softly to herself, "one would like the realities to begin soon."

CHAPTER XVIII.

AUNT ANNE AGAIN.

Barbara had not been so frequently at the bath-house of late, the sea proving more attractive, and she was therefore surprised one day on going there to find a new bath-boy. She missed her old plain-faced friend and wondered what had become of him. "Is he ill?" she asked at the office on her way out.

The woman pursed up her lips; "No, he is not ill," she said. "But we found that he was not of the character that we thought."

"But he had been with you some years," Barbara expostulated, for the boy had confided that fact to her.

"He had, but he had degenerated, we found."

A dreadful doubt seized Barbara that his dismissal might be due to the help he had given her in Alice's escape, and in that case she would be partly responsible for him.

"Will you kindly give me his address?" she said, turning back again to the office. The woman looked doubtful, and said she was not sure if she had it.

"I think if he has been with you several years, you must surely know where he lives," Barbara persisted; and seeing her determined look, the woman apparently thought it would be the quickest way to get rid of her, and did as she was asked. Barbara repeated the name of the street and the number once or twice as she went out, and wondered how she should begin to find her way there, though consoling herself by thinking it was not the first time she had hunted up unknown addresses successfully since she had come to France.

It was very hot, and for a moment she hesitated, wondering whether she would not put off her search till another time; then she decided it was her duty to look the boy up at once. Asking a kindly postman if he could direct her to the address, she found that the house was in one of the streets near the quays. Though rather a long way off, it was not difficult to find, and once found it was not easily forgotten, for the smells were mingled and many.

Barbara wandered down between the high old houses, looking at the numbers—when she could see them—and finally found the one she sought. She had not to wait long after knocking, and the door was opened by the bath-boy himself, who stared at her in astonishment.

"Ma'm'selle?" he said doubtfully, as if uncertain whether she were a messenger of ill omen or not.

"I have come to call," Barbara explained. "May I please come in?"

His face broadened into the familiar grin, and he shuffled down the passage before her, wearing the same heelless list slippers that had first attracted Barbara's attention to him in the bath-house. The room he took her into smelt fresh and clean, and indeed was half full of clean clothes of all descriptions.

"My mother is blanchisseuse," the boy said, lifting a heap of pinafores from a chair. "I am desolated that she is out."

"Yes. Guillaume, will you please tell me why you were sent away from the bath-house?"

Guillaume looked uncomfortable, and moved his foot in and out of his slipper.

"Why, ma'm'selle—I was dismissed. They said it was my character, but that is quite good. I do not drink, nor lie, nor steal; my mother was always a good bringer up."

"Then was it because of helping the English lady to escape? Was it that, Guillaume?" The boy swung his slipper dexterously to and fro on his bare toes.

"It was doubtless that, ma'm'selle, for it was after the visit of the lady she belonged to that I was dismissed. My mother warned me at the time. 'It is unwise,' she said, 'for such as you to play thus.' But the little English lady looked so sad."

"I am sorry, Guillaume. I do wish it had not happened."

"So do we, ma'm'selle," said the boy simply, "for my mother, who is blanchisseuse, has lost some customers since then, too, and I cannot get anything here. To-morrow I go to St. Malo or Paramé to try—but they are much farther away. Yet we must have money to keep the little Hélène. She is so beautiful and so tender."

"Who is Hélène?" inquired Barbara; and at the question the boy's face glowed with pride and pleasure.

"I will bring her to you, ma'm'selle; she is now in the garden. She is with me while I am at home."

He shuffled off, and returned in a few minutes with a little girl in his arms: so pretty a child that Barbara marvelled at the contrast between them.

"She is not like me, hein?" he asked, laughing. "Hélène, greet the lady," and Barbara held out both hands to the little girl, who, after a long stare, ran across to her. In amusing her and being herself amused, Barbara forgot the reason of her visit, and only remembered it when the little girl asked her brother suddenly if he would fetch her a roll that evening.

The boy looked uncomfortable. "Not to-night," he hastened to say, "but the mama, she will bring you something to-night for supper. I used to bring her a white roll on my way home from the baths," he explained to Barbara.

"May I give her one to-night?" the girl asked quickly, putting her hand into her pocket. "I would like to."

But the boy shook his head. "No, no, the mama would not like it—the first time you were in the house. Some other time, if ma'm'selle does us the honour to come again."

"Of course I will. I want to see how you get on at St. Malo or Paramé," she said, "and whether Hélène's doll gets better from the measles."

"Or whether she grows wings," put in Hélène in waving her hand in farewell.

Barbara was very thoughtful on her way back, and before reaching the house, she had determined to give up her riding for the present. One more excursion she would have, in which to say good-bye to Monsieur Pirenne, who had been very kind to her; but it seemed rather selfish to use up any more of the liberal fund which her aunt had supplied her with for that purpose. After all, it was hard that the bath-boy, through her fault, could not even supply his little sister with rolls for her supper.

Mademoiselle Thérèse was somewhat surprised at the sudden decision, and perhaps a little annoyed by it, for she had grown accustomed to the trips to Dinard, and would miss them greatly. Monsieur Pirenne was also disturbed, because he feared "Mademoiselle had grown tired of his manège." Barbara assured him to the contrary, and tried to satisfy them both with explanations which were as satisfactory as such can be when they are not the real ones. As to connecting the girl's visits to the ex-bath-boy—which Mademoiselle Thérèse thought were due merely to a passing whim—and the cessation of rides, she never dreamed of such a thing.

The result of the boy's inquiries at St. Malo and Paramé were fruitless at first, and Barbara had paid several visits, and was beginning to feel almost as anxious as the mother and son themselves before the boy succeeded in his search. But one afternoon when she arrived she found him beaming with happiness, having found at least a temporary job at Paramé, and one which probably would become permanent.

"That news," she said, shaking the boy's hand warmly in congratulation, "will send me home quite light-hearted."

But somehow, though she was honestly glad, it did not make her feel as happy as it should have done, and she thought the road back had never seemed so long, nor the sun so hot. She would gladly have missed her evening lesson and supper, but she feared that of the two evils Mademoiselle Thérèse's questions would probably be the worse. Indeed, when in the best of health, that lady's conversation was apt to be wearisome, but when one felt—as Barbara had for the past few days—that bed was the only satisfactory place, and that even harder than it used to be, then mademoiselle's chatter became a penance not easily borne.

"You are getting tired of us, and beginning to want home," the Frenchwoman said in rather offended tones two days later, when Barbara declined to go with her to Dol. "I am sorry we have not been able to amuse you sufficiently well."

"Oh, that isn't it at all," Barbara assured her. "It is just that I have never known such hot weather before, and it makes me disinclined for things."

"You are looking whitish, but that is because you have been staying in the house too much lately. Dol would do you good and cheer you up."

"Another time," the girl pleaded. "I think I won't go to-day," and the lady left her with a shrug, and the remark that she would not go either. She was evidently annoyed, and Barbara wondered what she should do to atone for it; but later in the day she had a visit that drove the thoughts of Dol from both her mind and mademoiselle's.

She was sitting in her room trying to read, and wondering why she could not understand the paragraph, though she had read it three or four times, when Mademoiselle Thérèse came running in excitedly to say there were two American gentlemen downstairs in the salon to see her—one old, one young. "Mr. Morton," was the name on the card.

"Why, it must be the American pretender!" cried Barbara; who, seeing her companion's look of surprise, added hastily, "the elder one used to know my Aunt Anne, and they have both been in Paris; it was the younger one who helped Alice Meynell there."

"Then, indeed, I must descend and inquire after her," said mademoiselle joyfully. "I will just run and make my toilet again. In the meanwhile, do you go down and entertain them till I come."

But Barbara was already out of the room, for she thought she would like to have a few minutes conversation before Mademoiselle Thérèse came in, as there might not be much opportunity afterwards.

"How nice of you to call on me," she said, as she entered the salon. "I was just longing for one of the English-speaking race."

The elder Mr. Morton was tall and thin, with something in his carriage that suggested a military upbringing; his hair and eyes gray, the latter very like his nephew's grown sad.

"The place does not suit you?" the elder man inquired, looking at her face.

"Oh, yes, I think so; it is just very hot at present."

"Like the day you tried to ride to Dol," the nephew remarked, wondering if it were only the ride that had given her so much more colour the first time he had seen her, and the sea breeze that had reddened her cheeks the last time.

But there were so many things the girl was anxious to hear about, that she did not allow the conversation to lapse to herself or the weather again before Mademoiselle Thérèse, arrayed in her best, made her appearance. She at once seized upon the younger man, and began to pour out questions about Alice.

"You need not fear any bad results," Mr. Morton said to Barbara. "My nephew is very discreet;" and Barbara, hearing scraps of the conversation, thought he was not only discreet but lawyer-like in his replies.

The visit was not a very long one, Mr. Morton declining an invitation to supper that evening, with promises to come some other time. But before they went, he seized a moment when Barbara's attention was engaged by his nephew to say something that his hostess rather resented.

"The young lady does not look so well as I had imagined she would. I suppose her health is quite good at present?"

"She has complained of nothing," Mademoiselle Thérèse returned, bridling. "Why should she be ill? The food is excellent and abundant, and we do everything imaginable for the comfort of our inmates."

"I am sure you do, madame," he replied, bowing. "I shall have the pleasure of calling upon you again, I hope, before long. As I knew Miss Britton it is natural for me to take an interest in her niece when in a foreign land. Your aunt, I suppose, is now in England?" he added casually to Barbara.

"Yes—staying with us for a day or two; but I hope she will come here before I go, and we could make an excursion on our way home."

"That would be pleasant for both, I am sure," Mr. Morton replied, taking a ceremonious leave of Mademoiselle Thérèse, and a simple, though warmer one of Barbara. The young man said little in parting, but as soon as they were in the street he laid his hand hurriedly on his uncle's arm.

"The girl is ill, uncle, I am sure of it; she is not like the same person I met before; and that Mademoiselle Thérèse would drive me crazy if I weren't feeling up to the mark."

"No doubt; what a tongue the woman has! But what do you want to do, Denys, for, of course, you have made up your mind to do something?"

Denys frowned. "Of course I don't want to seem interfering, but I won't say anything at home in case of frightening her mother. But——" he paused and looked up at his uncle—"do you think it would seem impertinent to write to the aunt? She might come a little sooner, perhaps, and, being at Mrs. Britton's, could use her judgment about telling her or not."

Mr. Morton pondered, his mind not wholly on the girl whom they had just left; then remembering his nephew he brought his thoughts down to the present. "I should risk the impertinence if I were you, Denys. But what about the address?"

"I know the village and the county," Denys said eagerly. "I should think that would find her. I will do it when I get back."

But it proved more difficult to write than he imagined, and it was some time before—having succeeded to his satisfaction—he brought the letter to his uncle for criticism. It ran thus:—

"DEAR MADAM,—I am afraid you may think it rather impertinent on my part to write to you, but I hope you will forgive that, and my apparent interference. I am Denys Morton, whom your niece met some time ago on the way to Dol, and, as my uncle and I were passing this way in returning from a little tour, we called on Miss Britton, and both thought her looking ill. The doctor here is, I believe, quite good, but Mademoiselle Thérèse, though doubtless a worthy lady, would, to me, be rather trying in time of illness. I should not write to you, but I fear Miss Britton will not, being unwilling to worry you or any of those at home. My uncle made a suggestion on the matter to Mademoiselle Thérèse, which was not very much liked by that lady, therefore he thought I might write you. He asks me—if you still remember him as a 'past acquaintance'—to give you his regards.

"Hoping you will forgive my officiousness.
"Yours truly,
"DENYS MORTON."

"That is quite passable," Mr. Morton said when he had read it. "I think you will hardly give offence. I wonder if she remembers me?"

"She could hardly help doing that," and Denys nodded affectionately at his uncle. "But I shall be much happier when this letter arrives at its destination. The address is not very exact. However, we will see, and we can call again to-morrow—it would be kind, don't you think, to one of our 'kith,' so to speak, and in a foreign land?"

The uncle smiled. "It would be kind, as you say, Denys, so we will do it."

But when they called the following afternoon they were told that Miss Britton was in bed and Mademoiselle Thérèse engaged. As a matter of fact, she was in the midst of composing a letter to Mrs. Britton, for when Barbara had said as carelessly as she could, that she would stay in bed just for one day, Mademoiselle Thérèse, remembering her visitor's "remarks the previous afternoon, had taken alarm and sent for the doctor, and now thought it would be wiser to write to Mrs. Britton. Having wasted a good many sheets of paper, and murmured the letter over several times to herself, she sought her sister out.

"Listen," she said proudly, "I think I have succeeded admirably in telling Mrs. Britton the truth and yet not alarming her, at the same time showing her that by my knowledge of her language I am not unfitted to teach others."

"HONOURED MADAM,—I am permitting myself to write to you about your dear daughter, who has entwined herself much into our hearts. There are now some few days she has seemed a little indisposed, and at last we succeeded in persuading her to retire to bed, and called in the worthy and most respectable, not to say gifted, family doctor who gives us his attention in times of illness. He expressed his opinion that it was a species of low fever, what the dear young lady had contracted, out of the kindness of her good heart, in visiting in time of sickness the small sister of the bath-boy (a profession which you do not have in England)——

"That shows my knowledge of their customs, you see," the reader could not refrain from interpolating; then she continued with a flourish—

"and the daughter of a worthy blanchisseuse, who is in every respect very clean and orderly, therefore we thought to be trusted with the presence of your daughter, but whom, in the future, we will urge the advisability of leaving unvisited."

Mademoiselle paused a moment for breath, for the sentence was a long one, and she had rolled it out with enjoyment. "Of course," she said to her sister, "I have not yet visited the house of this blanchisseuse, but I inquired if it was clean, and, would not have allowed the girl to go if the report had not been favourable; but to continue—

"Your daughter, in the excellence of her heart, would not, perhaps, desire to rouse your anxieties by mentioning her indisposition, but we felt it incumbent upon us, in whose charge she lies, to inform her relatives, and, above all, her devoted mother.
"With affectuous regards,
"Yours respectably,
"THÉRÈSE LOIRÉ."

"There!" exclaimed the writer in conclusion. "Do you not think that is a fine letter?"

Her sister shrugged her shoulders.

"Probably it is, but you forget I cannot understand English. But pray do not trouble to translate it," she added hastily; "I quite believe it is all that you say."

"Yes, you may believe that," and Mademoiselle Thérèse closed the envelope. "I think it will make an impression."

In that belief she was perfectly right, and perhaps it was a fortunate thing that Aunt Anne was there to help to remove the impression; for, that lady having already had Denys Morton's letter, was prepared for this one, and was glad she had been able to tell the news in her own way to her sister-in-law the day before.

"Don't look so scared, Lucy," she said. "I don't suppose there is anything much amiss, though I shall just pack up and go at once. What an irritating woman this must be—quite enough to make any one ill if she talks as she writes."

With characteristic promptitude Miss Britton began to make her preparations immediately, and only halted over them once, and that was when she hesitated about packing a dress that had just come home, which she said was ridiculously young for her.

"It will get very crushed," she muttered discontentedly. "But then—— Oh, well, I might as well put it in," and in it went. Mrs. Britton hovered anxiously about her, and watched her proceedings wistfully.

"You don't think I should go too, do you, Anne?" she asked.

"Not at present, certainly," Miss Britton returned promptly, regarding her with her head on one side. "I promise I will let you know exactly how things are, and whether you would be better there. I would say 'Don't worry' if I thought it were the least good, but, of course, you will."

Then she stooped and fastened a strap of her trunk. "It was a most sensible thing of the young Morton to write straight away, and, probably, if they are there, they will be quite sure to see Barbara has all she wants—the uncle always was a kind-hearted man."

Then she straightened her back and declared everything was ready.

She crossed by night from Southampton to St. Malo, and was greatly afraid that she would arrive "looking a wreck," and, to prevent that she partook largely of a medicine she had seen advertised as a "certain cure for sea-sickness." Her surprise equalled her delight when she awoke in the morning, having slept peacefully all night, and she refused to believe that her good night was probably owing to the calmness of the sea and not to the medicine.

She looked with a little dismay at the shouting, pushing crowd of porters and hotel touts waiting on the quay, wondering how she would manage to keep hold of her bag among them all, and, as she crossed the gangway, clutched it more tightly than before.

"No," she said, as some one took hold of it as soon as her foot touched the quay. "You shall not take my bag—I would not trust it to any one of you. You should be ashamed of yourselves, screaming like wild Indians."

It was just then that Denys Morton and his uncle came through the crowd. "That is she—there," the elder man said, recognising her after fourteen years. "Go and help; I will wait here."

It was at a crucial moment, when Miss Britton was really getting exasperated and rather desperate, that the young man came up, and she accepted his assistance and explanation with relief.

"My uncle is down here," he said. "We have a fiacre waiting. There is always such a crush and rout on the quay, we thought we had better come to pilot you through."

The young man, in spite of his easy bearing, had been a little anxious as to how the two would meet again, and dreaded lest there might be some embarrassment. But beyond an air of shyness that sat strangely on both, and a kind of amused wonder at meeting after so many years, there was nothing to show that they had been more than mere acquaintances, and the talk centred chiefly on Barbara.

"She does not know you are coming yet," Denys said. "Mademoiselle Thérèse got your telegram, but said it would be better not to tell your niece in case the ship went down on the way!"

"What a cheerful person to live with!" Miss Britton ejaculated. "I'm afraid I may be very rude to her."

"I hope not," Mr. Morton said. "It would do no good, and she seems to be an excellent lady in many ways."

"We shall see!" Miss Britton replied grimly, getting out of the fiacre; and Denys felt rather sorry for Mademoiselle Thérèse.

But Miss Britton was often worse in imagination than in reality, and she behaved with all due politeness to both the sisters, who met her at the door, and led her into the salon. She even bore a certain amount of Mademoiselle Thérèse's explanations with patience, then she got up.

"Well, well, I would rather hear all that afterwards, mademoiselle, and if I may just take off my hat and coat I will go straight up to my niece. I had breakfast on board."

A few minutes later Aunt Anne opened Barbara's door and entered, a little doubtful lest her sudden appearance might not be bad for her niece, but thinking it could not be much worse than a preparation "by that foolish woman."

Barbara was lying with her back to the door, but something different in the step made her turn round, and she sprang up in bed.

"Aunt Anne! Aunt Anne!" and dropping her face into the pillow began to cry.

Aunt Anne stood a moment in doubt. It was such a rare thing to see any of "the family" cry that she was startled—but not for long; then she crossed the room and began to comfort her niece.

"It was dreadfully foolish of me," the girl said after a while, "but it was so nice to see you again. Mademoiselle Thérèse is very kind, but—she creaks about, you know, and—and fusses, and it is a little trying to have foreigners about when you are—out of sorts."

"Trying! She would drive me distracted. Indeed, if I had only her to nurse me I should die just to get rid of her!"

"Oh, she's not quite so bad as that," Barbara returned. "She has been very kind indeed, aunt, and is a very good teacher; and you get used to her, you know."

"Perhaps. But now I'll just tell you how they are at home. Then you must be quiet, and, as I crossed in the night, I shall be glad of a rest too. I can stay in here quietly beside you."

Miss Britton having had a little experience in sickness, saw that, though probably there was no need for anxiety, Barbara was certainly ill. She felt more reassured after she had seen the doctor, who she allowed "seemed sensible enough for a Frenchman," and wrote her sister-in-law a cheery letter, saying the girl had probably been doing too much, and had felt the strain of the affair of the "solicitor" more than they had realised.

"The doctor says it is a kind of low fever," she told the Mortons; "but I say, heat, smells, and fussiness."

After a few days' experience, she owned that the Loirés were certainly not lacking in kindness, but still she did not care to stay there very long; and she told Denys Morton that she had never been so polite, under provocation, in her life before. The uncle and nephew, who had not yet moved on, did not speak of continuing their travels for the present, and Miss Britton was very glad to know they were in the town.

One of Barbara's regrets was that she had missed seeing the meeting between Mr. Morton and her aunt, and that she was perhaps keeping the latter from enjoying as much of his company as she might otherwise have done. There were many things she wanted to do with Miss Britton when allowed to get up, but in the meanwhile she had to content herself with talking about them. She was much touched by the attention of Mademoiselle Viré, who sent round by Jeannette wonderful home-made dainties that, as Barbara explained to her aunt, "she ought to have been eating herself."

A fortnight after Miss Britton's arrival Barbara was allowed to go downstairs, and, after having once been out, her health came back "like a swallow's flight," as Mademoiselle Thérèse poetically, though a little ambiguously, described it. She and her aunt spent as much time out of doors as possible, going for so many excursions that Barbara began to know the country round quite well; but, though many of the drives were beautiful, none seemed to equal the one she had had with Mademoiselle Viré, which was a thing apart.

They drove to La Guimorais again one afternoon, and on their return the girl told Denys Morton, who had been with them, the story of the manoir. He was silent for a little at the close, then, as if it had suggested another story to his mind, he looked towards where his uncle and Miss Britton were walking up and down.

"I would give anything—almost anything, at least—that he might be happy now; he has had a great deal of the other thing in the past," he said.

"So would I," Barbara agreed. "You know, I couldn't quite understand it before, but I do now. When you're ill—or supposed to be—you see quite another side of Aunt Anne and one that she doesn't always show. Of course, your uncle is just splendid. I can't understand how aunt could have been so silly."

Denys laughed softly, then grew grave, and when they spoke again it was of other things, for both felt that it was a subject that must be touched with no rough, everyday fingers. "They would hate to have it discussed," was the thought in the mind of each. But the story of Mademoiselle Viré, and all that he had heard about her, made Denys wish to see her, and as Aunt Anne felt it a duty to call there before leaving St. Servan, Barbara took them all in turns, and was delighted because her old friend made a conquest of each one. Even Miss Britton, who did not as a rule like French people, told her niece she was glad she had not missed this visit.

As neither Mademoiselle Viré nor Miss Britton knew the other's language, the interview had been rather amusing, and Barbara's powers as interpreter had been taxed to the uttermost, more especially as she felt anxious to do her part well so as to please both ladies. When Mademoiselle Viré saw that her pretty remarks were not understood, she said gracefully—

"Ah! I see that, as I am unfortunate enough to know no English, madame, I can only use the language of the eyes."

Barbara translated the remark with fear and trembling, afraid that her aunt would look grim as she did when she thought people were talking humbug, but instead, she had bidden Barbara reply that Mademoiselle Viré would probably be as far beyond her in elegance in that language as in her own; and the girl thought that to draw such a speech from her aunt's lips was indeed a triumph.

The lady certainly did smile at the inscription Mademoiselle Viré wrote on the fly-leaf of a book of poems she was giving the girl, and which, Miss Britton declared, was like an inscription on a tombstone—

"A Mademoiselle Barbara Britton,
Connue trop tard, perdue trop tôt."

But she did not laugh when she heard what the little lady had said on Barbara's last visit.

"We are of different faiths, mon amie, but you will not mind if I put up a prayer for you sometimes. It can do you no harm, and if we do not meet here again, perhaps the good God will let us make music together up yonder."

Miss Britton fixed the day of departure as soon as Barbara was ready for the journey, proposing to go home in easy stages by Rouen and Dieppe, so that they might see the churches of which Mr. Morton had talked so much. The uncle and nephew had just come from that town, and were now returning to Paris, and thence, Denys thought, to England.

Mademoiselle Thérèse was "desolated" to hear that Barbara's visit was really drawing to a close, and assured her aunt that a few more months would make Barbara a "perfect speaker; for I have never known one of your nation of such talent in our language," she declared.

"Of course that isn't true," Miss Britton said coolly to Barbara afterwards, "though I think you have been diligent, and both Mademoiselle Viré and the queer little man next door say you speak fairly well."

The "queer little man next door" asked them both in to supper before they went, to show Miss Britton, he said, what a Frenchman could do in the cooking line. Barbara had some little difficulty in persuading her aunt to go, though she relented at last, and the experience was certainly very funny, though pathetic enough too. He and his sons could talk very little English, and again Barbara had to play interpreter, or correct the mistakes they made in English, which was equally difficult.

They had decorated the table gaily, and the father and son both looked so hot, that Barbara was sure they had spent a long time over the cooking. The first item was a soup which the widower had often spoken of as being made better by himself than by many a chef, and consisted of what seemed to Barbara a kind of beef-tea with pieces of bread floating in it. But on this occasion the bread seemed to have swelled to tremendous proportions, and absorbed the soup so that there was hardly anything but what seemed damp, swollen rolls! Aunt Anne, Barbara declared afterwards, was magnificent, and plodded her way through bread sponges flavoured with soup, assuring the distressed cook that it was really quite remarkable "potage," and that she had never tasted anything like it before—all of which, of course, was perfectly true.

The chicken, which came next, was cooked very well, only it had been stuffed with sage and onions, and Monsieur said, with pride, that they had thought it would be nice to give Mademoiselle Britton and her niece one English dish, in case they did not like the other things! It was during this course that Barbara's gravity was a little tried, not so much because of the idea of chicken with sage and onions, as because of the stolidity of her aunt's expression—the girl knowing that if there was one thing that lady was particular about, it was the correct cooking of poultry.

There were various other items on the menu, and it was so evident that their host and his eldest son had taken a great deal of trouble over the preparation of the meal, that the visitors were really touched, and did their best to show their appreciation of the attentions paid them. In that they were successful, and when they left the house the widower and his sons were wreathed in smiles. But when they had got to a safe distance Aunt Anne exclaimed, "What a silly man not to keep a servant!"

"Oh, but aunt," Barbara explained, "he thinks he could not manage a servant, and he is really most devoted to his children."

"It's all nonsense about the servant," Miss Britton retorted. "How can a man keep house?"

Nevertheless, when Mademoiselle Loiré began to question her rather curiously as to the dinner, she said they had been entertained very nicely, and that monsieur must be an extremely clever man to manage things so well.

One other visit Barbara made before leaving St. Servan, and that was to say good-bye to the bath-boy. It had needed some persuasion on her part to gain her aunt's permission for this visit.

"But, aunt, dear," Barbara said persuasively, "he helped me with Alice, and lost his place because of it. It would be so very unkind to go away without seeing how they are getting on."

"Well, I suppose you must go, but if I had known what a capacity you had for getting entangled in such plots, Barbara, really I should have been afraid to trust you alone here. It was time I came out to put matters right."

"Yes, aunt," Barbara agreed sedately, but with a twinkle in her eyes, "I really think it was," and she went to get ready for her visit to the bath-boy.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE END OF THE STORY.

When the day for parting came Barbara found that it cost her many pangs to leave them all—Mademoiselle Viré first and foremost, and the others in less degree, for she had grown fond even of Mademoiselle Thérèse. The latter lady declared she and her household were inconsolable and "unhappy enough to wear mourning," which remark Barbara took with a grain of salt, as she did most things that lady said.

But the two sisters and Marie all went to the station to say good-bye, and each of them kissed her on both cheeks, weeping the while. Barbara was not very fond of kisses from outsiders in any case, but "weeping kisses," as she called them, were certainly a trial! What finally dried Mademoiselle Thérèse's tears was to see the widower and his two sons entering the station, each carrying a bouquet of flowers.

"So pushing of them," she murmured in Barbara's ear, and turned coldly upon them; but the girl and her aunt were touched by the kindness, and the former felt horribly ashamed when she remembered that more than once in private she had laughed at the quaint little man and his ways.

Barbara heard her aunt muttering something about a "dreadful humbug" once or twice, but she was very gracious to every one, and smiled upon them all until the train left the station, when she sank back with an air of relief and exclaimed, "Thank goodness! That's over—though, of course, they meant it kindly."

"They are very kind," Barbara said, looking down at the three bouquets on the seat. "I really don't deserve that they should be so kind."

"Probably not," Miss Britton returned calmly. "We sometimes get more than our deserts, sometimes less, so perhaps things adjust themselves in the end. I was really rather astonished not to see the bath-boy at the station too—your acquaintance seems so varied."

"Yes, I have learned a great deal since I went there," Barbara said thoughtfully; "and just at the end I felt I didn't want to come away at all."

"I have no such feelings," her aunt remarked, though, perhaps, a little thoughtfully also. But when they arrived at Rouen, the remembrance of their pleasant time in Paris returned to them, and they both felt ready for the delights of seeing a new town.

Apart from the information given by the Mortons Barbara felt already familiar with the great churches and quaint streets, and for her Rouen never quite lost the halo of romance that Mademoiselle Viré had endowed it with.

It was to be connected with yet another story of the past, however, before they left it, one which, for romance, was fully equal to Mademoiselle Viré's, though its conclusion was so much happier.

It was the second day of their stay, and after a morning of wandering about the town, both Barbara and her aunt were resting, the former on the balcony in front of her room, the latter on the terrace in the garden. Although a book was in her lap, Barbara was not reading, but, with hands clasped behind her head, was idly watching the passers-by, when suddenly laziness vanished from her attitude, and her gaze became intent on the figure of some one who had just turned into the portico of the hotel. She rose from the low chair, her eyes shining with excitement.

"It certainly was he!" she said. "Now, Barbara—it is time for you to eliminate yourself—you must lie on the couch and try to look pale."

She pulled down the window blind, ran into her room, and had hardly settled herself upon the couch when, as she had expected, a maid came up with a message asking her to go down to the terrace.

"Please tell Miss Britton I have a headache, and am lying down for a little," Barbara said, congratulating herself upon the possession of what had annoyed her considerably a short time before, though in an ordinary way she would have scoffed at the idea of lying down for a headache. A few minutes afterwards up came her aunt, looking very concerned, and fearing lest they had been doing too much. Barbara's heart smote her, but she told herself that she must be firm.

"I sent for you to come to see Mr. Morton, senior," Aunt Anne explained. "Strangely enough, he arrived this morning in Rouen, and has put up at another hotel."

"How nice. How very nice! I shall come down later, aunt. I expect I shall be quite all right shortly."

She had a little difficulty in persuading her aunt that it was not necessary to stay beside her, but at last succeeded in doing so, and gave a chuckle of joy when the door closed.

She had intended to go down to the garden later on, but, strange to say, fell fast asleep, and did not awaken until the man tapped at her door, saying the tea had been ordered for four o'clock, but now, although it was half-past, madame had not returned, having gone along the river bank, he believed, with monsieur. So Barbara hastily descended and had tea—very much brewed—all by herself, and then returned to her room to read.

She had finished her book, and was thinking of getting ready for dinner, when Aunt Anne came in—quite a different Aunt Anne from the one she knew, with all her decision fled. She fidgeted about for some time, saying nothing of importance, then at last turned round and began hastily—

"I did a very silly thing once long ago, Barbara, and to-day I have done what I am afraid people may think still sillier—I have promised to marry Mr. Morton."

Whereupon Barbara seized her rapturously. "Oh, aunt," she cried, "I'm so glad, just gladder than of anything else I could have heard."

"It—it is a great relief, Barbara," she said unsteadily, "to have you take it so. I—was afraid you might laugh. You know, it needs some courage for a person of my age to do a thing like that. It is different for a girl like you, but I could not have done it, had I not felt that since he desired it so urgently, I ought to right the wrong I had done him long ago."

"You can't help being very happy, aunt," said Barbara, "I'm sure, with such a nice man as Mr. Morton. The only regret I have is that you've lost so much of the time——"

Then, seeing her aunt's face, she felt inclined to strike herself for having spoken foolishly.

"Mr. Morton is in the garden," her aunt said after a moment. "It would be nice if you went down and saw him." And Barbara sped away.

That interview was apparently entirely satisfactory, for Miss Britton, enjoining them later, found Barbara had just issued an invitation in her mother's name and that it had been accepted. "And, of course, you will come too, aunt," the girl added.

There was one part in the arrangements that Barbara begged to be left to her, and that was the letter home telling the news.

"You see, Aunt Anne," she said, "I naturally feel as if I had rather a big share in the matter."

"I think surely it was Denys Morton's letter that brought me," Miss Britton corrected; "but write if you like, Barbara." And, indeed, she was rather glad to be relieved from the responsibility.

CHAPTER XX.

THE CODA.

If Barbara had been at home when her letter arrived, she would have been quite content with the excitement it caused. At first Frances and Donald were inclined to think it a huge joke, but having read to the end of Barbara's letter they felt rather differently. Aunt Anne had acted more wisely than she knew in allowing her niece to be the one to write and tell of her engagement.

"Of course," Donald said in his decided way, "we must do the proper thing by her and treat her nicely—for after all, Frances, she's been rather a brick about Barbara—and the last time she stayed she was much improved."

"It'll be interesting having a new uncle too," Frances remarked complacently. "We're rather badly off for uncles, Don, and from what Barbara says this Mr. Morton must be very—nice, though, of course, Barbara isn't quite to be trusted, seeing she's such a friend of Denys'. Let me see, now, what relation will he be to us?"

"Oh, don't bother about relationships at present—you may just have to rearrange them again," Donald said impatiently. "Let's go and be thinking of something to welcome Barbara back."

On that matter they held a long consultation, Donald being in favour of taking the horse out of the fly and drawing it home themselves, and Frances inclining more to wreaths and decoration.

She got her way in the end, as she pointed out to her brother that the cabman would probably not allow them to take the horse out, and that they would have to pay for it all the same, and worst of all, that they would be so much out of breath with pulling that they would not be able to ask any questions when they got home. It was probably the last reason that weighed the most with Donald, who agreed to devote his energies to making an archway over the garden path and setting off some fireworks in the evening.

On the whole, the arch was quite a success, and looked very pretty, though it was not so secure as it might have been, and its makers felt it safer to fasten to it a large label with the inscription, "Not to be handled."

The travellers were not to arrive till late in the afternoon, and poor Mrs. Britton was driven nearly distracted by the intense excitement pervading among the children during the morning. One of the twins had actually suggested putting on her best frock the night before so as to be quite ready on the following day.

It is seldom that such an eagerly-expected event is not disappointing in some detail of its fulfilment, but there was not a shade upon the happiness on this occasion. Barbara and Miss Britton arrived at the right time, with their luggage; the archway remained firm until both the travellers had passed underneath (though it collapsed shortly afterwards); and the fireworks were as successful as such things usually are. It is true that Donald was a trifle hurried over displaying them, for Barbara was as anxious to unpack the treasures she had brought home as the children were to see them.

"You are still a little thin, dear," Mrs. Britton said, as she watched her daughter; but Barbara declared it was imagination, and Donald and Frances gave it as their opinion that it was only the "Frenchy kind of look she had."

"You have dressed her in such jolly things, aunt," Frances said admiringly. "I like a person to come home looking like the country she's come from, and it'll be a great advantage to her teaching—she'll get heaps of pupils, I'm sure."

"Oh, we'll not talk about the teaching just yet," Mrs. Britton said quickly. "She must have a week or two free first, and then it will be time enough for us to think about it;" and to that there was no dissentient voice—except Barbara's.

Aunt Anne had brought home some treasures too; but was quite willing to keep hers till later, and the children declared, with round eyes of delight, that Barbara had brought enough to last for a very long time.

"You really were a brick to bring so many lovely things, Barbara," said Frances, trying to fix in a brooch with one hand while she stroked a silk blouse with the other. "This brooch is so pretty, I'm really not going to lose it, though I can't think how you got enough money to buy so much."

Miss Britton looked across at her niece, who hastily dived into her trunk again; but the former confided to her sister-in-law afterwards, that Barbara had distributed the remainder of the money she had given her for riding lessons between the bath-boy and presents for the home-people, which news made Mrs. Britton prize her share of the treasures more than ever.

The only thing that a little disappointed the children was that "Uncle Morton" had not arrived too.

"It's a pity he didn't come with you, we're all so anxious to see him," Frances remarked, looking at her aunt, whom Barbara relieved by answering in her stead.

"Both Mr. Morton and his nephew are coming soon to the inn," she said, "so you haven't long to wait."

But their curiosity rose to almost unbearable heights before the fortnight was over, and Barbara had a little difficulty in making them solemnly promise that they would not bother their aunt with questions meanwhile.

Frances and Donald both wished to go to the station to meet the train, but this their mother forbade.

"You will see them here to-night," she said; "they are coming up to dinner. Meanwhile, content yourselves with Barbara."

"Yes," remarked Donald; "we really didn't realise how much we missed Barbara until she was back. It's just jolly having her."

Nevertheless, they disappeared suddenly during the afternoon, and did not return until about an hour before dinner, when they both wore the half sheepish, half triumphant expression that Barbara knew of old meant some escapade successfully carried through. Knowing they would probably tell her what it was, she went on arranging the flowers on the dinner-table while they fidgeted round the room.

"I say," Donald said at last, "I really think Uncle Morton is one of the nicest elderly men I've met for some time, perhaps ever."

"Yes," Frances agreed; "I think so too. He'll be quite an exquisition as an uncle. But we didn't go to the station," she hastened to add, as Barbara turned round to listen. "Donald wanted to go up to the inn this afternoon—at least we both did—to see Mr. Bates about the rabbit he promised us, and we were talking to him quite comfortably when a gentleman came and stood at the door looking into the passage."

"'That's an American gentleman as has come to-day with his nephew,' Mr. Bates remarked, and, of course, we knew it must be Uncle Morton, and we thought since we were there it would be rather unkind to go away without ever giving him a welcoming word. Mr. Bates thought so too when we asked his opinion, so we just went and introduced ourselves, and told him we were glad to see him, and so on. We saw the nephew too."

"Yes," Donald went on, without giving Barbara a chance to speak, "and as he seemed very glad to see us, and said it was kind of us to look in on him, of course we stayed a little longer. He's an interesting man."

"I'm glad you like him," Barbara said, bubbling over with laughter. "I'm sure it must be a relief to him."

"Yes," Donald nodded, "and to the nephew too. I think we'll be quite good friends with him. You see, Barbara," he went on, fearing lest she should feel disapproval about their visit, "it really was better for them not to have to face us all in a mass. Now they've got us over—they've only to get mother's approval."

But this remark was altogether too much for Barbara's gravity, and she drove her brother and sister off to make themselves presentable.

But when their visitors had gone that evening and she was talking in her mother's room, she told the story of the afternoon again, and they laughed over it together.

"Conceited little creatures," Mrs. Britton said. "But my judgment coincides with theirs, Barbara—and yours. I think he is one of the nicest men I have met, and it is splendid to see them so happy."

"Yes," Barbara replied contentedly; "it was really rather a happy thing that I was chased by that cyclist and met the 'American pretender,' wasn't it, mother?"

"I dare say it was," said Mrs. Britton; but she eyed her daughter rather wistfully, then kissed her and bade her go to bed, though long after the girl had left her she sit thinking. It was clear to her, as it had been to Aunt Anne for some time, that Denys Morton was anxious to make his uncle Barbara's, by a less round-about method than through his connection with Aunt Anne; and before a week had passed he had spoken of his desire, astonishing no one so much as Barbara herself.

"Of course," said Donald, who had gone to his mother for information on the matter, and was now discussing it in the privacy of the apple-tree with Frances, "I felt, as eldest son, I ought to be told about it, though I knew as soon as I saw Denys Morton that he wanted to marry Barbara."

"He would have been very foolish if he hadn't," Frances remarked. "But, of course, Barbara is such an unself-conscious kind of person that it was quite natural she should be surprised. Aunt Anne says she would choose Denys above every one for Barbara—only, naturally, she's got a leaning to the family."

Donald nodded.

"So have I, though that's no good if Barbara doesn't want to make up her mind, and she seems not to. In any case, mother thinks she's too young, though I should have thought that Aunt Anne kind of balanced it—being fairly old, you know; and besides, Denys is a lot older than she is."

"Well," said Frances, "I shall give him all the encouragement I can, for I think he's very nice. I believe, Donald, that he didn't go to Rouen just because it's an infectious kind of thing, and he didn't want to ask Barbara before he had told mother and us——"

"There he is," interrupted Donald. "He looks rather down; let's go and cheer him up," and the two dropped over the wall into the field that bordered the garden. They sauntered towards the path leading to the river, and surprised Denys not a little by suddenly joining him.