"I am not up to Madame de Forêt," she said, gently, "nor to you. I feel sure now that you have some troubles."
"And what do you imagine they are?"
"I imagine that they are things that you will get over," she said, with spirit. "You are not a coward."
He smiled, and softly bade her good night.
"Good night, mon cousin," she said, gravely, and taking the crying kitten in her arms, she put her head on one side and listened until the sound of the carriage wheels grew faint in the distance.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
FAIRE BOMBANCE.
"Could but our ancestors retrieve their fate,
And see their offspring thus degenerate,
How we contend for birth and names unknown;
And build on their past acts, and not our own;
They'd cancel records and their tombs deface,
And then disown the vile, degenerate race;
For families is all a cheat,
'Tis personal virtue only, makes us great."
The True Born Englishman. Defoe.