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are little worm-eaten wooden doors cut in the wall just above the water, out of which one could well fancy some inconvenient existence being thrust to eternity on a dark night, and no one the wiser. A stifled cry, a splash, and the dull Eau de Robec would go on its sluggish way, with only a momentary stirring of its hidden foulness.

Sir Guy, arrived at what he considers the most picturesque bend of the street, looks out for a doorway suitable to his designs. A bright-looking middle-aged woman is standing on the step of one of the most barn-like tenements, and raising his hat ceremoniously to her, the young man begs permission to make his sketch from her doorstep. She gives a good-humoured assent, rather glad of some little incident to break the monotony of every-day life in the Rue de Robec. Tumble-down houses have

VOL. I.

ste particular antiquarian interest for their inhabitants, who would probably exchange preturesqueness for solid comfort with a great deal of satisfaction. So Sir Guy makes his sketch, and chats to the woman and being naturally good-hearted and fond of children, makes friends with the blueered baby Normans who come toddling about him in wide-eyed curiosity, and finally draws a little picture of them, to please the complaisant mother. He is in the act of closing his book when two figures pass the doorway, the sight of whom makes him start up, bid a hasty adieu and thanks to his now acquaintance, and start off down the street in pursuit.

It is the “Cruche Cassée" and Marcelline. Thoy are walking briskly, and he follows at a littlo distance, not wishing to attract their attention. Presently they turn up towards

hurch of St. Ouen, Sir Guy still pur

suing. They pass the splendid pile with. out even a glance at the beautiful lantern tower, or those master-piece arches over the doorway; then, as if struck by an afterthought, they turn back and enter.

The young man pauses a few moments before pushing open the door that has closed upon the girl; he has not the effrontery some men possess in pursuing and staring offensively at a pretty woman. When he enters, the pair are not visible, but walkingup between those grand columns that give one a sense of awed ecstasy by the majesty of their perfection he sees the girl's form, half hidden by a pillar, gazing up with rapt blue eyes at the gorgeous rose-window above the organ.

Guy smiles to himself at the childish love of bright colour that makes her look so long at the glass stained blue and red, gold and green-that seems to him the thing

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least worth looking at amidst so much sym. metry of architectural elegance—such perfect harmony of shape and form. He glances round for Marcelline, and presently espies her kneeling at the shrine of the Virgin, crossing herself and gabbling a hasty prayer. When she rises, Sir Guy draws back a little into the shade of the column, and Marcelline, beckoning her charge, goes out. He follows them at a little distance as they ascend the steep Rue d'Ernemont, the girl with a light bounding step like a fawn's, Marcelline toiling heavily and pausing very often to take breath.

“But come, Marcelline !" cries the fresh young voice—"we shall not be home today, and the sun burns like August.”

“Ah, yes,” grumbles the older woman, stopping to pant out her words—"you young people think of nothing but your. selves. Once I too could bound up hill

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like a chamois—but wait only until you have my years on your shoulders, and the asthma besides."

“Come, I will help you,” and laughing, the girl takes her companion by the arm and begins to run uphill.

"Tiens, tiens! stop, Mademoiselle Dolores," pants Marcelline—“Mon Dieu, comme vous êtes méchante !"

Presently they arrive at the iron gate that encloses the avenue entrance to the house, and here fresh trouble awaits Marcelline. The key has been thrown back on the grass, just out of reach.

Mon Dieu ! what are we going to do now?” cries the poor woman in great distress. “Pierre will be at his dinner, and Jeanneton is as deaf as a post.”

“But she will hear the bell."

“The bell is broken since yesterday, and that stupid Pierre has forgot to mend it.

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