longer. "If it weren't for that other one," he thinks ruefully, "hang me if I wouldn't send for the parson and marry her at once. I believe she'll die, and then I shall have been her murderer." He gets up abruptly, and goes towards the door.

she

"Don't leave me-oh! don't leave me !"

gasps.

No, no, dear, I am coming back,” and he closes the door softly and goes out to Marcelline, who is on her knees in the kitchen garden plucking herbs.

"This is the very devil," he says, addressing her in his own vernacular, quite oblivious in his perplexity that she doesn't understand him. Guy, being unable to translate his sentence, pauses for a mo

ment.

"Pardon, Monsieur ?" responds Marcelline, picking herself up with some difficulty. "Is she getting reasonable?" Marcelline

asks, pointing over her shoulder to the windows of the drawing-room.

Guy shakes his head.

"We can't go on like this," he says;

must do something to distract her mind."

แ

Mais, mon Dieu, comment ?" inquires Marcelline, with a gesture expressive of profound despair.

"I've promised to spend to-morrow here," pursues Guy; "but it is too dreadful to think of in this state of things. Look here, Marcelline," as an idea strikes him, " couldn't I have a carriage and take her out for the day?"

"Impossible."

"Not impossible if you went too. You told me once her mother never speaks to anyone here, and as for other people, you're clever enough to make it all right."

"Voyons!" reflects Marcelline, "tomorrow is Sunday, everyone is abroad." Everyone but the English parson, who

you say is the only person Mrs. Power ever speaks to. Now if I were to have a carriage and take you both a little excursion, say to Bon Secours, it might distract her thoughts and do her good; and I tell you frankly, I can't come up here with the prospect of another such day as to-day."

Marcelline ruminates. "Madame returns on Thursday-Thursday, and to-day is Saturday. Something must be done with the child, or her white face will tell everything. One must risk a little, and if the neighbours are inquisitive-well, I shall satisfy them," she said with a sagacious and self-approving nod.

So it is arranged, and Guy goes back a shade more cheerful to the little drawing

room.

"Come, dear, cheer up," he says, taking Dolores' hand. "Marcelline and I have been concocting a little plan for to-morrow."

The wet grey eyes look sadly at him, but she is silent.

"Well, have you none of the curiosity of your sex?" he adds, with an attempt at gaiety.

A little grievous shake of the head answers him.

"Well, then, I suppose I must tell you. You, and I, and Marcelline are going to have a carriage and drive to Bon Secours -we will dine and spend the day there. Come, now, won't that be a pleasant change?"

A little gleam comes into the pale face. "Yes," says the poor broken voice.

He sits a little time longer with her, and she brightens up at last. It is such a great thing for a child, or indeed for

us, any of

have something to look forward to.

to

And by the next morning, when he comes to fetch her and Marcelline, and take them to the carriage that waits half-way up the hill, she is almost her old self again.

She feels almost happy, sitting by Sir Guy's side in the lumbering fly, with its pair of veteran brown horses-to her simple notion it seems quite grand. And oh! how kind he is to her, stopping at the confectioner's to buy her all manner of cakes and sweetmeats (though she has not much heart to eat them now), and pointing out everything of interest on the road. Marcelline, sitting opposite in her grand white cap and gloves, is the perfection of a discreet duenna. She seems to see and hear nothing.

How deeply that drive is engraven on the child's mind long, long after! The bright, hot sun shining on the water, the view from the quay of the bright green islands down the Seine, the tall poplars and the airy railway-bridge. She remembers the great rocks by the roadside full of holes, in and

out of which black birds kept flying; the