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or we go on the Quai, and we see all the soldiers and people walking about.”

And do you go often to the churches ?”

“Sometimes on a saint's day, when Marcelline wants to say her prayers.

“Don't you think them very beautiful ?”

A little French shrug of the pretty shoulders was the response.

" They are very cold and gloomy, and there is a musty smell always,” and Dolores turned over the leaf. "Ah, that is the Place de la Pucelle !"

“Yes, I tried to give Goujon's statue of Jeanne d'Arc.”

“ Jeanne d'Arc ? who was she ?”

“What!” cried Sir Guy astonished. "You live in Rouen and don't know who Joan of Arc was ?"

Dolores sbook her head.

“Why, the girl who saved France from us, and whom we were cowards enough to burn."

“Oh, the Pucelle d'Orléans—oh yes, of course I've heard of her, only they always call her la Pucelle here. And that is the Hôtel de Bourgthérould. Oh, how I wish I could draw like you, Monsieur !"

“Mademoiselle!” cried Marcelline fidgeting about, “will you please to enter ? With your hat off you will have a coup de soleil."

“I will go into the shade," answered Dolores, taking the book and seating herself on the bank under the trees. “You can go in, Marcelline, and prepare the dejeûner.

“Mademoiselle, you will be so good as to enter with me," exclaimed Marcelline, reddening with anger.

“No,” said Dolores, with a pout and a rebellious glance of the blue eyes—“I want to see these pictures."

Sir Guy felt in rather an awkward posi

sion, particularly as the Frenchwoman began to dart indignant glances in his direction.

“Ah, there is the view from Bon Secours," cried Dolores. “Yes, that is the Seine and the long pear-shaped islands in it, and there are the manufactories and the railway bridge—and, ah! yes, the Cathedral, with its frightful iron spire. Is it not frightful, Monsieur ?”

Here Marcelline walked off to the house in a rage.

“I think your servant is displeased that you are talking with me,” said Sir Guy.

“Oh, she is a cross old thing,” pouted Dolores, and then she looked up in Sir Guy's face with bright pleading eyes. “Do not go away just yet, Monsieur. I never see anyone but the clergyman and old Pierre, or sometimes the doctor when Mamma is ill.”

The girl's manner was so simple and natural, there was not a vestige of forwardness in her frank speech, and Sir Guy, looking dowu at the pretty up-turned face, fell in love with its sweet innocence and guilelessness.

“I should like to stay better than anything,” he answered, bending down to her, “ but I feel that I am an intruder. You don't know anything about me. I doubt if this will make you any wiser,” he added, taking out his card.

“Sir Guy Wentworth,” read Dolores ; and then she blushed a little, fearing lest she had made too free with such a grand personage. “If Monsieur excuses me, I will go in to Marcelline, who awaits me. Monsieur will not leave the garden before having made his sketch.” And she rose from the bank, made him a graceful little curtsey, and tripped off into the house.

“ So you have chosen to come in at last, Mademoiselle,” said Marcelline, with some asperity as she entered. “I shall take care before I invite anyone to come into the garden again.”

“Is he not handsome, Marcelline ?" said the little maid, meditatively, not noticing the crossness of the tone in which the remark was made.

"He is big, like all Englishmen,” retorted Marcelline ; " but he has no figure."

“You mean he has not a waist like the little French officers down on the quay. How I should like to go to England, if all Englishmen are like him !"

“Mademoiselle, you are not to think of men at all. I shall take care you see no more. What would Madame your mother say? She would never forgive me. I hope he will go soon."

“How beautifully he draws!" sighed Dolores.

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