When he had almost demolished the dish of shrimps he stopped, looked a little regretfully at the debris on his plate, then straightened himself in his chair, and began to take an interest in what was going on around him. He smiled benignly on his sisters, teased his daughter, and looked with shy curiosity at Barbara, to whom he did not dare to address any remarks until nearly the end of lunch. Then he said very slowly, and in a loud voice as if speaking to a deaf person, "Has the English mademoiselle visited the Mont St. Michel yet?"

Barbara shook her head.

"It is a pleasure for the future, I hope," she said.

"But certainly, of course, she must go there," he said, still speaking laboriously. Then after that effort, as if exhausted, he relapsed into silence.

But Mademoiselle Therese pursued the idea, and before the meal was over had fixed a day in the following week for the excursion. As her sister had already been at the Mont more than once, it was decided she should remain with Marie, so that the pleasant task of accompanying Barbara fell, as usual, to Mademoiselle Therese. At the last moment the numbers were increased by the little widower, who suddenly made up his mind to join them, with his eldest son.

"It is long since I have been," he declared, "and it is part of the education of Jean to see the wonders of his native land. Therefore, mademoiselle, if you permit us, we will join you to-morrow. It will be doubly pleasant for us to go in the company of one so learned."

Mademoiselle Therese could not help bowing at such a compliment, but it is doubtful whether she really appreciated the widower's proposal. The little man was quite capable of contradicting information she might give Barbara if he thought it incorrect, and when he was there she could not keep the conversation entirely in her own hands.

By the girl's most earnest request, she had agreed to stay the night at the Mont, and they started off in highest spirits by an early morning train.

Her two companions poured into Barbara's ears a full historical account of Mont St. Michel, sometimes agreeing, sometimes contradicting each other, and the girl was glad that, when at last the long stretch of weird and lonely sandflats was reached, they seemed to have exhausted their eloquence.

"But where is the sea?" she asked in surprise. "I thought you said the sea would be all round it."

Mademoiselle Therese looked a little uncomfortable.

"Yes, the sea—of course. I expected the tide would be high. It ought to be up, I am sure. You told me too that the tide would be high," and she turned so quickly upon the widower that he jumped nervously.

"Yes, of course, that is to say—you told me the tide should be high at present, and I said I did not doubt it since you said it; but I heard some one remarking a few minutes ago that it would be up to-morrow."

"Never mind," Barbara interposed, for she saw signs of a fresh discussion. "It will be all the nicer to see it rise, I am sure." And, fortunately, the widower and Mademoiselle Therese agreed with her.

The train, crowded with visitors, puffed slowly towards St. Michel, and Barbara watched the dim outline of gray stone become clearer, till the full beauty of the Abbaye and the Merveille burst upon her sight.

"St. Michael and All Angels," she murmured, looking up towards the golden figure of the archangel on the top of the Abbaye. "He looks as if guarding the place; but what cruel things went on below him."

"Shocking tragedies!" mademoiselle assured her, having heard the last words. "Shocking tragedies! But let us be quick and get out, or else we shall not arrive in time for the first lunch. Now you are going to taste Madame Poulard's omelettes—a food ambrosial. You will wonder! They alone are worth coming to the Mont St. Michel for."

They hurried out over the wooden gangway that led from the train lines to the gate at the foot of the Mont, and entered the strange-stepped streets, and marvelled at the houses clinging to the rock. They were welcomed into the inn by Madame Poulard herself, who, resting for a moment at the doorway from her labours in the kitchen, stood smiling upon all comers.

Barbara looked with interest at the long, low dining-room, whose walls bore tokens of the visits of so many famous men and women, and at whose table there usually gathered folk from so many different nations.

"There is an Englishman!" she said eagerly to Mademoiselle Therese, for it seemed quite a long time since she had seen one of her countrymen so near.

"But, yes, of course," mademoiselle answered, shrugging her shoulders. "What did you expect? They go everywhere," and she turned her attention to her plate. "One must be fortified by a good meal," she said in a solemn whisper to Barbara as they rose, "to prepare one for the blood-curdling tales we are about to hear while seeing over the Abbaye."

And though the girl allowed something for exaggeration, it was quite true that, after hearing the stories, and seeing the pictures of those who had perished in the dungeons, she felt very eerie when being taken through them. In the damp darkness she seemed to realise the terror that imprisonment there must have held, and she thought she could almost hear the moans of the victims and the scraping of the rats, who were waiting—for the end.

"Oh!" she cried, drawing a long breath when they once more emerged into the open air. "You seem hardly able to breathe down there even for a little while—and for years——" She shuddered. "How could they bear it?"

"One learns to bear everything in this life," Mademoiselle Therese replied sententiously, shaking her head and looking as if she knew what it was to suffer acutely. "One is set on earth to learn to 'suffer and grow strong,' as one of your English poets says."

Barbara turned away impatiently, and felt she could gladly have shaken her companion.

"One wants to come to a place like this with nice companions or alone," she thought, and it was this feeling that drove her out on to the ramparts that evening after dinner. She was feeling happy at having successfully escaped from the noisy room downstairs, and thankful to the game of cards that had beguiled Mademoiselle Therese's attention from her, when she heard footsteps close beside her, and, turning round, saw Jean Dubois.

"Whatever do you want here?" she said a little irritably; then, hearing his humble answer that he had just come to enjoy the view, felt ashamed of herself, and tried to be pleasant.

"Do you know," she said, suddenly determining to share an idea with him to make up for her former rudeness, "we have seen Mont St. Michel from every side but one—and that is the sea side. I should like to see it every way, wouldn't you? I have just made a little plan, and that is to get up early to-morrow morning, and go out across the sand till I can see it."

"Mademoiselle!" the boy exclaimed. "But is it safe? The sands are treacherous, and many have been buried in them."

"Yes; I know, but there are lots of footsteps going across them in all directions, and I saw some people out there to-day. If I follow the footprints it will be safe, for where many can go surely one may."

It took some time for Jean to grow accustomed to the idea, and he drew his capucine a little closer round him, as if the thought of such an adventure chilled him; then he laid his hand on Barbara's arm.

"I, too," he said, "will see the view from that side. Mademoiselle Barbara, I will come with you."

"But your father? Would he approve, do you think?"

"But assuredly," Jean said hastily; "he wishes me to get an entire idea of Mont St. Michel—to be permeated, in fact. It is to be an educational visit, he said."

"Very well, then. But we must be very early and very quiet, so that we may not disturb mademoiselle. I am not confiding in her, you understand. Can you be ready at half-past five, so that we may be back before coffee?"

"Assuredly—at half-past five I shall be on the terrace," and Jean's cheeks actually glowed at the thought of the adventure. "There was so much romance in it," he thought, and pictured how nice it would be telling the story to Marie afterwards.

Barbara herself was very gleeful, for it was nice to be able to act without wondering whether she was showing the younger ones a good example or not. She felt almost as if she were back at school, and that feeling was intensified by the little cubicle bedrooms with which the visitors at Madame Poulard's were provided. She had been a little anxious as to whether she would awaken at the right hour, but found, on opening her eyes next morning, that she had plenty of time to spare.

She dressed noiselessly, for mademoiselle was sleeping in the next room, and she did not want to rouse her, and stole down the passage and into the terrace, where Jean was waiting for her. They were early risers at Mont St. Michel, and the servants looked with some curiosity, mingled perhaps with disapproval, at the couple, but they recognised the girl as being English, and of course there was no accounting for what any of that nation did! It was a lovely morning, and Barbara, picking her way over the rocks, hummed gaily to herself, for it was an excursion after her own heart.

Jean cast rather a doubtful eye from the rocks to the waste of sand in front of them, but, seeing his companion did not hesitate, he could not either, and stepped out boldly beside her.

"You see," Barbara explained, "it is really perfectly hard here, and we will keep quite close to the footsteps that lead right out to that other rock out there."

"But you are surely not going as far as that?" he inquired anxiously. "We should never be back in time for coffee."

"I don't think so," Barbara returned gaily; "but we'll see how we get on."

When once Jean saw that the ground was perfectly sound beneath their feet, and that the footprints went on unwaveringly, he felt reassured, and really began to enjoy himself. They turned round every now and then to look back at the Mont, but decided each time that they had not got quite far enough away to get a really good effect.

"You know," said Jean, some of his fears returning after a time, "one usually has guides—people who know the sands—to take one out so far. I trod on a very soft place just now."

"Keep near the footprints then," Barbara answered. "The tide hasn't been up yet, and the sands can't surely change in the night-time. Just a little farther, and then we will stop."

They stopped a few minutes later, and both declared that the view was well worth the walk, the only thing that Barbara regretted being that it was too damp to sit down and enjoy it at their ease.

"It would have been nice to get as far as Tombelaine," the girl said at last, turning from St. Michel to take another look at the rocky islet farther out; "but I suppose we really must be going home again now."

Jean did not answer her. He had turned with her towards the rock; then his eyes had wandered round the horizon, and had remained fixed in such a stare that the girl wondered what he saw.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "What is it you are seeing, Jean?"

"The sea," he gasped, his face becoming ashen. "Mademoiselle—the tide—it advances—we will be caught."

Barbara looked across the long stretch of gray sand till her eyes found the moving line of water.

"It is nearer," she said slowly; "but of course it always comes in every day."

"Yes—but—to-day—I had forgotten—it is to be high tide—all round the Mont. Did you not hear them say so?"

"Yes," Barbara owned; "I remember quite well now. But let us hurry—it is a long way off yet. We have plenty of time." She spoke consolingly, for Jean's face was blanched and she saw he was trembling.

"But, mademoiselle, you do not understand. Did you not hear them telling us also that the tide advances so rapidly that it catches the quickest horse? Oh, I wish we had told some one of this journey—that some one had seen us. They would have warned us. We should have been safe."

It was then for the first time that the thought of danger entered Barbara's head, and she took her companion's hand.

"Let us run, then. Quick!" she said. "We are not such a very long way off."

Jean hesitated only a moment, his eyes, as if fascinated, still on the water; then he turned his face towards the Mont, and sped over the sand more fleetly than Barbara would have believed possible to him—so fleetly, indeed, that he began to leave the girl, who was swift of foot, behind.

She glanced over her shoulder at the sea, which certainly was drawing in very rapidly, licking over the sand greedily, then forward at St. Michel, and fell to a walk. She knew she could not run the whole distance for it was not easy going on the sand, especially when an eye had always to be kept un the guiding footprints.



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 Therese 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 Therese 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 Therese 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 VIRE.

"The Loires' 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 Therese 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 fiance—and, though she is too frail to stand, she will sit, when her health permits, and make music for hours together."

Mademoiselle Therese 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 Therese whispered to Barbara.

The latter thought she had never before seen such a charming old lady as Mademoiselle Vire, 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 Therese, 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 Vire 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 Vire sought eagerly for her music.

The room was so small that, with Mademoiselle Therese 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 Therese 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 Loire, 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 Therese 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 Therese'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 Therese 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 Loire 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 Loire 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 Therese'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 Therese 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 Therese 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 voila 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 Therese 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 Therese 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 Therese 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 Therese 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 chateau, 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 Therese'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 Therese 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 Therese! 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 Therese 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 Helene 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 Loires 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 Therese 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 manege,[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 Therese'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 Therese 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 Therese 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 Therese'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 Therese'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 Therese 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 Eugenie, 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 Vire'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 Loire 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 Loire 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 Therese 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 Eugenie 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 Therese 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 Eugenie's were dressed in. But the evening came, and apparently nothing had been heard of the truant. Mademoiselle Loire 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie, 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 Eugenie.

Barbara tore up both letters, and then went out to visit Mademoiselle Vire, 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 Eugenie to-day, and I really don't feel inclined to tell her or the Loires the share I had in it."

"I hardly think you need, my child," Mademoiselle Vire 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 Vire 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 Therese had been magnanimous enough to invite.



CHAPTER XIV.

A WAYSIDE INN.

It was wonderful how quickly the excitement about Alice Meynell died down. Mademoiselle Therese 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 Therese 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 Eugenie 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 Loire 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 Therese 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 Loire 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 Loire should see her face. They all three sat close together on the one backless seat, and drove off gaily, Mademoiselle Loire "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 Loire 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 Loire; 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 Loire 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 Loire 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 Loire 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 ecarte, 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 Loire 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 Therese 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 Therese 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 Therese, 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 Therese won't go for the walk after supper. What a happiness!" Marie cried, for Mademoiselle Loire 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 Loire 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 Therese 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 manege door, and knew that he did not like to be kept waiting. Mademoiselle Therese 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 Therese, 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 Therese 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!"