The solicitor did not see her, but just before she reached him he stepped on to a passing tram and was whirled away, and before Barbara had decided whether to pursue an electric tram or not, Monsieur Pirenne had reached her side and seized her reins. He looked really frightened, and annoyed too, but when Barbara told him that the horse had only been running in accordance with the will of her mistress, he composed himself a little, merely remarking that it was hardly comme il faut to gallop in the streets like that.

"But, Monsieur Pirenne," Barbara said eagerly, "I know you would have done the same if you had known the story;" and therewith she began to tell it to him. He was immensely interested, for there is nothing a Frenchman enjoys more than an adventure, and at the end of the tale he was almost as excited as she was.

"Could we trace him now?" he questioned eagerly. "But—I fear the chance is small—the description is so vague, and you did not even see the name on the tram, and we have no proofs. Yet, mademoiselle, if you will go to the prefecture with me, I will do my best."

But Barbara shook her head decidedly. The thought of police courts, especially French ones, alarmed her, and the warnings she had received to keep out of any more "complications" were still very fresh in her mind.

"I think I should rather not go to the prefecture, monsieur," she said quickly. "I do not think it would be any good either."

"I agree with you perfectly." And Monsieur Pirenne bowed gallantly. "Therefore, shall we proceed on our way? Does mademoiselle regret that she did not catch him?" he asked, after a while.

"I am sorry he is not caught—but I am not sorry I did not catch him, though that seems rather contradictory, doesn't it?"

"By which mademoiselle means that she does not know what she would have done with one hand on the miscreant's collar, the other on the reins, and a crowd around her?" the Frenchman inquired politely.

"That's just it," laughed Barbara. "You have exactly described it—though I should be glad if some one caught him and made him give back the money."

"I will keep my eyes open on your behalf, and shall let you know if anything happens," he said sympathetically; and Barbara, remembering his kindness, did not like to remind him that, never having seen the man, he could not possibly be of much service to her.

When Mademoiselle Therese heard that she had seen the solicitor again, she was almost as excited as Barbara had been, and at once proposed that they should spend the rest of the evening in Dinard, looking for him; and it was not until the girl pointed out that he might now be on his way to England, or a long way off in another direction, that she became reconciled to returning home.

Excitement seemed in the air that evening, and when they arrived at the St. Servan quay there were more idlers than usual. They wondered what was the cause, and when Mademoiselle Therese, with her customary desire to get at the bottom of everything, asked the reason, she was told that the strike among the timber-yard men, which had been threatened for some time, had begun that afternoon, and that work was suspended.

It was all the more astonishing because it had come so suddenly, and Barbara could hardly tear mademoiselle away from the spot until she suggested that those at home might not have heard of it yet, and that she might be the first to tell it to them. Hurrying through the town, they heard great shouting from the other side of the quay, which made mademoiselle nearly break into a run with eagerness. As it happened, however, the news had already spread to their street, and they found Mademoiselle Loire equally anxious to tell the new-comers what she knew of the matter.

As it was the first strike for many years, the townspeople looked upon it with a strange mingling of pride and fear. It was stirred up by an agitator called Mars, and had broken out simultaneously in other ports too. More gendarmes were sent for in case of need, though Mademoiselle Loire said it was hoped matters might be arranged amicably by a meeting between masters and men.

They were still discussing the subject, when a loud shouting was heard, and they all ran to a disused bedroom in the front of the house and looked out.

A crowd of men, marching in fours, were coming up the street, led by one beating a drum, and another carrying a dirty banner with "Liberte, Equalite, Fraternite" upon it. Barbara's eyes sparkled with excitement, and she felt almost as if she were back in the times of the Revolution, for they looked rather a fierce and vicious crew.

"They are some of the strikers," Mademoiselle Therese cried. "We must withdraw our heads from the windows in case the men get annoyed with us for staring." But she promptly leaned still farther out, and began making loud remarks to her sister, on the disgracefulness of such behaviour.

"You will be heard," Mademoiselle Loire returned, shaking her head at her sister. "You are a silly woman to say such things so loudly when the strikers are marching beneath."

But the remonstrance had no effect, and the sight of all the other windows in the street full of spectators encouraged and inspired Mademoiselle Therese, and made her long for fame and glory.

"It is ridiculous of the mayor to allow such things," she said loudly, with an evident desire to be heard. "The men should be sharply dealt with, and sent back to their work."

The result of her words was unexpected; for several of the crowd, annoyed at the little serious attention they had hitherto received, and worked up to considerable excitement, by the shouting and drumming began to pick up stones and fling them at the house. At first they were merely thrown against the house, then, the spirit of mischief increasing, they were sent with better aim, and one crashed through the window above Mademoiselle Therese's head.

"We shall all be killed!" shrieked her sister, "and just because of your meddling ways, Therese." But she called to deaf ears, for now Mademoiselle Therese, enjoying notoriety, kept popping her head in and out of the window, dodging the stones and shouting out threats and menaces, which were returned by the crowd, till at last Mademoiselle Loire cried out pitifully that some one must go and fetch the widower.

"One man even might be a protection," she moaned, though how, and whether against her sister or the strikers, did not seem very clear to Barbara. But as that seemed to be Mademoiselle Loire's one idea, and as Marie and the maid-servants were all crying in a corner, she thought she had better fetch him. Running downstairs and across the garden, she climbed over the wall by the wood pile, and boldly knocked at the widower's back door, thereby frightening him not a little. He came very cautiously along the passage, and inquired in rather shaky tones who was there.

As soon as Barbara had assured him that this was not an attack in the rear, he flung open the door, and welcomed her most cordially. Barbara wondered where he had been not to have heard Mademoiselle Loire's wailings, and suspected that perhaps he had heard them and had retired hastily in consequence! He certainly looked a little depressed when he received the message, which was to the effect that he should come and address the crowd from the Loires' window, and bid it to proceed on its way.

"I think," he said pensively, after some moments' consideration, "that if I am to go at all, I had better go out by my own front door and speak to the crowd from the street. They will be more likely to listen to me there, than if they thought I was one of Mademoiselle Loire's household."

"That is very brave of you, monsieur," Barbara said, and the little man swelled with pride. Perhaps it was the thought of the glorious part he was about to play before the whole street that upheld him, as he certainly was rather timid by nature.

"If you are going out to face that mob," said Jean, drawing himself up, "I will accompany you."

"Noble boy!" cried the little man, embracing him. "We will live or die together. Come!" And off they went, while Barbara hurried across the garden and over the wall again, not wishing to miss the spectacle in the street. But her dress caught in the wood, and, as it took her some time to disentangle it, the widower had finished his speech by the time she arrived at the window. But he seemed to have made an impression, for the crowd was beginning slowly to move on, urged by what persuasions or threats she could not discover, as the Loires had not heard much either.

But as long as the strikers went, the ladies did not much mind how they had been persuaded, and when the last man had straggled out of sight, and the sound of the drum was dying away, both the sisters, followed by Marie, rushed downstairs and flung open the front door.

"Enter!" Mademoiselle Loire cried. "Enter, our preserver—our rescuer!" and, as soon as he crossed the threshold, Mademoiselle Therese seized one hand and her sister the other, till Barbara wondered how the poor little man's arms remained on. Marie, meanwhile, did her part by the son, and, as they all spoke at once, there was almost as much noise in the house as previously there had been outside.

"Our noble preserver, what do we not owe to you!" shouted Mademoiselle Therese, trying to drown her sister, who was speaking at his other ear.

"Facing the mob like a lion at bay—one man against a thousand!" Barbara knew there had not been a hundred, but supposed a poetical imagination must be allowed free play.

"He stood there as calmly as in church," Marie interpolated, though she knew that the widower never went there, "with a cool smile playing about his lips—it was a beautiful sight;" and Barbara regretted exceedingly that her dress had detained her so long that she had missed it.

Compliments continued to fly for some time, like butterflies in June; then, from sheer exhaustion, the sisters released him, and wiped their eyes from excess of emotion. Barbara was just assuring herself that the widower's arms did seem to be all right, when he turned round, and, seizing both her hands, began to shake them as violently as his had been shaken a few minutes before.

Barbara was much bewildered, not knowing what she had done to deserve this tribute, and wondering if the widower were doing it out of a spirit of revenge, and a desire to make somebody else's hands as tired as his own. But one glance at his glowing, kindly face dispelling that idea, Barbara concentrated all her attention on the best way to free herself, and avoid going through a similar ordeal with all the others, which, she began to fear, might be her fate.

She escaped it, however, for Mademoiselle Loire had hastened away to bring up some wine from the cellar, in honour of the occasion, and they were all invited into the salon to drink to each other's healths before parting. The widower was called upon to give a speech, to which Mademoiselle Therese replied at some length, without being called upon; and it was getting quite late before the two "noble preservers" retired to their own home.

When they had gone, Mademoiselle Loire suggested that all danger might not yet be past, and, as the men might return again later, she thought it would be wiser to make preparations. So the two frightened maid-servants being called in to assist, the shutters were closed before all the windows, and heavy furniture dragged in front of them. When this was done, and all the doors bolted and barred, Mademoiselle Therese proposed to take turns in sitting up and keeping watch. Barbara promptly vetoed the motion, declaring she was going to bed at once, and, as no one else seemed inclined to take the part of sentinel, they all retired.

"I hope we may be spared to see the morning light," Mademoiselle Therese said solemnly. "I feel there is great risk in our going to bed in this manner."

"Then why don't you sit up, sister?" Mademoiselle Loire said crossly, for the last hour or two had really been very tiring. But to this her sister did not deign to reply, and, taking up her candle, went up to bed. When Barbara gained the safe precincts of her own room she laughed long and heartily, and longed that Donald or Frances could have been there to see the meeting between rescuer and rescued.

In spite of their fears of evil they all spent a peaceful night, the only result of their careful barricading being that it made the servants cross, as they had to restore things to their places. The town was apparently quiet enough too—though Mademoiselle Therese would not allow any one to go out "in case of riot"—and when the additional gendarmes came in the evening there was little for them to do. It was supposed that the men and employers had come to some understanding, and that the strikers would soon return to their work.

"But, you see," Mademoiselle Therese said to Barbara, "how easily a revolution arises in our country. With a little more provocation there would have been barricades and the guillotine just as before."

"But while the widower and his son live so near us," Barbara replied, "we need surely have no fear."

And, though Mademoiselle Therese looked at her sharply, the girl's face was so sedate that the lady supposed she was treating the matter with seriousness.



CHAPTER XVI.

BARBARA PLAYS DETECTIVE.

The morning lesson was over, and Mademoiselle Therese had betaken herself to Barbara's couch, which the girl knew always meant that she was going to make her an indefinite visit, and tell her some long story. This time, it was about her visit to England and what she had done when teaching there; and, as Barbara had heard it all before more than once, it was a little difficult to show a proper interest in it.

"Yes," mademoiselle went on, "it was a time full of new experiences for me, by which I hope I profited. I got on extremely well with your countrywomen, too, and the girls all loved me, and, indeed, so did your countrymen, for I received a great many offers of marriage while there. I grew weary of refusing them, and was so afraid of hurting their feelings—but one cannot marry every one, can one?"

"Certainly not, mademoiselle," Barbara returned gravely. "It would be most unwise."

"That is just what I felt. Now, the German fraeulein——"

Barbara sighed, wondering if it were the tenth or eleventh time she had heard the tale of the "German fraeulein"; but before she had decided the point, there was a knock at the door, and the maid-servant brought up the message that mademoiselle was wanted below by a visitor.

She rose at once, shook out her skirt, and patted her hair.

"That is just the way," she said. "I am never allowed much time for rest. You would not believe how many people seek me to obtain my advice. I will return in a few minutes and finish my story."

When she had gone, Barbara looked longingly at the couch. It was such a hot day, and the lesson had been a long one; but she was afraid it was not much good to settle down with the promise of the story hanging over her head. The result proved she was right, for very soon Mademoiselle Therese came hurrying back again, full of smiles and importance. The landlady of the inn, Au Jacques Cartier, wished her to go there, she said, to act as interpreter between herself and an Englishman, who could speak hardly any French. Would Barbara like to come too?

Thinking it might be entertaining, Barbara got ready hastily and ran down to join Mademoiselle Therese and the landlady, who had come in person "to better make clear matters."

"This Englishman and his son," she explained, as they went along, "have only been with us a day or two, but already we wish them to go, yet cannot make them understand. Of course, I do not wish to hurt his feelings, but now, in August, I could let the room twice over to people who would be much less trouble, and whom the other guests would like better."

"But what is wrong with these?" asked Mademoiselle Therese critically. "I must know all the affair or I cannot act in it."

She drew herself up very straight, and Barbara wondered if she were thinking of Portia in the Merchant of Venice.

"Well, this gentleman asked for a 'bath every morning,'" the landlady replied in an injured tone, "and after we procured for him a nice little washing-tub, with much trouble, he said it was too small."

"That is not sufficient reason to send him away;" and Mademoiselle Therese shook her head.

"No. But then he cannot understand what goes on at table d'hote, and he and his son are such silent companions that it casts a gloom over the rest. Of course," with an apologetic glance at Barbara, "some Englishmen are very nice to have; but this one"—she shook her head as if the matter were quite beyond her—"this one I do not like, and perhaps without hurting his feelings, you, mademoiselle, could make quite clear to him that he must go."

By this time they had arrived at the hotel, which was close to the Rosalba Bathing Place, and overlooked that little bay. Barbara, thinking the interview would be a delicate one, and that she would but add to the unpleasantness of the situation, said she would wait in the orchard till she was called.

From it one could get a beautiful view across the River Rance, to the wooded slopes beside Dinard, and, finding a seat beneath a lime-tree, Barbara sat down. She had been there about a quarter of an hour, and was almost asleep, when she heard stealthy footsteps coming through the grass beside her, and the next moment her startled eyes fell upon the solicitor's son of Neuilly remembrance!

She got rather a fright at first, but he certainly got a much worse one; and before he had recovered it had flashed across her mind quite clearly that the man who was at that moment talking to Mademoiselle Therese, was the solicitor himself. Before she could move from her place, the son had cast himself down on his knees, and was begging her incoherently to spare him and his father—not to inform against them. The thought of going to prison, he said, would kill him, as it had his mother, as it nearly had his sister; and if she would spare them, he would take his father away at once.

To see the boy crying there like a child almost made Barbara give way and let things go as they liked; but then she remembered how meanly his father had cheated the people in Neuilly—a widow's family too—and what a life he seemed to have led his own wife and children; then, calling to mind his horrid manner and cruel, sensuous face, she steeled herself against him.

"I shall certainly inform against your father," she said gravely. "And I think the best thing that you and your sister can do, is to get away at once, before it is too late."

The boy wrung his hands. "My sister has gone already," he moaned, "to some Scotch relations—simple people—who said they would take her in if she would have nothing more to do with our father. But I could not go—there was money only for one."

Barbara looked at the pathetic figure before her, and suddenly forgot all her promises not to get entangled in any more plots or other dangerous enterprises, and almost before she realised what she was doing, she was scribbling a message in French on the back of an envelope.

From where they stood they could see the little house of Mademoiselle Vire, and the entrance to the lane in which it stood. Pointing out the roof of the house to her companion, she told him to run there with the note, and, if the people let him in, to wait until she came.

She felt it was a very bold, and perhaps an impertinent thing to do, but she was almost sure that Mademoiselle Vire would do as she asked. As soon as she saw him so far on his way, she ran to the inn, and went through to the kitchen, where a maid was cooking.

"Bring your master to me, as quickly as possible," the girl said peremptorily. "You need not be afraid" she added, seeing that the woman—not unnaturally—looked upon her with suspicion. "I will touch nothing, and the quicker you come back the better I shall be pleased."

The maid eyed her doubtfully for a few minutes, then shrugged her shoulders and ran out of the room. Her master would, at least, be able to get rid of this obnoxious stranger, she thought. He came quickly enough, with an anxious expression on his rosy face, and Barbara had to tell the story twice or thrice before he seemed to understand. It was rather unpleasant work telling a foreigner about the evil deeds of a fellow-countryman, but it seemed the right thing to do, though the thought of it haunted the girl for some time.

When once the landlord understood matters, he acted very promptly, sending some one for the police, and then with a telegram to Neuilly. He said he had had his doubts all along, because the gentleman had seemed queer, and the people sleeping next him had complained that they were sure he beat his son, for they used to hear the boy crying.

The landlord then went down into the hall to wait until Mademoiselle Therese's interview was over, and Barbara, leaving a message to the effect that she had grown tired and had gone on, ran back to their house.

Having succeeded in entering unobserved, she got her purse and hurried off to Mademoiselle Vire.

The old maid looked at her with a mingling of relief and curiosity, but was much too polite to ask any questions.

"The young man is here," she said, and led the way into the little dining-room, where her mistress was sitting opposite the boy with a very puzzled face, but doing her best to make him take some wine and biscuit. Mademoiselle Vire had always appeared to Barbara as the most courteous woman she had ever met, and, in presence of the frightened, awkward youth, her gracious air impressed the girl more than ever.

Knowing that he could not understand French she told his story at once, and her listener never showed by a glance in his direction that he was the subject of conversation. They both came to the conclusion that the best thing he could do would be to go to St. Malo, and take the first boat to England. It left in the evening about seven, so that by next morning he would be safe at Southampton.

Then Barbara said, in the way she had been wont to advise Donald, "I think you should go straight to your sister, and take counsel with her as to what you should do. I will lend you money enough for what you need."

"You are kind," the boy said, with tears in his eyes. "I'll pay you back as soon as I get any money—as soon as ever I can, I do promise you—if only I get safely to England." He had such a pitiful, frightened way of looking over his shoulder, as if he expected to see his father behind him all the time, that Barbara's wrath against the man arose anew, and she felt she could not be sorry, whatever his punishment might be.

"Good-bye," she said kindly. "I must go away now. I think, when you arrive in England, you might write to Mademoiselle Vire, and say you arrived safely. I shall be anxious till I hear."

The boy almost embarrassed Barbara by the assurances of his gratitude, and she breathed more freely when she got into the open air.

"How glad I ought to be that Donald isn't like that," she thought, the remembrance of her frank, sturdy brother rising in vivid contrast in her mind.

When she got back, Mademoiselle Therese was enjoying herself thoroughly, recounting the adventure to her own household and to the widower and his sons whom she had called in to add to her audience. She described the whole scene most graphically and with much gesticulation, perhaps also with a little exaggeration.

"The anger of the man when he found he must accompany the officers was herculean," she said, casting up her eyes; "he stormed, he raged, he tore his hair" (Barbara remembered him as almost quite bald!), "he insisted that his son must come too."

"How mean!" the girl cried indignantly.

"But the son," mademoiselle paused, and looked round her audience—"the son," she concluded in a thrilling whisper, "had gone—fled—disappeared. One moment he was there, the next he was nowhere. Whereupon the papa was still more angry, and with hasty words gave an exact and particular description of him in every detail. 'He must be caught,' he shouted, 'he must keep me company.' Such a father!" Mademoiselle rolled her eyes wildly. "Such an inhuman monster repelled me, and—I fled."

Barbara, feeling as if they should applaud, looked round vaguely to see if the others were thinking of beginning; but at that moment she was overpowered by Mademoiselle Therese suddenly flinging herself upon her and kissing her on both cheeks.

"This!" she said solemnly, holding Barbara with one hand and gesticulating with the other—"this is the one we must thank for the capture. She directed the landlord—her brains planned the arrest—she will appear against him in court."

"Oh, no!" Barbara cried in distress, "I really can't do that. They have telegraphed for Madame Belvoir's son from Neuilly—he will do. I really could not appear in court."

"But you can speak French quite well enough now—you need not mind about that; and it will be quite an event to appear in court. It is not every girl of your age who can do that."

Mademoiselle spoke almost enviously; but the idea was abhorrent to Barbara, who determined, if possible, to avoid such an ordeal.

The next afternoon they had a visit from one of Madame Belvoir's sons, who had come across to see what was to be done about the "solicitor." Barbara was very glad to see him, for it brought back remembrances of the first happy fortnight in Paris.

It was rather comforting to know, too, that the result of one of the plots she had been concerned in had been satisfactory, for the news about Alice was good. She was getting on well with French, and all the Belvoirs liked her very much. The "American gentleman" had been to see her twice, and her father had not only given her permission to stay, but had written to Mademoiselle Eugenie to that effect, and was coming over himself to see her.



CHAPTER XVII.

A MEMORY AND A "MANOIR."

No amount of wishing on Barbara's part could do away with the necessity for her appearing in court, and the ordeal had to be gone through.

"If I were a novelist, now," she said ruefully to Mademoiselle Therese, "I might be able to make some use of it, but as I am just a plain, ordinary person——"

Her chief consolation was that the boy had written saying he had joined his sister and that he "had never been so happy in his life." He was going to be a farmer, he said, and Barbara wondered why, of all occupations, he had fixed upon one that appeared to be so unsuitable; but, as a proof of his good intentions, poor boy, he had sent her ten shillings of the money she had lent him, and promised to forward the rest as soon as he could. It was some comfort also, as Mademoiselle Vire pointed out, that the man would be safely out of the way of doing further harm for the present.

Barbara quite agreed with her, but thought she would have felt the comfort more if some one else had played her part. But when the whole unpleasant business was over, and Barbara had vowed that nothing would ever prevail upon her to go into court again—even if it were to receive sentence herself—she sought out Mademoiselle Vire, with a proposal to do something to "take away the bad feeling."

"Make music," the little lady said. "That is, I think, the only thing I can offer you, my child. Music is very good for 'bad feelings.'"

"Yes, oh, yes, it is; but this is something I have been wanting for a long time, and now I feel it is the right time for it. Dear Mademoiselle Vire, will you come for a drive with me?"

A delicate flush coloured the old lady's cheeks, and Barbara watched her anxiously. She knew she was very poor, and could not afford to do such things for herself, and she was too frail to walk beyond the garden, but she also greatly feared that she might have made the offer in a way to hurt her friend's feelings.

The little lady did not answer for some time, then she looked into the eager face before her and smiled.

"If I said I would go, where could you get a carriage to take us?"

"Oh, I have found out all about that," the girl replied joyfully. "I shall not ask you to go in a donkey-cart, nor yet in a fiacre. I have found out quite a nice low chaise and a quiet pony that can be hired, and I will drive you myself."

It took only a little consideration after that, and then mademoiselle gave her consent to go next day if it were fine.

"If Jeannette would care to come," Barbara said, before leaving; and the old woman, who had been sitting very quietly in her corner while the arrangements were being made, looked at her mistress with a beaming face, and read her pleasure in the plan before she spoke.

"I am so glad you thought of her," Mademoiselle Vire whispered as she said good-bye to her visitor, "for though, of course, I should never have asked you to include her, yet she has been so patient and faithful in going through sorrows and labour with me, that it is but fair she should share my pleasures, and I should have felt grieved to leave her at home on such a day."

Barbara had one more invitation to give, which went rather against the grain, and that was to Mademoiselle Therese, whom she felt she could not leave out; but she was unfeignedly glad when the lady refused on the score of too much English correspondence.

The following day being gloriously fine, they started for the drive in great contentment, going by Mademoiselle Vire's choice towards La Guimorais, a little village some seven kilometres away on the coast. The pony was tractable and well behaved, and they rolled along slowly under the shady trees and past the old farms and cottages, Mademoiselle Vire's face alone, Barbara thought, being worth watching, while Jeannette sat opposite, her hands folded in her lap.

Just before reaching La Guimorais the road branched off towards a lonely manoir, empty now, and used by some farmer for a storehouse. Yet there was still a dignity about it that neither uncared-for garden nor ruined beauty could destroy.

"May we go close, quite close to it?" Mademoiselle Vire asked, and Barbara turning the pony's head into the lane, pulled up beside the high gray walls.

"The master once, the servant now, but still noble," the old lady whispered, as her eyes, wandering lovingly over it all, lingered at last upon a bush of roses near the gate. The flowers were almost wild, through neglect and lack of pruning, and not half so fine as many in the little lady's own garden; but Barbara, noticing the longing look, slipped out and gathered a handful.

"The farmer would spare you those, I think, madame, if it pleases you to have them."

"He would surely spare them to me," madame repeated, and buried her face in their fragrance. Then she laid them in her lap.

"Drive on, my dear, I have seen all I wish," she said. She was silent till they passed into the main road again. Then she said, with a backward look at the manoir—

"I once stayed there for a very happy summer with my father, and a well-beloved friend. They are both in Paradise now, and I hope, by God's good grace and the intercessions of our Lady, I am nearer them each year."

Her face was perfectly serene, but poor old Jeannette's was all puckered up, and the tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. As for Barbara, she did not speak for a time.

The village was a quaint little place, just a few houses dropped together beside the sea, which sang to them for ever.

"Let us not go in out of the clean, strong air," Mademoiselle Vire said, as they stopped in front of the inn. "May we drink tea at the door?"

They slipped the reins through a ring in the flags in front of the house, and sipped their tea, while the children of the place came and stared solemnly at the strangers.

They drove home in the evening sunlight between the orchards, where the apples hung heavy on the trees, Mademoiselle Vire talking in her happy way as usual, entertaining Barbara with tales of what she had seen and heard. But when they drew up at her door, and the girl helped her out, she looked anxiously into her friend's face. Had it been too tiring for her?

"You are thinking I may be tired!" the old lady said, smiling at her. "Then I will tell you, my dear. I am just tired enough to go to bed and have dreams, happy dreams. When one is so old, one is so near the end of memory, so near the beginning of realities, that the former ceases to be sad. I thank you for the pleasure you have given Jeannette and myself, it will last us long; and now, good-night."

She kissed her, and Barbara turned back to the pony chaise.

"For her sake," she said softly to herself, "one would like the realities to begin soon."



CHAPTER XVIII.

AUNT ANNE AGAIN.

Barbara had not been so frequently at the bath-house of late, the sea proving more attractive, and she was therefore surprised one day on going there to find a new bath-boy. She missed her old plain-faced friend and wondered what had become of him. "Is he ill?" she asked at the office on her way out.

The woman pursed up her lips; "No, he is not ill," she said. "But we found that he was not of the character that we thought."

"But he had been with you some years," Barbara expostulated, for the boy had confided that fact to her.

"He had, but he had degenerated, we found."

A dreadful doubt seized Barbara that his dismissal might be due to the help he had given her in Alice's escape, and in that case she would be partly responsible for him.

"Will you kindly give me his address?" she said, turning back again to the office. The woman looked doubtful, and said she was not sure if she had it.

"I think if he has been with you several years, you must surely know where he lives," Barbara persisted; and seeing her determined look, the woman apparently thought it would be the quickest way to get rid of her, and did as she was asked. Barbara repeated the name of the street and the number once or twice as she went out, and wondered how she should begin to find her way there, though consoling herself by thinking it was not the first time she had hunted up unknown addresses successfully since she had come to France.

It was very hot, and for a moment she hesitated, wondering whether she would not put off her search till another time; then she decided it was her duty to look the boy up at once. Asking a kindly postman if he could direct her to the address, she found that the house was in one of the streets near the quays. Though rather a long way off, it was not difficult to find, and once found it was not easily forgotten, for the smells were mingled and many.

Barbara wandered down between the high old houses, looking at the numbers—when she could see them—and finally found the one she sought. She had not to wait long after knocking, and the door was opened by the bath-boy himself, who stared at her in astonishment.

"Ma'm'selle?" he said doubtfully, as if uncertain whether she were a messenger of ill omen or not.

"I have come to call," Barbara explained. "May I please come in?"

His face broadened into the familiar grin, and he shuffled down the passage before her, wearing the same heelless list slippers that had first attracted Barbara's attention to him in the bath-house. The room he took her into smelt fresh and clean, and indeed was half full of clean clothes of all descriptions.

"My mother is blanchisseuse," the boy said, lifting a heap of pinafores from a chair. "I am desolated that she is out."

"Yes. Guillaume, will you please tell me why you were sent away from the bath-house?"

Guillaume looked uncomfortable, and moved his foot in and out of his slipper.

"Why, ma'm'selle—I was dismissed. They said it was my character, but that is quite good. I do not drink, nor lie, nor steal; my mother was always a good bringer up."

"Then was it because of helping the English lady to escape? Was it that, Guillaume?" The boy swung his slipper dexterously to and fro on his bare toes.

"It was doubtless that, ma'm'selle, for it was after the visit of the lady she belonged to that I was dismissed. My mother warned me at the time. 'It is unwise,' she said, 'for such as you to play thus.' But the little English lady looked so sad."

"I am sorry, Guillaume. I do wish it had not happened."

"So do we, ma'm'selle," said the boy simply, "for my mother, who is blanchisseuse, has lost some customers since then, too, and I cannot get anything here. To-morrow I go to St. Malo or Parame to try—but they are much farther away. Yet we must have money to keep the little Helene. She is so beautiful and so tender."

"Who is Helene?" inquired Barbara; and at the question the boy's face glowed with pride and pleasure.

"I will bring her to you, ma'm'selle; she is now in the garden. She is with me while I am at home."

He shuffled off, and returned in a few minutes with a little girl in his arms: so pretty a child that Barbara marvelled at the contrast between them.

"She is not like me, hein?" he asked, laughing. "Helene, greet the lady," and Barbara held out both hands to the little girl, who, after a long stare, ran across to her. In amusing her and being herself amused, Barbara forgot the reason of her visit, and only remembered it when the little girl asked her brother suddenly if he would fetch her a roll that evening.

The boy looked uncomfortable. "Not to-night," he hastened to say, "but the mama, she will bring you something to-night for supper. I used to bring her a white roll on my way home from the baths," he explained to Barbara.

"May I give her one to-night?" the girl asked quickly, putting her hand into her pocket. "I would like to."

But the boy shook his head. "No, no, the mama would not like it—the first time you were in the house. Some other time, if ma'm'selle does us the honour to come again."

"Of course I will. I want to see how you get on at St. Malo or Parame," she said, "and whether Helene's doll gets better from the measles."

"Or whether she grows wings," put in Helene in waving her hand in farewell.

Barbara was very thoughtful on her way back, and before reaching the house, she had determined to give up her riding for the present. One more excursion she would have, in which to say good-bye to Monsieur Pirenne, who had been very kind to her; but it seemed rather selfish to use up any more of the liberal fund which her aunt had supplied her with for that purpose. After all, it was hard that the bath-boy, through her fault, could not even supply his little sister with rolls for her supper.

Mademoiselle Therese was somewhat surprised at the sudden decision, and perhaps a little annoyed by it, for she had grown accustomed to the trips to Dinard, and would miss them greatly. Monsieur Pirenne was also disturbed, because he feared "Mademoiselle had grown tired of his manege." Barbara assured him to the contrary, and tried to satisfy them both with explanations which were as satisfactory as such can be when they are not the real ones. As to connecting the girl's visits to the ex-bath-boy—which Mademoiselle Therese thought were due merely to a passing whim—and the cessation of rides, she never dreamed of such a thing.

The result of the boy's inquiries at St. Malo and Parame were fruitless at first, and Barbara had paid several visits, and was beginning to feel almost as anxious as the mother and son themselves before the boy succeeded in his search. But one afternoon when she arrived she found him beaming with happiness, having found at least a temporary job at Parame, and one which probably would become permanent.

"That news," she said, shaking the boy's hand warmly in congratulation, "will send me home quite light-hearted."

But somehow, though she was honestly glad, it did not make her feel as happy as it should have done, and she thought the road back had never seemed so long, nor the sun so hot. She would gladly have missed her evening lesson and supper, but she feared that of the two evils Mademoiselle Therese's questions would probably be the worse. Indeed, when in the best of health, that lady's conversation was apt to be wearisome, but when one felt—as Barbara had for the past few days—that bed was the only satisfactory place, and that even harder than it used to be, then mademoiselle's chatter became a penance not easily borne.

"You are getting tired of us, and beginning to want home," the Frenchwoman said in rather offended tones two days later, when Barbara declined to go with her to Dol. "I am sorry we have not been able to amuse you sufficiently well."

"Oh, that isn't it at all," Barbara assured her. "It is just that I have never known such hot weather before, and it makes me disinclined for things."

"You are looking whitish, but that is because you have been staying in the house too much lately. Dol would do you good and cheer you up."

"Another time," the girl pleaded. "I think I won't go to-day," and the lady left her with a shrug, and the remark that she would not go either. She was evidently annoyed, and Barbara wondered what she should do to atone for it; but later in the day she had a visit that drove the thoughts of Dol from both her mind and mademoiselle's.

She was sitting in her room trying to read, and wondering why she could not understand the paragraph, though she had read it three or four times, when Mademoiselle Therese came running in excitedly to say there were two American gentlemen downstairs in the salon to see her—one old, one young. "Mr. Morton," was the name on the card.

"Why, it must be the American pretender!" cried Barbara; who, seeing her companion's look of surprise, added hastily, "the elder one used to know my Aunt Anne, and they have both been in Paris; it was the younger one who helped Alice Meynell there."

"Then, indeed, I must descend and inquire after her," said mademoiselle joyfully. "I will just run and make my toilet again. In the meanwhile, do you go down and entertain them till I come."

But Barbara was already out of the room, for she thought she would like to have a few minutes conversation before Mademoiselle Therese came in, as there might not be much opportunity afterwards.

"How nice of you to call on me," she said, as she entered the salon. "I was just longing for one of the English-speaking race."

The elder Mr. Morton was tall and thin, with something in his carriage that suggested a military upbringing; his hair and eyes gray, the latter very like his nephew's grown sad.

"The place does not suit you?" the elder man inquired, looking at her face.

"Oh, yes, I think so; it is just very hot at present."

"Like the day you tried to ride to Dol," the nephew remarked, wondering if it were only the ride that had given her so much more colour the first time he had seen her, and the sea breeze that had reddened her cheeks the last time.

But there were so many things the girl was anxious to hear about, that she did not allow the conversation to lapse to herself or the weather again before Mademoiselle Therese, arrayed in her best, made her appearance. She at once seized upon the younger man, and began to pour out questions about Alice.

"You need not fear any bad results," Mr. Morton said to Barbara. "My nephew is very discreet;" and Barbara, hearing scraps of the conversation, thought he was not only discreet but lawyer-like in his replies.

The visit was not a very long one, Mr. Morton declining an invitation to supper that evening, with promises to come some other time. But before they went, he seized a moment when Barbara's attention was engaged by his nephew to say something that his hostess rather resented.

"The young lady does not look so well as I had imagined she would. I suppose her health is quite good at present?"

"She has complained of nothing," Mademoiselle Therese returned, bridling. "Why should she be ill? The food is excellent and abundant, and we do everything imaginable for the comfort of our inmates."

"I am sure you do, madame," he replied, bowing. "I shall have the pleasure of calling upon you again, I hope, before long. As I knew Miss Britton it is natural for me to take an interest in her niece when in a foreign land. Your aunt, I suppose, is now in England?" he added casually to Barbara.

"Yes—staying with us for a day or two; but I hope she will come here before I go, and we could make an excursion on our way home."

"That would be pleasant for both, I am sure," Mr. Morton replied, taking a ceremonious leave of Mademoiselle Therese, and a simple, though warmer one of Barbara. The young man said little in parting, but as soon as they were in the street he laid his hand hurriedly on his uncle's arm.

"The girl is ill, uncle, I am sure of it; she is not like the same person I met before; and that Mademoiselle Therese would drive me crazy if I weren't feeling up to the mark."

"No doubt; what a tongue the woman has! But what do you want to do, Denys, for, of course, you have made up your mind to do something?"

Denys frowned. "Of course I don't want to seem interfering, but I won't say anything at home in case of frightening her mother. But——" he paused and looked up at his uncle—"do you think it would seem impertinent to write to the aunt? She might come a little sooner, perhaps, and, being at Mrs. Britton's, could use her judgment about telling her or not."

Mr. Morton pondered, his mind not wholly on the girl whom they had just left; then remembering his nephew he brought his thoughts down to the present. "I should risk the impertinence if I were you, Denys. But what about the address?"

"I know the village and the county," Denys said eagerly. "I should think that would find her. I will do it when I get back."

But it proved more difficult to write than he imagined, and it was some time before—having succeeded to his satisfaction—he brought the letter to his uncle for criticism. It ran thus:—

"DEAR MADAM,—I am afraid you may think it rather impertinent on my part to write to you, but I hope you will forgive that, and my apparent interference. I am Denys Morton, whom your niece met some time ago on the way to Dol, and, as my uncle and I were passing this way in returning from a little tour, we called on Miss Britton, and both thought her looking ill. The doctor here is, I believe, quite good, but Mademoiselle Therese, though doubtless a worthy lady, would, to me, be rather trying in time of illness. I should not write to you, but I fear Miss Britton will not, being unwilling to worry you or any of those at home. My uncle made a suggestion on the matter to Mademoiselle Therese, which was not very much liked by that lady, therefore he thought I might write you. He asks me—if you still remember him as a 'past acquaintance'—to give you his regards.

"Hoping you will forgive my officiousness.

"Yours truly, "DENYS MORTON."

"That is quite passable," Mr. Morton said when he had read it. "I think you will hardly give offence. I wonder if she remembers me?"

"She could hardly help doing that," and Denys nodded affectionately at his uncle. "But I shall be much happier when this letter arrives at its destination. The address is not very exact. However, we will see, and we can call again to-morrow—it would be kind, don't you think, to one of our 'kith,' so to speak, and in a foreign land?"

The uncle smiled. "It would be kind, as you say, Denys, so we will do it."

But when they called the following afternoon they were told that Miss Britton was in bed and Mademoiselle Therese engaged. As a matter of fact, she was in the midst of composing a letter to Mrs. Britton, for when Barbara had said as carelessly as she could, that she would stay in bed just for one day, Mademoiselle Therese, remembering her visitor's "remarks the previous afternoon, had taken alarm and sent for the doctor, and now thought it would be wiser to write to Mrs. Britton. Having wasted a good many sheets of paper, and murmured the letter over several times to herself, she sought her sister out.

"Listen," she said proudly, "I think I have succeeded admirably in telling Mrs. Britton the truth and yet not alarming her, at the same time showing her that by my knowledge of her language I am not unfitted to teach others."

"HONOURED MADAM,—I am permitting myself to write to you about your dear daughter, who has entwined herself much into our hearts. There are now some few days she has seemed a little indisposed, and at last we succeeded in persuading her to retire to bed, and called in the worthy and most respectable, not to say gifted, family doctor who gives us his attention in times of illness. He expressed his opinion that it was a species of low fever, what the dear young lady had contracted, out of the kindness of her good heart, in visiting in time of sickness the small sister of the bath-boy (a profession which you do not have in England)——

"That shows my knowledge of their customs, you see," the reader could not refrain from interpolating; then she continued with a flourish—

"and the daughter of a worthy blanchisseuse, who is in every respect very clean and orderly, therefore we thought to be trusted with the presence of your daughter, but whom, in the future, we will urge the advisability of leaving unvisited."

Mademoiselle paused a moment for breath, for the sentence was a long one, and she had rolled it out with enjoyment. "Of course," she said to her sister, "I have not yet visited the house of this blanchisseuse, but I inquired if it was clean, and, would not have allowed the girl to go if the report had not been favourable; but to continue—

"Your daughter, in the excellence of her heart, would not, perhaps, desire to rouse your anxieties by mentioning her indisposition, but we felt it incumbent upon us, in whose charge she lies, to inform her relatives, and, above all, her devoted mother.

"With affectuous regards, "Yours respectably, "THERESE LOIRE."

"There!" exclaimed the writer in conclusion. "Do you not think that is a fine letter?"

Her sister shrugged her shoulders.

"Probably it is, but you forget I cannot understand English. But pray do not trouble to translate it," she added hastily; "I quite believe it is all that you say."

"Yes, you may believe that," and Mademoiselle Therese closed the envelope. "I think it will make an impression."

In that belief she was perfectly right, and perhaps it was a fortunate thing that Aunt Anne was there to help to remove the impression; for, that lady having already had Denys Morton's letter, was prepared for this one, and was glad she had been able to tell the news in her own way to her sister-in-law the day before.

"Don't look so scared, Lucy," she said. "I don't suppose there is anything much amiss, though I shall just pack up and go at once. What an irritating woman this must be—quite enough to make any one ill if she talks as she writes."

With characteristic promptitude Miss Britton began to make her preparations immediately, and only halted over them once, and that was when she hesitated about packing a dress that had just come home, which she said was ridiculously young for her.

"It will get very crushed," she muttered discontentedly. "But then—— Oh, well, I might as well put it in," and in it went. Mrs. Britton hovered anxiously about her, and watched her proceedings wistfully.

"You don't think I should go too, do you, Anne?" she asked.

"Not at present, certainly," Miss Britton returned promptly, regarding her with her head on one side. "I promise I will let you know exactly how things are, and whether you would be better there. I would say 'Don't worry' if I thought it were the least good, but, of course, you will."

Then she stooped and fastened a strap of her trunk. "It was a most sensible thing of the young Morton to write straight away, and, probably, if they are there, they will be quite sure to see Barbara has all she wants—the uncle always was a kind-hearted man."

Then she straightened her back and declared everything was ready.

She crossed by night from Southampton to St. Malo, and was greatly afraid that she would arrive "looking a wreck," and, to prevent that she partook largely of a medicine she had seen advertised as a "certain cure for sea-sickness." Her surprise equalled her delight when she awoke in the morning, having slept peacefully all night, and she refused to believe that her good night was probably owing to the calmness of the sea and not to the medicine.

She looked with a little dismay at the shouting, pushing crowd of porters and hotel touts waiting on the quay, wondering how she would manage to keep hold of her bag among them all, and, as she crossed the gangway, clutched it more tightly than before.

"No," she said, as some one took hold of it as soon as her foot touched the quay. "You shall not take my bag—I would not trust it to any one of you. You should be ashamed of yourselves, screaming like wild Indians."

It was just then that Denys Morton and his uncle came through the crowd. "That is she—there," the elder man said, recognising her after fourteen years. "Go and help; I will wait here."

It was at a crucial moment, when Miss Britton was really getting exasperated and rather desperate, that the young man came up, and she accepted his assistance and explanation with relief.

"My uncle is down here," he said. "We have a fiacre waiting. There is always such a crush and rout on the quay, we thought we had better come to pilot you through."

The young man, in spite of his easy bearing, had been a little anxious as to how the two would meet again, and dreaded lest there might be some embarrassment. But beyond an air of shyness that sat strangely on both, and a kind of amused wonder at meeting after so many years, there was nothing to show that they had been more than mere acquaintances, and the talk centred chiefly on Barbara.

"She does not know you are coming yet," Denys said. "Mademoiselle Therese got your telegram, but said it would be better not to tell your niece in case the ship went down on the way!"

"What a cheerful person to live with!" Miss Britton ejaculated. "I'm afraid I may be very rude to her."

"I hope not," Mr. Morton said. "It would do no good, and she seems to be an excellent lady in many ways."

"We shall see!" Miss Britton replied grimly, getting out of the fiacre; and Denys felt rather sorry for Mademoiselle Therese.

But Miss Britton was often worse in imagination than in reality, and she behaved with all due politeness to both the sisters, who met her at the door, and led her into the salon. She even bore a certain amount of Mademoiselle Therese's explanations with patience, then she got up.

"Well, well, I would rather hear all that afterwards, mademoiselle, and if I may just take off my hat and coat I will go straight up to my niece. I had breakfast on board."

A few minutes later Aunt Anne opened Barbara's door and entered, a little doubtful lest her sudden appearance might not be bad for her niece, but thinking it could not be much worse than a preparation "by that foolish woman."

Barbara was lying with her back to the door, but something different in the step made her turn round, and she sprang up in bed.

"Aunt Anne! Aunt Anne!" and dropping her face into the pillow began to cry.

Aunt Anne stood a moment in doubt. It was such a rare thing to see any of "the family" cry that she was startled—but not for long; then she crossed the room and began to comfort her niece.

"It was dreadfully foolish of me," the girl said after a while, "but it was so nice to see you again. Mademoiselle Therese is very kind, but—she creaks about, you know, and—and fusses, and it is a little trying to have foreigners about when you are—out of sorts."

"Trying! She would drive me distracted. Indeed, if I had only her to nurse me I should die just to get rid of her!"

"Oh, she's not quite so bad as that," Barbara returned. "She has been very kind indeed, aunt, and is a very good teacher; and you get used to her, you know."

"Perhaps. But now I'll just tell you how they are at home. Then you must be quiet, and, as I crossed in the night, I shall be glad of a rest too. I can stay in here quietly beside you."

Miss Britton having had a little experience in sickness, saw that, though probably there was no need for anxiety, Barbara was certainly ill. She felt more reassured after she had seen the doctor, who she allowed "seemed sensible enough for a Frenchman," and wrote her sister-in-law a cheery letter, saying the girl had probably been doing too much, and had felt the strain of the affair of the "solicitor" more than they had realised.

"The doctor says it is a kind of low fever," she told the Mortons; "but I say, heat, smells, and fussiness."

After a few days' experience, she owned that the Loires were certainly not lacking in kindness, but still she did not care to stay there very long; and she told Denys Morton that she had never been so polite, under provocation, in her life before. The uncle and nephew, who had not yet moved on, did not speak of continuing their travels for the present, and Miss Britton was very glad to know they were in the town.

One of Barbara's regrets was that she had missed seeing the meeting between Mr. Morton and her aunt, and that she was perhaps keeping the latter from enjoying as much of his company as she might otherwise have done. There were many things she wanted to do with Miss Britton when allowed to get up, but in the meanwhile she had to content herself with talking about them. She was much touched by the attention of Mademoiselle Vire, who sent round by Jeannette wonderful home-made dainties that, as Barbara explained to her aunt, "she ought to have been eating herself."

A fortnight after Miss Britton's arrival Barbara was allowed to go downstairs, and, after having once been out, her health came back "like a swallow's flight," as Mademoiselle Therese poetically, though a little ambiguously, described it. She and her aunt spent as much time out of doors as possible, going for so many excursions that Barbara began to know the country round quite well; but, though many of the drives were beautiful, none seemed to equal the one she had had with Mademoiselle Vire, which was a thing apart.

They drove to La Guimorais again one afternoon, and on their return the girl told Denys Morton, who had been with them, the story of the manoir. He was silent for a little at the close, then, as if it had suggested another story to his mind, he looked towards where his uncle and Miss Britton were walking up and down.

"I would give anything—almost anything, at least—that he might be happy now; he has had a great deal of the other thing in the past," he said.

"So would I," Barbara agreed. "You know, I couldn't quite understand it before, but I do now. When you're ill—or supposed to be—you see quite another side of Aunt Anne and one that she doesn't always show. Of course, your uncle is just splendid. I can't understand how aunt could have been so silly."

Denys laughed softly, then grew grave, and when they spoke again it was of other things, for both felt that it was a subject that must be touched with no rough, everyday fingers. "They would hate to have it discussed," was the thought in the mind of each. But the story of Mademoiselle Vire, and all that he had heard about her, made Denys wish to see her, and as Aunt Anne felt it a duty to call there before leaving St. Servan, Barbara took them all in turns, and was delighted because her old friend made a conquest of each one. Even Miss Britton, who did not as a rule like French people, told her niece she was glad she had not missed this visit.

As neither Mademoiselle Vire nor Miss Britton knew the other's language, the interview had been rather amusing, and Barbara's powers as interpreter had been taxed to the uttermost, more especially as she felt anxious to do her part well so as to please both ladies. When Mademoiselle Vire saw that her pretty remarks were not understood, she said gracefully—

"Ah! I see that, as I am unfortunate enough to know no English, madame, I can only use the language of the eyes."

Barbara translated the remark with fear and trembling, afraid that her aunt would look grim as she did when she thought people were talking humbug, but instead, she had bidden Barbara reply that Mademoiselle Vire would probably be as far beyond her in elegance in that language as in her own; and the girl thought that to draw such a speech from her aunt's lips was indeed a triumph.

The lady certainly did smile at the inscription Mademoiselle Vire wrote on the fly-leaf of a book of poems she was giving the girl, and which, Miss Britton declared, was like an inscription on a tombstone—

"A Mademoiselle Barbara Britton, Connue trop tard, perdue trop tot."

But she did not laugh when she heard what the little lady had said on Barbara's last visit.

"We are of different faiths, mon amie, but you will not mind if I put up a prayer for you sometimes. It can do you no harm, and if we do not meet here again, perhaps the good God will let us make music together up yonder."

Miss Britton fixed the day of departure as soon as Barbara was ready for the journey, proposing to go home in easy stages by Rouen and Dieppe, so that they might see the churches of which Mr. Morton had talked so much. The uncle and nephew had just come from that town, and were now returning to Paris, and thence, Denys thought, to England.

Mademoiselle Therese was "desolated" to hear that Barbara's visit was really drawing to a close, and assured her aunt that a few more months would make Barbara a "perfect speaker; for I have never known one of your nation of such talent in our language," she declared.

"Of course that isn't true," Miss Britton said coolly to Barbara afterwards, "though I think you have been diligent, and both Mademoiselle Vire and the queer little man next door say you speak fairly well."

The "queer little man next door" asked them both in to supper before they went, to show Miss Britton, he said, what a Frenchman could do in the cooking line. Barbara had some little difficulty in persuading her aunt to go, though she relented at last, and the experience was certainly very funny, though pathetic enough too. He and his sons could talk very little English, and again Barbara had to play interpreter, or correct the mistakes they made in English, which was equally difficult.

They had decorated the table gaily, and the father and son both looked so hot, that Barbara was sure they had spent a long time over the cooking. The first item was a soup which the widower had often spoken of as being made better by himself than by many a chef, and consisted of what seemed to Barbara a kind of beef-tea with pieces of bread floating in it. But on this occasion the bread seemed to have swelled to tremendous proportions, and absorbed the soup so that there was hardly anything but what seemed damp, swollen rolls! Aunt Anne, Barbara declared afterwards, was magnificent, and plodded her way through bread sponges flavoured with soup, assuring the distressed cook that it was really quite remarkable "potage," and that she had never tasted anything like it before—all of which, of course, was perfectly true.

The chicken, which came next, was cooked very well, only it had been stuffed with sage and onions, and Monsieur said, with pride, that they had thought it would be nice to give Mademoiselle Britton and her niece one English dish, in case they did not like the other things! It was during this course that Barbara's gravity was a little tried, not so much because of the idea of chicken with sage and onions, as because of the stolidity of her aunt's expression—the girl knowing that if there was one thing that lady was particular about, it was the correct cooking of poultry.

There were various other items on the menu, and it was so evident that their host and his eldest son had taken a great deal of trouble over the preparation of the meal, that the visitors were really touched, and did their best to show their appreciation of the attentions paid them. In that they were successful, and when they left the house the widower and his sons were wreathed in smiles. But when they had got to a safe distance Aunt Anne exclaimed, "What a silly man not to keep a servant!"

"Oh, but aunt," Barbara explained, "he thinks he could not manage a servant, and he is really most devoted to his children."

"It's all nonsense about the servant," Miss Britton retorted. "How can a man keep house?"

Nevertheless, when Mademoiselle Loire began to question her rather curiously as to the dinner, she said they had been entertained very nicely, and that monsieur must be an extremely clever man to manage things so well.

One other visit Barbara made before leaving St. Servan, and that was to say good-bye to the bath-boy. It had needed some persuasion on her part to gain her aunt's permission for this visit.

"But, aunt, dear," Barbara said persuasively, "he helped me with Alice, and lost his place because of it. It would be so very unkind to go away without seeing how they are getting on."

"Well, I suppose you must go, but if I had known what a capacity you had for getting entangled in such plots, Barbara, really I should have been afraid to trust you alone here. It was time I came out to put matters right."

"Yes, aunt," Barbara agreed sedately, but with a twinkle in her eyes, "I really think it was," and she went to get ready for her visit to the bath-boy.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE END OF THE STORY.

When the day for parting came Barbara found that it cost her many pangs to leave them all—Mademoiselle Vire first and foremost, and the others in less degree, for she had grown fond even of Mademoiselle Therese. The latter lady declared she and her household were inconsolable and "unhappy enough to wear mourning," which remark Barbara took with a grain of salt, as she did most things that lady said.

But the two sisters and Marie all went to the station to say good-bye, and each of them kissed her on both cheeks, weeping the while. Barbara was not very fond of kisses from outsiders in any case, but "weeping kisses," as she called them, were certainly a trial! What finally dried Mademoiselle Therese's tears was to see the widower and his two sons entering the station, each carrying a bouquet of flowers.

"So pushing of them," she murmured in Barbara's ear, and turned coldly upon them; but the girl and her aunt were touched by the kindness, and the former felt horribly ashamed when she remembered that more than once in private she had laughed at the quaint little man and his ways.

Barbara heard her aunt muttering something about a "dreadful humbug" once or twice, but she was very gracious to every one, and smiled upon them all until the train left the station, when she sank back with an air of relief and exclaimed, "Thank goodness! That's over—though, of course, they meant it kindly."

"They are very kind," Barbara said, looking down at the three bouquets on the seat. "I really don't deserve that they should be so kind."

"Probably not," Miss Britton returned calmly. "We sometimes get more than our deserts, sometimes less, so perhaps things adjust themselves in the end. I was really rather astonished not to see the bath-boy at the station too—your acquaintance seems so varied."

"Yes, I have learned a great deal since I went there," Barbara said thoughtfully; "and just at the end I felt I didn't want to come away at all."

"I have no such feelings," her aunt remarked, though, perhaps, a little thoughtfully also. But when they arrived at Rouen, the remembrance of their pleasant time in Paris returned to them, and they both felt ready for the delights of seeing a new town.

Apart from the information given by the Mortons Barbara felt already familiar with the great churches and quaint streets, and for her Rouen never quite lost the halo of romance that Mademoiselle Vire had endowed it with.

It was to be connected with yet another story of the past, however, before they left it, one which, for romance, was fully equal to Mademoiselle Vire's, though its conclusion was so much happier.

It was the second day of their stay, and after a morning of wandering about the town, both Barbara and her aunt were resting, the former on the balcony in front of her room, the latter on the terrace in the garden. Although a book was in her lap, Barbara was not reading, but, with hands clasped behind her head, was idly watching the passers-by, when suddenly laziness vanished from her attitude, and her gaze became intent on the figure of some one who had just turned into the portico of the hotel. She rose from the low chair, her eyes shining with excitement.

"It certainly was he!" she said. "Now, Barbara—it is time for you to eliminate yourself—you must lie on the couch and try to look pale."

She pulled down the window blind, ran into her room, and had hardly settled herself upon the couch when, as she had expected, a maid came up with a message asking her to go down to the terrace.

"Please tell Miss Britton I have a headache, and am lying down for a little," Barbara said, congratulating herself upon the possession of what had annoyed her considerably a short time before, though in an ordinary way she would have scoffed at the idea of lying down for a headache. A few minutes afterwards up came her aunt, looking very concerned, and fearing lest they had been doing too much. Barbara's heart smote her, but she told herself that she must be firm.

"I sent for you to come to see Mr. Morton, senior," Aunt Anne explained. "Strangely enough, he arrived this morning in Rouen, and has put up at another hotel."

"How nice. How very nice! I shall come down later, aunt. I expect I shall be quite all right shortly."

She had a little difficulty in persuading her aunt that it was not necessary to stay beside her, but at last succeeded in doing so, and gave a chuckle of joy when the door closed.

She had intended to go down to the garden later on, but, strange to say, fell fast asleep, and did not awaken until the man tapped at her door, saying the tea had been ordered for four o'clock, but now, although it was half-past, madame had not returned, having gone along the river bank, he believed, with monsieur. So Barbara hastily descended and had tea—very much brewed—all by herself, and then returned to her room to read.

She had finished her book, and was thinking of getting ready for dinner, when Aunt Anne came in—quite a different Aunt Anne from the one she knew, with all her decision fled. She fidgeted about for some time, saying nothing of importance, then at last turned round and began hastily—

"I did a very silly thing once long ago, Barbara, and to-day I have done what I am afraid people may think still sillier—I have promised to marry Mr. Morton."

Whereupon Barbara seized her rapturously. "Oh, aunt," she cried, "I'm so glad, just gladder than of anything else I could have heard."

"It—it is a great relief, Barbara," she said unsteadily, "to have you take it so. I—was afraid you might laugh. You know, it needs some courage for a person of my age to do a thing like that. It is different for a girl like you, but I could not have done it, had I not felt that since he desired it so urgently, I ought to right the wrong I had done him long ago."

"You can't help being very happy, aunt," said Barbara, "I'm sure, with such a nice man as Mr. Morton. The only regret I have is that you've lost so much of the time——"

Then, seeing her aunt's face, she felt inclined to strike herself for having spoken foolishly.

"Mr. Morton is in the garden," her aunt said after a moment. "It would be nice if you went down and saw him." And Barbara sped away.

That interview was apparently entirely satisfactory, for Miss Britton, enjoining them later, found Barbara had just issued an invitation in her mother's name and that it had been accepted. "And, of course, you will come too, aunt," the girl added.

There was one part in the arrangements that Barbara begged to be left to her, and that was the letter home telling the news.

"You see, Aunt Anne," she said, "I naturally feel as if I had rather a big share in the matter."

"I think surely it was Denys Morton's letter that brought me," Miss Britton corrected; "but write if you like, Barbara." And, indeed, she was rather glad to be relieved from the responsibility.



CHAPTER XX.

THE CODA.

If Barbara had been at home when her letter arrived, she would have been quite content with the excitement it caused. At first Frances and Donald were inclined to think it a huge joke, but having read to the end of Barbara's letter they felt rather differently. Aunt Anne had acted more wisely than she knew in allowing her niece to be the one to write and tell of her engagement.

"Of course," Donald said in his decided way, "we must do the proper thing by her and treat her nicely—for after all, Frances, she's been rather a brick about Barbara—and the last time she stayed she was much improved."

"It'll be interesting having a new uncle too," Frances remarked complacently. "We're rather badly off for uncles, Don, and from what Barbara says this Mr. Morton must be very—nice, though, of course, Barbara isn't quite to be trusted, seeing she's such a friend of Denys'. Let me see, now, what relation will he be to us?"

"Oh, don't bother about relationships at present—you may just have to rearrange them again," Donald said impatiently. "Let's go and be thinking of something to welcome Barbara back."

On that matter they held a long consultation, Donald being in favour of taking the horse out of the fly and drawing it home themselves, and Frances inclining more to wreaths and decoration.

She got her way in the end, as she pointed out to her brother that the cabman would probably not allow them to take the horse out, and that they would have to pay for it all the same, and worst of all, that they would be so much out of breath with pulling that they would not be able to ask any questions when they got home. It was probably the last reason that weighed the most with Donald, who agreed to devote his energies to making an archway over the garden path and setting off some fireworks in the evening.

On the whole, the arch was quite a success, and looked very pretty, though it was not so secure as it might have been, and its makers felt it safer to fasten to it a large label with the inscription, "Not to be handled."

The travellers were not to arrive till late in the afternoon, and poor Mrs. Britton was driven nearly distracted by the intense excitement pervading among the children during the morning. One of the twins had actually suggested putting on her best frock the night before so as to be quite ready on the following day.

It is seldom that such an eagerly-expected event is not disappointing in some detail of its fulfilment, but there was not a shade upon the happiness on this occasion. Barbara and Miss Britton arrived at the right time, with their luggage; the archway remained firm until both the travellers had passed underneath (though it collapsed shortly afterwards); and the fireworks were as successful as such things usually are. It is true that Donald was a trifle hurried over displaying them, for Barbara was as anxious to unpack the treasures she had brought home as the children were to see them.

"You are still a little thin, dear," Mrs. Britton said, as she watched her daughter; but Barbara declared it was imagination, and Donald and Frances gave it as their opinion that it was only the "Frenchy kind of look she had."

"You have dressed her in such jolly things, aunt," Frances said admiringly. "I like a person to come home looking like the country she's come from, and it'll be a great advantage to her teaching—she'll get heaps of pupils, I'm sure."

"Oh, we'll not talk about the teaching just yet," Mrs. Britton said quickly. "She must have a week or two free first, and then it will be time enough for us to think about it;" and to that there was no dissentient voice—except Barbara's.

Aunt Anne had brought home some treasures too; but was quite willing to keep hers till later, and the children declared, with round eyes of delight, that Barbara had brought enough to last for a very long time.

"You really were a brick to bring so many lovely things, Barbara," said Frances, trying to fix in a brooch with one hand while she stroked a silk blouse with the other. "This brooch is so pretty, I'm really not going to lose it, though I can't think how you got enough money to buy so much."

Miss Britton looked across at her niece, who hastily dived into her trunk again; but the former confided to her sister-in-law afterwards, that Barbara had distributed the remainder of the money she had given her for riding lessons between the bath-boy and presents for the home-people, which news made Mrs. Britton prize her share of the treasures more than ever.

The only thing that a little disappointed the children was that "Uncle Morton" had not arrived too.

"It's a pity he didn't come with you, we're all so anxious to see him," Frances remarked, looking at her aunt, whom Barbara relieved by answering in her stead.

"Both Mr. Morton and his nephew are coming soon to the inn," she said, "so you haven't long to wait."

But their curiosity rose to almost unbearable heights before the fortnight was over, and Barbara had a little difficulty in making them solemnly promise that they would not bother their aunt with questions meanwhile.

Frances and Donald both wished to go to the station to meet the train, but this their mother forbade.

"You will see them here to-night," she said; "they are coming up to dinner. Meanwhile, content yourselves with Barbara."

"Yes," remarked Donald; "we really didn't realise how much we missed Barbara until she was back. It's just jolly having her."

Nevertheless, they disappeared suddenly during the afternoon, and did not return until about an hour before dinner, when they both wore the half sheepish, half triumphant expression that Barbara knew of old meant some escapade successfully carried through. Knowing they would probably tell her what it was, she went on arranging the flowers on the dinner-table while they fidgeted round the room.

"I say," Donald said at last, "I really think Uncle Morton is one of the nicest elderly men I've met for some time, perhaps ever."

"Yes," Frances agreed; "I think so too. He'll be quite an exquisition as an uncle. But we didn't go to the station," she hastened to add, as Barbara turned round to listen. "Donald wanted to go up to the inn this afternoon—at least we both did—to see Mr. Bates about the rabbit he promised us, and we were talking to him quite comfortably when a gentleman came and stood at the door looking into the passage."

"'That's an American gentleman as has come to-day with his nephew,' Mr. Bates remarked, and, of course, we knew it must be Uncle Morton, and we thought since we were there it would be rather unkind to go away without ever giving him a welcoming word. Mr. Bates thought so too when we asked his opinion, so we just went and introduced ourselves, and told him we were glad to see him, and so on. We saw the nephew too."

"Yes," Donald went on, without giving Barbara a chance to speak, "and as he seemed very glad to see us, and said it was kind of us to look in on him, of course we stayed a little longer. He's an interesting man."

"I'm glad you like him," Barbara said, bubbling over with laughter. "I'm sure it must be a relief to him."

"Yes," Donald nodded, "and to the nephew too. I think we'll be quite good friends with him. You see, Barbara," he went on, fearing lest she should feel disapproval about their visit, "it really was better for them not to have to face us all in a mass. Now they've got us over—they've only to get mother's approval."

But this remark was altogether too much for Barbara's gravity, and she drove her brother and sister off to make themselves presentable.

But when their visitors had gone that evening and she was talking in her mother's room, she told the story of the afternoon again, and they laughed over it together.

"Conceited little creatures," Mrs. Britton said. "But my judgment coincides with theirs, Barbara—and yours. I think he is one of the nicest men I have met, and it is splendid to see them so happy."

"Yes," Barbara replied contentedly; "it was really rather a happy thing that I was chased by that cyclist and met the 'American pretender,' wasn't it, mother?"

"I dare say it was," said Mrs. Britton; but she eyed her daughter rather wistfully, then kissed her and bade her go to bed, though long after the girl had left her she sit thinking. It was clear to her, as it had been to Aunt Anne for some time, that Denys Morton was anxious to make his uncle Barbara's, by a less round-about method than through his connection with Aunt Anne; and before a week had passed he had spoken of his desire, astonishing no one so much as Barbara herself.

"Of course," said Donald, who had gone to his mother for information on the matter, and was now discussing it in the privacy of the apple-tree with Frances, "I felt, as eldest son, I ought to be told about it, though I knew as soon as I saw Denys Morton that he wanted to marry Barbara."

"He would have been very foolish if he hadn't," Frances remarked. "But, of course, Barbara is such an unself-conscious kind of person that it was quite natural she should be surprised. Aunt Anne says she would choose Denys above every one for Barbara—only, naturally, she's got a leaning to the family."

Donald nodded.

"So have I, though that's no good if Barbara doesn't want to make up her mind, and she seems not to. In any case, mother thinks she's too young, though I should have thought that Aunt Anne kind of balanced it—being fairly old, you know; and besides, Denys is a lot older than she is."

"Well," said Frances, "I shall give him all the encouragement I can, for I think he's very nice. I believe, Donald, that he didn't go to Rouen just because it's an infectious kind of thing, and he didn't want to ask Barbara before he had told mother and us——"

"There he is," interrupted Donald. "He looks rather down; let's go and cheer him up," and the two dropped over the wall into the field that bordered the garden. They sauntered towards the path leading to the river, and surprised Denys not a little by suddenly joining him.



"I say," Donald began, without giving him time to speak, "I don't think you need be worried,—I've known Barbara a good long time, and I've never known her to be so absent-minded before."

To say that Denys was startled is keeping strictly within the limits of truth, and at first he was not sure whether he felt angry or amused. But he had grown pretty well accustomed to Donald and Frances by this time, and after a moment of embarrassment accepted the situation. "Thank you," he said, "it is kind of you to take an interest in—me."

"Not at all," Frances said graciously, "we think it's really rather hard lines on you, as, of course we knew all along you wanted to marry Barbara."

"By jove!" muttered Denys a little helplessly.

"Yes, of course," Donald put in. "Anybody sensible would want to do that. If I hadn't been her brother I should have. But though it's rather rough on you, I think two months' absence in America will just be the thing for Barbara."

The young man gazed at his youthful adviser, and was so overpowered that he could think of nothing to say.

"When do you go?" Donald continued.

"Next week. I'm coming back in six weeks—not two months—for my uncle's wedding," said Denys, finding his voice.

There was a pause, and Frances, seeing from her brother's expression that he was deep in thought, forbore to make any remark until she saw him smile, then she said—

"Well, Donald?"

But her brother addressed himself to Denys—

"Considering you've been here a good time now," he said, "you haven't seen much of the country really. Suppose you came for a long walk on the moor to-morrow with Frances and me—and Barbara?"

Denys' eyes lighted up. "If Barbara will, I shall be charmed," he said.

"I think she'll come," Donald said cheerfully; and moved by some persuasion or force Barbara consented, and the four started off across the moors.

They started together—that was certain—but did not return in the same manner, for Donald and Frances had got most thoroughly lost, although as Donald said, with a grin, "he had walked that moor, man and boy, for the past six years."

But when the two truants returned they did not seem at all cast down by their misfortune, while Denys certainly came back in a more cheerful mood than that in which he had set out.

"I think you'll find things all right when you come back again," Donald whispered on the morning the visitors were to go, and Denys, nodding, gripped his hand so tightly that the boy winced.

"I think," said Frances, as she watched the carriage disappearing—"I think, Donald, Aunt Anne ought to be very thankful she was so generous. She has been rewarded, hasn't she, in finding Uncle Morton?"

"Yes, virtue has had its reward. But you know, Frances, I think we're being rather generous too."

"Yes?" Frances said interrogatively.

"Well, the end will be that we lose Barbara, and we haven't raised a finger to prevent it—on the contrary we've helped—and you know we're never likely to find another sister like her."

"No, of course not. But all the same a wedding—and I suppose there'll be two—will make a grand finale like the 'Codas' you have in marches."

"Yes. You're really rather poetical, Frances. And perhaps by the time you're ready for France another aunt will turn up to take you there."

"I hope so, though they can't always expect to find Uncle Mortons as a reward. But there's time enough to think of that; and at any rate, Don, I'm going to be bride's-maid at the wedding."

"Yes," said Donald. "And there'll be two wedding cakes running, Fran—think of that!"

THE END