"The flower which you most resemble, I bring as an offering of——"

"Stuff and nonsense! That's a nice thing to tell a girl: that she looks like a ragged chrysanthemum! I have brushed my hair, too, so your 'comparison is odious.' I have a great mind not to introduce you to Miss Brown just to pay you back for being so saucy."

But Mr. Perkins did not wait for the formal introduction. He came into the studio, his pasty face beaming, and gave Molly's hand a cordial shake. Then the others began to arrive: Mrs. Brown, Judy and Elise, Mr. Kinsella and Pierce.

"Polly, put the kettle on and we'll all have tea," sang Jo, and the obedient Mr. Perkins did her bidding. In a short while the water was boiling and the tea put to draw, and Jo produced from her cupboard a plate of Napoleons (that delicious pastry of Paris) and a brioche.

"Now, Jo Bill, that is mean to go have my kind of cake, too," exclaimed Polly Perkins fretfully. "You know I never have Napoleons at my teas because you call them yours, but brioche has always been mine; and when I have our neighbors in to my studio, what can I give them? I did not know you could be so sneaky."

Strange to tell, Jo took the repulse quite meekly and confessed that it was low, but there were not enough Napoleons at the patisserie and she had to fill out with something else.

"Please don't be cross, Polly. I got brioche because I know you like it so much. I like macaroons myself," and she helped the indignant cubist to a generous slice of his favorite cake and he was mollified.

The party was very gay. Jo proved to be a singularly tactful hostess and put them at their ease immediately. The tea was perfect.

"Where on earth do you get it?" asked Mrs. Brown as she accepted a second cup.

"Smuggle it," responded Jo. "Every time I go to California I bring enough back to run me for a year; enough for Polly, too. The custom house officials never hunt through my luggage for tea. They often remark that I am 'not the tea drinking type', but Polly, here, can't bring in a leaf of it without getting found out. He is a regular tea drinking type."

"Are you from California, too?" asked Molly, smiling at Polly and wondering if Jo's frankness hurt his feelings. But if it did he concealed his wounds remarkably well.

"Yes, indeed, Jo and I are from the same town. I have known her ever since she was a little boy. She is an awful clever sort and as kind and good as can be. I never mind her blague. We are the best friends in the world and she likes me as much as I do her. Have you seen her painting? She does the best and highest paid miniature work among the American artists in Paris. She has a very interesting way of working: paints everything big first and then in miniature. She says it keeps her from getting a sissy manner."

"I can't fancy Miss Williams with a sissy manner in anything," laughed Elise, who joined Molly and Mr. Perkins. "I want to see her things so much; and I do hope you will show us some of your work, Mr. Perkins. I hear you are of the new movement in art."

"Yes," said poor Polly sadly. "Jo hates me for it and refuses to think I am sincere or that there is any good in the movement, but I declare that she is the insincere one in not trying to see the good in the cubist movement. Jo is very hard-headed and conventional at heart, in spite of her pants."

The girls burst out laughing at this. The idea of Jo's being conventional was certainly absurd. Hard-headed she no doubt was.

"This will show you how stubborn she is: she pretends she does not remember my name. I don't mind her calling me Polly, but I do think she should address my letters to Mr. Peter Perkins and not Polly. I have known her ever since we were both of us babies and she must remember what my parents call me, even though she never did call me Peter herself," said the poor cubist who looked ready to weep.

Just then there was a diversion caused by a great knocking on a door in the court. It proved to be none other than Mrs. Pace.

"She has come to spy out the nakedness of the land," whispered Judy to Mr. Kinsella, who had been having a long talk with her. Pierce had had so much to say of this delightful young lady that his uncle was determined to make her acquaintance and find out if she were the kind of girl to be a help to his beloved nephew, or if there could be a chance of Judy's being the type that he had unfortunately come in contact with in his youth, causing so much disaster to his happiness. Judy was in her gayest mood and was enjoying herself hugely, and Mr. Kinsella seemed to find her quite as delightful as Pierce had led him to believe her to be. That young man was looking rather disconsolate since his uncle was occupying the place he coveted. He wandered over to where Elise was examining some of Jo's miniatures. Elise, too, was a little wistful. She had looked forward with so much eagerness to meeting Mr. Kinsella again, and now on the first occasion when they might have had a real conversation, here he was spending the whole time laughing and talking with Julia Kean. She was glad of the diversion of Mrs. Pace's entrance, as it necessarily caused some cessation of what looked to her like a flirtation between Mr. Kinsella and Judy.

Enter, Mrs. Pace did, with a scornful sniff. After rapping sharply on the Browns' door and receiving no answer, she had made her way to the studio where the tea was being held. When Jo Bill opened the door, without waiting to tell her whom she was seeking, she swept into the room, "not like a ship in full sail," declared Judy to her companion, "but like a great coal barge in her shiny black satin and her huge jet bonnet."

Mrs. Brown introduced her to the members of the party with whom she was not already acquainted, but she acknowledged the honor only with a slight quiver of the stiff jet trimmings of her headgear.

"Well, Mrs. Brown! Is this what you left my house for?"

Mrs. Brown made no answer but Molly noticed that her nose was what Aunt Mary called "a-wucken'"; and she was wondering what would be the outcome of Mrs. Pace's rudeness, when Polly Perkins saved the day. He was taking tea to the uninvited guests at Jo's bidding. That young woman was totally oblivious and indifferent to Mrs. Pace's scornful attitude. She was Mrs. Brown's friend and she, Jo Bill, knew how to behave in her own house. Mrs. Pace was seated so that the last rays of the setting sun slanted through the window on her bonnet and the lighted lamp on the other hand shone full on her capacious chest, making the large square high lights of which Judy had made such merry jests. Polly handed her the cup of tea and slice of brioche and then backed away from her, standing with his eyes half closed and his hands clasped in adoration.

"Well, young man, what are you looking at me that way for?" snapped the irate Henny.

"Oh, Madame, you are so beautiful! You must pardon my raptures, but I am a cubist and you are exactly the type I am looking for to make myself famous withal. As I stand and gaze at you with my eyes half-closed, you present the most wonderful spectacle. I see a series of beautiful cubes, one on top of the other: black and gray, black and gray, and now and then where the light strikes, a brilliant white one. And oh, your chapeau! I can hardly wait to get to work on your portrait! You will sit to me, won't you?"

During this effusion, Mrs. Pace sat with a pleased smirk on her face. It had been many a long day since any one had called her beautiful, and no one had ever called her beautiful with such enthusiasm or wanted to paint her portrait. To be sure it was nothing but a small, pasty-faced, long-haired artist, but he was a man for all that, and his eyes were kind and earnest and his voice most appealing.

"I am a very busy woman," she answered gently, "but I will pose for you with pleasure, if it will help you in any way."

Her shiny ornaments trembled with emotion and she gave a sentimental sigh that broke the beautiful square high-light, so admired by Polly, into a dozen little ripples.

Mrs. Brown arose to make her adieux, taking Mrs. Pace with her to show the new quarters to the much softened lady. Mrs. Brown knew by the look in Judy's eyes that she would explode with laughter in a moment. Molly and Elise were bending over Jo's miniatures, their shoulders shaking. Pierce was standing in the middle of the floor with an alert expression as though he were in readiness to seize the lunatic, poor Polly, if he should become dangerous. Mr. Kinsella's composure was ominous of an outbreak. Jo Bill stood with arms akimbo and gazed at her former playmate, anger gradually gaining the ascendency over the amusement caused by his outspoken admiration of the ponderous and impolite Mrs. Pace.

As the door closed on the two ladies, Jo suddenly reached out, and grabbing Polly by his flowing tie, she boxed his ears soundly. "There, you goose, I've been wanting to do that for years!"

Polly received the chastisement with the utmost delight and actually seemed to look upon it as a form of caress from the enraged Jo. He whispered to Molly: "I believe Jo is jealous of the beautiful Mrs. Pace."

Mr. Kinsella asked Elise to take a walk with him that evening before dinner and they had the long talk that the girl had been eager for; and the little cloud of—not exactly jealousy, more envy of Judy's powers of attraction than jealousy, was dispelled for the time being.



CHAPTER XII.

THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER.

The winter went merrily on. Elise and Judy worked diligently at Julien's, the hard academic drawing being good for them and helping to counteract a tendency both had to rather slipshod methods. They gave only the morning to the school and in the afternoon looked at pictures or painted at home, if they could get a model among their acquaintances.

Judy made some charming memory sketches of the Paris streets. Seeing some bit that took her fancy, going or coming, she would burn to get her impression on canvas. She could hardly wait to get her hat and coat off, but would come tearing into the studio, pulling off her wraps as she came, hair flying, cheeks glowing, looking very like Brer Rabbit, Molly declared, when he ran down the hill with the six tin plates fer the chillun to sop outen; and the six tin cups fer the chillun to drink outen; the coffee pot fer the fambly; and the hankcher fer hisself, hollerin': "Gimme room, gimme room". They gave her room, all right, especially if her medium happened to be water color, as Judy was a grand splasher and spared neither water nor paint.

Elise was delighting in her steady work, the first she had ever been allowed to do. She lacked Judy's sense of color but on the other hand was very clever at sketching and getting a likeness, and had inherited her father's inimitable powers of caricature.

"Oh," sighed Judy, "if I could only get the people in my memory sketches to stand on their legs and seem to move as yours do, Elise, how happy I should be!"

"And I," said Elise, "would give anything if I could see and put on canvas the lovely colors that you can. I can't see anything but drab, somehow. It must be a somberness of disposition that affects my eyesight."

"But, Elise," broke in Molly, "you are not somber at all. You are full of jokes and bon mots."

"Oh, that is just my way here with all of you lovely, good, happy people. I am usually very dull and sober. Mamma says I can be the stupidest company in all the world, and I am sure she is right."

Elise had indeed blossomed in the congenial atmosphere in which she found herself for the first time in her life. Mr. Kinsella watched her eagerly, seeing many things about her to remind him of his old friend George O'Brien; and when the girl occasionally let drop some of the worldly cynicism that she had perforce learned from her mother, the sad look in his eyes would make her quickly repent her bitterness, and her endeavors to bring back his rarely sweet smile were almost pathetic in their eagerness. Mrs. Brown understood the girl thoroughly and did everything in her power to make her feel that she was one of the little coterie and a valued member; but Elise found it difficult to look upon herself as anything but an outsider. She was sensitively afraid of being in the way where Molly's and Judy's intimacy was concerned, and the girls often had to force her to join them on a lark unless Mrs. Brown was one of the party.

Pierce was "making good," as he expressed it, at the school. He had gone through several years of hard drawing at the League in New York, so decided that he could give his time to the painting that was to be his life's work. His uncle was delighted with his progress, and felt that his own youth was not lost at all but reincarnated in the glowing genius of his beloved nephew.

Molly was studying at the Sorbonne, where her Cousin Philippe d'Ochte had duly installed her. It did not seem like studying, but more like going to the theater for several hours a day. The lecturers were so charming, so vivacious; their delivery was so dramatic, their gestures so animated. She drank in every word and found herself understanding French as she had never dreamed that she could.

She wrote on her stories when she was not attending the lectures. The Latin Quarter had given her several good plots and she was eager to work them out before Professor Green should put in his appearance, as she was anxious to let him see she had accomplished something during her Paris winter. That poor young man was still teaching the young idea how to shoot at Wellington and saw no hope of his release before March.

Kent Brown wrote cheerful letters from Kentucky. He was very busy in his chosen field of architecture and was learning French in a night class to fit himself for the Beaux Arts when he would finally be able to get to Paris. Aunt Clay was fighting the Trust vindictively as only she could fight and was dying hard, but Kent predicted that the end was near; and as soon as the suit was settled, he intended to take the first steamer abroad.

Mrs. Brown was not concerning herself in the least about her financial affairs. She felt sure that sooner or later she would realize on the sale of oil lands, and in the meantime the economy she and Molly were compelled to practice was rather exciting and interesting than annoying. Mrs. Brown had the happy faculty of adaptability, and living on Rue Brea she found there were many American students who were compelled to exercise the greatest thrift to exist.

Poor Polly Perkins was a sad example of the unproductive consumer. He had never earned a cent in his life and it looked as though he never would earn one, but still he stayed on in Paris, hoping against hope that his luck would change and that he could either sell a picture or that his cubist theories would become so popular that pupils would flock to him to sit at the feet of learning. He had a small monthly remittance from home that enabled him to pay his rent and by the strictest economy to clothe himself in the artistic garb of the Quarter (velveteen is fortunately very durable and not very costly); also to feed and partly nourish his far from robust little body. Mrs. Brown and Molly felt very sorry for Polly.

"He is such a sad little fellow," said Molly, "and he is very kind and good and takes Jo's teasing and bossing so patiently. He is really sincere about his art, and just because we can't see his way, we ought not to laugh at him. I believe Jo likes him a lot more than she knows she does. It nearly kills her for him to make himself ridiculous. I am crazy to see his portrait of Mrs. Pace. I do hope I can keep my face straight when he unveils it for us."

"Mrs. Pace declares it is wonderful. She told your Cousin Sally and me that it was a speaking likeness."

"Well, any likeness of Mrs. Pace would have to be a speaking likeness," laughed Molly.

Mrs. Brown and Molly were having one of their confidential talks, rather rare at that time, as Judy and Elise were usually at home when Molly was; or if mother and daughter did have a few moments alone, they were interrupted by callers: the Kinsellas or the d'Ochtes, Jo Williams or Polly Perkins or some of the new acquaintances they had made among the students.

"Mother, don't you notice a kind of sadness about Elise lately? She does not seem to me to be quite herself. Sometimes that old bitter way of talking gets hold of her and although she knows it pains Mr. Kinsella, she takes especial delight in giving vent to this satire when he is present. I am glad he has gone off to the Riviera for a change. She is devoted and grateful to him for influencing her mother to let her have the winter in Paris, but she has taken a strange way to show her gratitude in the last week or so.

"Did you see an almost noisy flirtation she was having with Philippe the last time we had all of them in to tea? She was not a bit like her sincere self, the natural, well-bred Elise that we all love so much, but more like her mother with her smart-set manner and flippant witticisms. I thought Cousin Sally was a little concerned about her precious Philippe. Cousin Sally is much more Frenchified in her soul than she dreams. I believe she is going to control the destiny of her son just as much as any mother in France."

Mrs. Brown smiled. She had an idea that she knew what Sally Bolling's plans for her son were: namely, her own Molly Brown. But since Molly herself had no idea of it, she was the last woman in the world to suggest it to her. She felt sure of her Molly, sure that no rank or wealth would influence her in choosing a mate (if choose one she must). She was confident that Molly liked Professor Green better than any man she knew, and that Philippe d'Ochte with all his charm and good looks, wealth and position, did not appeal to her little daughter as did Edwin Green, the quiet, scholarly professor with no wealth at all. She had mentioned the professor only casually to her cousin, Sally d'Ochte, as she did not feel it was incumbent upon her to speak of him as Molly's lover, since Molly herself did not consider him as one.

As for Philippe's heart, she did not think there was any danger of its being broken. She had carefully observed her young cousin and could see no sign of the languishing lover. That young man seemed to find difficulty in deciding which young lady he considered the most attractive. Molly was all that was lovely and sweet and delightful; Judy had a singular charm for him, with her vivacious manner and originality; Elise O'Brien evidently amused him and interested him greatly; and now a new star had come on his horizon: Frances Andrews, whom he had met at the Browns' and found very fascinating, a mixture of American and French. Philippe had, in truth, met too many charmers in too short a space of time and they had proved an embarrassment of riches, as it were.

His Cousin Mildred Brown knew what safety in numbers there was for him, and hoped he would not come to the conclusion that her Molly was the one of all others for him. Not that she did not like him. She was very fond of him and fully appreciated all of the d'Ochte kindness to her and her little crowd of girls; but she had in a measure given her word to Edwin Green: that if he would not speak to Molly of his love for her for a year, he would find her daughter still unattached. She felt that she had done right in asking this of Professor Green. She was confident that she knew Molly's inmost thoughts and feelings, and that if she had any preference at all, it was for the young professor.

There were times when this anxious mother realized that one could not be too cocksure about the heart of anyone, even of one's own flesh and blood. Molly had noticed that Elise was not herself, and Mrs. Brown had noticed that none of her girls were quite themselves. For the last few days there had been a condition in the apartment in the Rue Brea of nerves at high tension; tempers a little uncertain; feelings a little tender. Mrs. Brown held her peace and endeavored tactfully to steer their little menage safely over the shoals.

She thought she understood Elise. The poor girl was suffering with jealousy of Judy, who had plunged into an intimacy with the Kinsellas, uncle and nephew alike. She and Pierce would go on long tramps into the country and play a kind of game of memory sketches, seeing which one could bring home the greater number of impressions. Mr. Kinsella had become interested in their game and had joined them on one of their walks, becoming so fired with enthusiasm that he had actually tried to do some painting himself. He had been quite successful, considering the number of years that had passed since he had even so much as squeezed paint out of a tube. They had asked Elise to join them, but she had coldly refused. After those walks had become so popular with the trio, then it was that Elise had begun a rather half-hearted flirtation with Philippe d'Ochte.

Judy was in one of her gayest and most irritating moods. "Getting ready for what she calls 'a Judy Kean scrape,' I am afraid," thought Mrs. Brown. "Our winter has been so peaceful and harmonious; but this mist will clear away soon, I know."

Judy seemed to realize that she was hurting Elise in some way but to be perfectly careless of the result. She never lost an opportunity to give Molly a dig about Frances Andrews, and when that young woman had come to the studio to tea, Judy had been very cold and almost rude to her. Molly, on her side, was a little distrait and listless and very touchy.

"What is the matter with my girls?" thought poor Mrs. Brown. "For the last week they have been like naughty children."

When Molly and her mother were having the little confidential talk recorded above, the elder lady did not realize that two American mails had come and that neither Judy nor Molly had received the bulky epistles that they usually did,—Judy one from Kentucky, and Molly one from Wellington. This was the cause of their unreasonable tempers. And had she but known it, on the other side of the Atlantic her own son Kent was eaten up with the green-eyed monster all because Judy had mentioned the name of Kinsella six times in her last letter! And he, Kent, had only that morning called his brother Paul "a conceited ass" because Paul had on a cravat to match his socks; and he had been equally unreasonable with a misguided waiter who brought him macaroni when he ordered spaghetti.

As for the dignified Professor Green, he had actually "hollered" at a poor freshman who had in reading some poetry pronounced "unshed tears" as though unshed were in one syllable. "'Unched tears', I could almost shed them," said the much-tried teacher; and all because a certain Molly Brown had a cousin Philippe who was kind enough to see that she heard all the lectures worth while at the Sorbonne.

Mrs. Brown decided to take Molly into her confidence and divulge to her her ideas concerning Elise and Mr. Kinsella. Molly was astonished and delighted.

"Oh, mother, how wise you are and how blind I am! I realize now how Elise must have suffered and all for nothing. I just know Mr. Kinsella adores her. I see it all. He went off just because he thought Elise was serious about Philippe and he could not stay to see it. How I wish he would come back and it could all be set right, and dear Elise could make up to him for all the suffering her mother caused him! I do wish I could put a flea in Judy's ear and she would behave."

"But you must not do that, my dear," said Mrs. Brown. "That would not be quite fair to Elise. You see it is only surmise on our part."

"Right as usual, mother, but it is going to be hard to see things going wrong when a word would right them. Judy means no harm and is really doing nothing. She takes long walks with Mr. Kinsella and Pierce, and Mr. Kinsella delights in Judy's frankness and originality. He likes to be with her, but as for thinking of her in any other light than as Pierce's playmate,—I don't believe it has entered his head."

"I am sure it hasn't; but Elise has had very few friends and has been brought up in such a selfish world, that she is perhaps prone to see the wrong motive. Molly, do you feel well? I have fancied you were a little pale lately and not quite so enthusiastic as usual."

Just then there was a knock on the door and the concierge's little son entered, bringing a stack of mail. One from Wellington was on top, and Molly was able truthfully to tell her mother that she never felt better in her life.



CHAPTER XIII.

A JULIA KEAN SCRAPE.

One day in late February when there was a faint hint of spring in the air, on the way to the art school Judy said to Elise:

"I am dead tired of drawing from a model indoors. I've a great mind to cut the whole thing and do something desperate. I know the sap is rising in the trees and the color is getting wonderful and more wonderful every day. I believe I'll go on a high old lonesome to the country, take my sketch box, pick up some luncheon where I happen to land and have a general holiday. Why don't you come, too?"

"Thank you, no. If I should go, too, it would not be a high old lonesome for you; and then, besides, I am so interested in the model this week," said Elise.

She did not say that she half expected Mr. Kinsella back that afternoon and could not bear to be out of Paris when he returned. Mr. Kinsella had been off on a three weeks' jaunt, and during his absence Elise had taken herself severely to task for her behavior to him and to everyone. She had reasoned herself into seeing how absurd her jealousy was toward Judy, and when Mr. Kinsella should return, he was to find a much chastened Elise.

"But, Judy," continued Elise, "if you do go, you will skip a criticism from the master; and then, isn't it a little imprudent for you to go out to the country all alone?"

"Oh, I am glad to skip a criticism from old C——, he is such an old fogy. All he can say is: 'Ca va mieux, mademoiselle, ca va mieux!' As for being imprudent going to the country alone, why, I am surely big enough, old enough and ugly enough to take care of myself," and Judy made a face and assumed a militant air.

"Well, you are ridiculous enough to carry through any project," laughed Elise. "And where will you go, you big, ugly, old thing?"

"Oh, not far. St. Cloud, perhaps. I fancy I'll be back before you get home. I am not so crazy about being by myself when I once get there. I am a gregarious animal when all is told. Good-by, my love to old C——," and Judy swung off, determined to take one of the little boats to St. Cloud.

It was a glorious day. The water of the Seine was clear and blue; the little boats were puffing up and down; the fishermen lined the walls and patiently and diligently cast their hooks. Judy stood on the Pont Neuf glad she was living; glad she was in Paris and had eyes to see it and ears to hear it; glad of her truancy; gladdest of all when one old fisherman actually caught a fish and she was there to behold it. She had been told that none were ever caught, that the fishermen sat there day after day, year after year, with never a reward for their patience. She wandered up the quay, not certain whether she would take a boat to St. Cloud or go to the station and catch a train for Versailles. As she loafed along, an ogling old man joined her and with voluble protestations assured her of his admiration of her beauty. Judy gave him a withering glance and, quickening her pace, soon left him far behind.

"That is exactly what Papa warned me against," she thought. "He said: 'Never loaf along the streets when you are alone. Have some business to attend to and attend to it and no one will have anything to say to you.' I must assume some business if I have it not."

She accordingly put on an air of great purpose, grasped her sketching kit very firmly, and went and got on a little "penny puff puff" that was just starting out for Sevres and St. Cloud.

St. Cloud was beautiful, indeed. The sap was rising in the trees and a few buds were showing their noses on bush and shrub. There was a haze over everything like a tulle veil, and Judy had an idea if that would lift, she could catch a glimpse of spring. She remembered that these groves were the ones that Corot loved to paint and indeed the effect was very much that obtained by that great artist: a soft, lovely, misty atmosphere, with vistas through the trees, and an occasional glimpse of shining water. Judy made several tiny "postage stamp" sketches. "Taking notes from nature," she called it.

"I wish some nymphs would come dancing out now," she exclaimed. "Corot could call them up at any time, and why not I? 'I can call spirits from the vasty deep. And so can I, and so can any man; but will they come when you do call them thus?'" No nymphs came, but a wedding party appeared, the buxom bride dressed in white with a long veil and wreath of artificial orange blossoms, the groom in dress coat, gray trousers, and red cravat.

St. Cloud is a famous place for wedding parties of the petit bourgeois, and Judy felt herself to be very fortunate to witness this first one of the spring. The bride's dress looked rather chilly for February although it was such a warm, sunny day; but through the coarse lace yoke it was easy to see that the prudent young woman had on a sensible red flannel undershirt, and as she turned around and around in the mazes of the dance, with the ecstatic groom, an equally sensible gray woolen petticoat was in plain view. A hurdy-gurdy furnished the music and the greensward was their ballroom floor. Everyone danced, old and young, fat and lean.

Judy sat entranced and beat time with her eager feet. It was such a good-natured crowd. The groom's mother danced with the bride's father, and the bride's mother danced with the groom's father. Everyone had a partner and everyone seemed to feel it to be his or her duty as well as pleasure to dance as long as the hurdy-gurdy man could grind out a tune. The fat mother of the bride (at least Judy thought she must be her mother from a similarity of gray woolen petticoats) sank on the bench almost into the wet sketch with the Corot effect, and made speechless signals that she could proceed no farther. Her disconsolate partner was not nearly through with his breath or enthusiasm. He was as lean as his partner was fat and had not so much to carry as the poor mother of the bride. He took two or three steps alone, kicking out his long legs like a jumping-jack, and then he made a sudden resolve. Coming over to Judy, he took off his hat, pressed it to his starched shirt bosom, made a low bow and asked her to take pity on a poor old man who would have to dance alone, as dance he must, unless she would be his partner.

Impulsive Julia Kean found herself on a terrace at St. Cloud, spinning around like a dancing dervish. She, with her partner, danced down the whole wedding party; even the untiring street piano gave up, and their last spin was taken without music. The good-natured revelers applauded loudly; and some of them congratulated her on her powers of endurance; and the flattered bon pere declared that in his youth he had been able to dance down three charming partners but he had never had the pleasure of dancing with a young lady with the endurance of the English miss. With that, he heard a scornful "Bah" from his good wife, who berated him for his stupidity in not knowing l'Americaine from l'Anglaise.

"An English lady would be scornful of our kind, but an American would not be so particular, blockhead?" And the large grenadier of a woman, looking like one of the commune, gave his ear a playful tweak.

"My wife is jealous, mademoiselle. She was ever thus," said the lean dancer; and all the company roared with delight at his wit. Then the hurdy-gurdy started up a brisk polka. Judy was claimed by the grinning groom, and once more her endurance was put to the test. For the honor of her country, she was glad of her athletic training and record at Wellington. The bride was dancing with her new father-in-law, Judy's former partner, and it was recognized at the beginning that this was to be fight to the finish between the two couples.

"Breathe through your nose and save your wind," she whispered to her partner, who was puffing like a porpoise and showed signs of giving in. The others had one by one succumbed to fatigue and were now sitting in a more or less exhausted state on the various benches, noisily applauding the endurance of the spinning couples and betting on their favorites.

The groom was not the man his father was, but he had youth in his favor; and Judy had the advantage of the bride in lightness and training. The old father was beginning to look grim and haggard, and the bride very hot, with her red flannel shirt showing in splotches through her moist wedding finery. Judy's soul was filled with compassion. This was the bride's day and no honor should be wrested from her. If the husband scored one on her to-day she might never catch even, and he might hold the whip hand over her for the rest of their married life. As for the old man, it was hard enough to be old and have young ones usurp your place.

Judy made a sudden resolve to let her opponents win. She was the stronger member of their team and knew if it had not been for her endurance, the young man would have given in long ago; so assuming a shortness of breath that she did not really feel, she slid from her partner's flabby embrace and sank on a bench by the side of the bride's mother, just a second before the old man and his daughter-in-law flopped in an ignominious heap on the grass.

Being tired and victorious is a very different thing from being tired and beaten, so the fallen pair were soon restored. The groom picked up his lady-love and bestowed a burning kiss on her panting mouth, (just to let her know there was no hard feeling,) and Judy, remembering she had in her shirtwaist in lieu of a missing button, a tiny enamelled American flag, went forward and pinned it on the lapel of the old man's coat, and making a low curtsey, said:

"A tribute from America to France!"

There was much applause. Judy was urged by all present to stay with them all day, but she had decided to take a train at the nearby station for Versailles and get her luncheon there, so she bade them good-by. Gathering up her sketches and sliding them into the grooves in the back of her kit, she left the gay throng and soon got a local to Versailles.

On reaching Versailles, she did not go into the palace but wandered in the park, stopping to feed the carp in the pond with some gingerbread she had bought from a red-cheeked old woman. These carp are large and fat and lazy, lying at the bottom of the pool, moving their tails almost imperceptibly and opening and shutting their eyes with such a bored expression that Judy had to laugh. There is a rumor that they are the same carp that Marie Antoinette used to feed; certainly they are very old and very tired. Judy remembering this legend of the carp, began to think of poor Marie Antoinette and decided to go over to the Trianon. The poor misunderstood queen had always been one of Judy's favorites. She walked along under the trees in a brown study musing on the fortunes of that royal lady.

Suddenly she rubbed her eyes. Was she dreaming or was she crazy? The Trianon was before her and on the terrace was Marie Antoinette herself dressed as a shepherdess and leading a beautiful woolly lamb by a blue ribbon. Accompanying her was a pretty maid of honor dressed as a milk maid with a pail in her hand and a three-legged stool under her arm. The Count d'Artois, gay, handsome, debonair, met them and held them in conversation, then the grave, sedate Monsieur, as the elder of the two brothers of King Louis XVI was styled, approached, and with him was our own Benjamin Franklin, dressed in sober brown.

"Where am I? What can it mean? I am wide awake, and that is as certainly Benjamin Franklin as that I ate Quaker Oats every morning for breakfast at Wellington. But who is this madman?"

A furious person in shirt sleeves came tearing across the terrace. In plain American he berated Marie Antoinette, the grave Monsieur, d'Artois and even the dignified Franklin, and, strange to say, they took it very amiably. True, the spoiled Marie pouted a bit, but Franklin, with a vile Cockney accent, said:

"I saiy, wot's your 'urry? The negative hain't spoiled none. Hold 'Press the Button' hain't in his box."

"Moving picture actors," exclaimed Judy. "What a sell!"

She sat and watched them for some time, amused by the vociferous manager, who did not hesitate to swear at the royal Louis XVI, who came into view, forgetting to show the bunch of keys he was supposed to have fashioned with his own kingly hands.

The day had been full of adventure and in consequence a great success in Judy's eyes. She was tired of the humdrum of the last few weeks and her soul thirsted for excitement. "I do wish Molly had come. How she would have enjoyed the thrill of seeing Marie Antoinette in her own setting of the Trianon; but if I had been with anyone, I am sure the dear old dancing father would never have asked me to dance and I should have missed that delightful experience of being one of a wedding party at St. Cloud.

"Molly is a little hurt with me, anyhow, because I have been rather nasty about Frances Andrews. Frances is improved but I have not had the courage to tell Molly I am sorry, and knowing I am wrong makes me ruder than ever to Frances. As soon as I get back to town I am going to 'fess up. Frances is off on a trip with her grandmother, but when she comes back she will find me as polite as a basket of chips. Suppose Molly had turned her back on me when I got into all of those mix-ups with Adele Windsor! I don't know whether I would have had the backbone to go through with the senior year or not if it had not been for Molly. Frances is certainly much more of a lady than Adele Windsor and she has never done a thing to hurt me. I am going to try to be good. I know dear Mrs. Brown will be glad.

"I fancy that dear lady has had some worried moments lately. Elise has got over her dumps and is behaving like a rational human being, and I am the only one who has not reformed. I am going to get my lunch and go right back to Paris and tell them what a brute I am and how good I am going to be. Kent would hate me for worrying his mother, and he despises meanness in anyone."

Judy accordingly went to a little cafe near the station and ordered a good luncheon, which took almost all of the change she had in her pocket; but her ticket back to Paris, which was only a few sous, was all that she needed so she did not let her finances worry her. She still had a bag with a big slab of gingerbread in it. This she determined to leave at the cafe as it was a cumbersome parcel, but the garcon ran after her with it and she thought it a simpler matter just to take it along, not knowing that the time would come when she would look upon that gingerbread as her preserver. Inquiring at the station, she found there would not be a train back to Paris for about half an hour and so, after buying her ticket, she determined to take a walk in the Versailles grounds rather than spend the time waiting.

She chose a rather unfrequented path leading to the lake and walked slowly for Judy, who was ever quick in her movements; but the day was beginning to drag a little. She was, as she had told Elise, a gregarious animal, and a whole day of her own company was beginning to pall on her. She sat down on a bench. Along the path came a typical Boulevardier, a very much over-dressed dandy, with shiny boots and hat, lemon colored gloves, waxed black mustache and beard, and all the manner of a "would-be-masher." How Judy hated his expression as he ogled her! But she thought utter disregard of him would discourage him, so she assumed a very superior air and looked the other way. The Frenchman was so certain of his powers of fascination that he could not believe her manner to be anything but coy, so he sank on the bench by her side and began in the most insinuating way to praise her beauty and style, her hair, eyes and mouth. The girl was furious, but determined to say nothing, hoping by her scornful silence to drive off her admirer. He persisted, however, in his unwelcome attentions.

"Peut-etre madamoiselle does not schpick Francais. I can parler a leetle Eenglesh, mais pas beaucoup." Judy rose from her seat, overcome with indignation and a slight feeling of fear.

"I know he can't hurt me," thought the girl, "but he can make things very disagreeable and embarrassing for me."

The place seemed singularly lonesome and desolate. The bright sun had gone behind a cloud and a sharp breeze had sprung up. There was not a soul in sight and the station was at least a five minutes' walk distant. As she hurried off, the man picked up the bag, from the top of which gingerbread was protruding, and followed her.

"You have forgot your gouter, cherie. Do you like puddeen very much, my dear?"

Judy seized the bag of gingerbread that she seemed unable to lose, and a sudden remembrance of her talk with Elise came to her: "I am big enough, old enough and ugly enough to take care of myself." She thought if it was beauty that he was admiring she would cure him fast enough. She grabbed the slab of soggy brown cake from the bag and crammed about six inches of it into her mouth, the rest of it sticking out in a manner far from dainty. It had the desired effect. The fastidious Frenchman was completely disgusted. He immediately stopped his pursuit, exclaiming with a shrug: "Ah quelle betise!"

When Judy arrived at the little station a train was on the track, and without waiting to ask any question of the guard, since she had her ticket, she jumped into a second class coach from which someone had just alighted, slammed the door shut, sank back on the cushions and burst out crying. Crying was something in which Judy was not an adept and only a few tears came, but she felt better because of them. Then she settled herself for a pleasant, if short, trip to Paris. There was no one in the coach with her, for which she was very thankful.

"I'd hate for anyone, even a Frenchy, to see me blubber. Oh, how I should have liked to hit that man a good uppercut on the jaw! I shall crow over Molly. I did as much with a piece of gingerbread as she did with a tennis racket when she floored the burglar who was after Mildred Brown's wedding presents. This looks like a long trip to Paris. We should be getting there by this time. We are going mighty fast for a local. Oh, these beastly foreign trains where they hermetically seal you and you can't ask a question until you get to a station."

The train slowed up but did not stop. They passed a village and then another and another. The country was not familiar to Judy. She read "Rambouillet" on a passing station, and then the fact became clear to her that she was on the wrong train, going from Paris instead of towards it.

"Rambouillet is at least twenty miles from Paris. Judy Kean, you idiot, you idiot, you idiot!"

Judy was in truth on the Chartres express with six sous in her pocket, left after she bought her ticket to Paris; and the one piece of jewelry she might have converted into enough cash at least to telegraph her friends, was pinned on the coat of that crazy old dancing fiend.



CHAPTER XIV.

COALS OF FIRE.

A furious, vociferous guard bundled Judy out of the coach, when on arriving at Chartres the door was unlocked. She showed her ticket to Paris and endeavored to explain her mistake and situation, but he was almost inarticulate with rage at her for having "stolen a ride" as he expressed it; and now she could look out for herself. It was none of his affair. She went into the waiting room to find out when the next train to Paris was due. She debated whether or not she should tell the ticket agent of her trouble and see if he could pass her back to Paris, but his appearance was so forbidding and his eyes so fishy that she could hardly make up her mind even to ask the time for the train. She made out from a bulletin that it was not due until ten at night. That would land her in Paris at midnight. In the meantime, she must raise enough money to pay for her ticket and hire a taxi when she got to Paris. She must also manage to send a telegram to Molly.

"Julia Kean, you have always thought yourself pretty clever and this is the first time in all your life you have had really and truly to depend on yourself. Now let's see what you can do. First thing, I warn you not to sniffle and get sorry for yourself. If you do, the game is up. Suppose I can't raise the spondulicks in time for the ten train! Maybe I had better drop a postal to Molly with some of my six sous so she can get it first pop in the morning."

This she accordingly did. She found a tobacco shop where stamps and postal cards were sold and mailed a piteous appeal to Molly. She then found a telegraph office and wrote a telegram to be sent collect, but the hard-hearted operator refused to send it unless she prepaid it, and that she could not do. Her French deserted her whenever she thought of explaining her situation to anyone. She kept her eye open for Americans or even English, but not a sign of a foreigner did she see.

"I might have raised a little money on the American flag if I only had not been so smart-Alec and given it to that old man. I wonder what possessed me to eat such an expensive lunch at Versailles! I fancy it was my virtuous resolve to be nice to Frances Andrews that made me feel like treating myself. Thank goodness for the gingerbread! I won't starve, at least," and she hugged to her faint heart the remains of her preserver in time of peril and need.

Whom should she see approaching at this juncture but Frances Andrews and her grandmother? Judy's first feeling was one of delight; but she remembered how rude she had been to Frances and her resolve to be nice to her, and felt if she should be cordial now there could be but one interpretation for Frances to put on it, and that would be: she had an "axe to grind."

She bowed coldly and Frances returned the salutation, but she stopped her to ask if the Browns were in Chartres, too.

"No, I am here alone," said Judy with great nonchalance, "I bid you good afternoon," and she walked on, trying to keep her back from looking dejected.

"Grandmother, there is something the matter with Miss Kean and I feel as though I should find out if she needs help," said Frances, gazing after Judy until she turned the corner.

"Nonsense, my child. She is a bad-mannered piece. I have an idea I know why she is in Chartres. I believe it is a runaway match between her and that dark, middle-aged man we met at the Browns' tea. I caught a glimpse of him at the hotel at dejeuner to-day. Kinsella is his name. I could not quite place him but knew his face was familiar. You keep out of it. It is none of your business if persons choose to make fools of themselves," and the irate old woman clutched her granddaughter's arm and dragged her along.

"There is no use in trying to stop me, Grandmother. She is Molly Brown's friend, and while she is horrid to me, I am going to see if she needs my help for Molly's sake. You can get back to the hotel alone; if you can't, just call a cab," and Frances whisked off, leaving her aged relative fussing and fuming in the street.

With all of Judy's acting, Frances had seen that she was excited about something and she certainly had not the air of one coming to meet a lover. The day in the country had not been conducive to tidiness. Judy's hair was blown, her collar and shirtwaist were rumpled, her shoes dusty and the tears in the train had left a smudge on her cheek.

On turning the corner, Judy had discovered a pawnbroker's shop. "That is where people in books go when they are hard up, so that is where I am going," she thought.

It was kept by a benevolent looking old Jew, and benevolent he may have been, but Judy soon found out, as she expressed it, "He was not in business for his health."

She asked him what he would give her for her sketching kit. It was a very attractive and expensive little box, with a palette, a drawer full of color tubes, a partition with sliding panels for sketching and a tray of brushes. He sniffed with disgust and said, "Two francs."

Judy's heart sank. Forty cents for a box that cost at least ten dollars, counting the tubes of expensive colors! But she remembered that at a pawnbroker's you can redeem your belongings, so she decided to take the forty cents and send a telegram with it.

"There are some sketches in here that I should like to dispose of, too, but they are more valuable than the box," she added slyly, having an instinct that she must meet the old man on his own ground and cry up her wares. "Be careful! The paint is not quite dry on them."

She slid the panel with the Corot effect out of the back of the box and held it out to the ancient Shylock. He adjusted his horn spectacles on the end of his long nose and holding the sketch upside down, viewed it critically.

"Ah, very pretty, very pretty; two francs fifty for it; but I want to buy it, not to be redeemed. Any more?" and the dealer stretched out his eager hand.

Judy had two more which she got a franc apiece for, making in all six francs fifty, one dollar and thirty cents, enough to get her back to Paris traveling third class, since she already had her ticket from Versailles to Paris.

"I can't telegraph to Molly, though, I haven't enough money," she thought sorrowfully. "I hate to think how worried all of them will be. I should have told Frances about my predicament, but somehow I could not bring myself to ask a favor of her when I have always been so nasty to her."

The old pawnbroker could hardly wait for Judy to get out of his shop to begin his work on the sketches, converting them into perfectly good, authentic antiques. The Corot effect he put by a very hot fire, not quite hot enough to scorch it but hot enough to dry it very quickly and bake it, so it was covered with innumerable tiny cracks. Then he took some shellac, dissolved in alcohol and mixed with a little yellow ochre, and sprayed this all over the sketch. The result was remarkable. He then slipped it into a heavy gilt frame (still upside down), and displayed it in his window with the price mark: forty francs, without the frame.

Judy, feeling a little sad over her beloved sketching kit but jubilant over her financial success, started down the street and bumped right into Frances Andrews, who was eagerly searching for her. Judy made a sudden resolve to be nice to Frances from that time on. Frances spoke first:

"Miss Kean, I do not want to intrude on you, but I want you to feel that you can call on me to serve you in any way in my power. We are both of us Molly's friends and somehow I have a feeling that you need help of some sort."

"Frances—I am not going to call you Miss Andrews—I have been in a pickle but since I met you and your grandmother on the street I have come into a fortune of a dollar and thirty cents, so my troubles are about over. I am going to tell you all about it, but first I want to tell you that I am sorry I have been so rude and hateful and cold to you. I have been out in the country alone with my conscience all day and determined to be a nicer, sweeter girl and to apologize to you and to Molly; but I got on the train at Versailles going away from Paris instead of towards it, and landed here in Chartres with only six sous in my purse. When I met you on the street, I felt if I told you how sorry I was that I had been so studiedly mean, you would think I had a change of heart because I wanted something out of you; but now that I have earned enough to get back to Paris, you can't think that. You show yourself to be generous-hearted and kind by coming back to look me up after I was so unbearable to you and your grandmother. You have heaped coals of fire on my head."

As the girls talked they had come near the hotel where Frances and her grandmother were stopping.

"Well, Judy—I can't call you Miss Kean ever again—I think you are simply splendid and worthy to be Molly's friend and I do thank you for what you have said. Now you must promise to have dinner with grandmother and me at the hotel and you can come up to my room and rest." And be it said right here that Frances proved herself to be very much of a lady for not adding "and wash your face," for Judy's face was ludicrously dirty. "Grandmother said she thought she saw Mr. Kinsella at the hotel."

"What, Uncle Tom? How splendid!" exclaimed Judy, realizing that her troubles were at last over.

Mr. Kinsella was sitting on the piazza as they approached. He jumped to his feet and hurried down the steps. Explanations were soon over and the kind gentleman took affairs in his own hands. The plan was that all of them should take the ten o'clock train back to Paris. Mr. Kinsella went off immediately to telegraph Mrs. Brown of Judy's whereabouts.

The friends in Rue Brea had begun to be very uneasy about Judy. All they knew was what Elise could tell them of the girl's sudden determination to cut the art school and spend the morning in the country. Dark came and no Judy. Pierce Kinsella was called into consultation and could throw no light on the subject. Jo Williams consoled them greatly by saying:

"Don't worry about Judy Kean. She is the kind to light on her feet."

So she was, but worry they did. Elise reproached herself for not going with her. Pierce wished his uncle had come back as he had half hoped he would that afternoon. They were a very disconsolate crowd. It was seven o'clock and no clue to their beloved friend. A knock on the door: "Une depeche pour Madame Brune!"

"A telegram, a telegram!" Mrs. Brown's hands trembled so that Pierce had to open it for her.

"Why, it is from Uncle Tom! 'Miss Judy Kean safe in Chartres with me. Will arrive in Paris at midnight. T. Kinsella.' That's all."

"Well, of all things! What is Judy doing in Chartres?" exclaimed Molly and her mother in one breath.

Elise, her face crimson and eye flashing, burst out with: "Lighting on her feet, evidently, like the cat she is!" She covered her face with her hands and fled to her room.

Pierce looked mystified, the Browns both distressed, and Jo Williams snorted: "So that's what is the matter!"

In the meantime, Judy was having a splendid time. Knowing her friends in Rue Brea were no longer worrying about her, she gave herself up to enjoyment. Mr. Kinsella dined with the three ladies and Judy kept them in a gale with the description of her day of adventure. That young woman never did things by halves, and she was now engaged in fascinating Frances and her grandmother with as much spirit as she had formerly exercised in insulting them. The old lady was completely won over and Frances was too glad to have Molly's friends like her not to want to let bygones be bygones.

After dinner Mr. Kinsella redeemed the sketching kit, paying twenty per cent. interest for the loan. He saw the Corot in the window, where it looked very genuine in its old gilt frame. He offered the man forty francs for it, including the frame and the bargain was clinched in short order. They made very merry over this, and Judy descanted on the genius that could paint a picture that looked just as well upside down as rightside up.

"You see the bit of sky in the upper right corner makes very good water when turned over, and the water in the lower right corner makes a dandy sky."

Mr. Kinsella wrapped his prize up very carefully and said he intended to fool Pierce with his find of a genuine old master.



CHAPTER XV.

MR. KINSELLA'S INDIAN SUMMER.

The next morning Molly arranged a tray with a very inviting breakfast and took it to Elise's room. She found her still in bed, looking very woebegone and wistful.

"Oh, Molly! You should not spoil me so. I was getting up, at least thinking about getting up. I did not sleep very well at first and towards morning went off into such a deep slumber that I could not wake up," exclaimed the girl.

"I love to spoil people, besides you are always the energetic one and might for once be allowed a little morning snooze. I hope Judy and I did not keep you awake. She had so many adventures to tell me that it was two o'clock before we quieted down. She got into the wrong train at Versailles and was landed at Chartres with only six sous in her pocket. With part of this wealth she sent me this postal which has just come, fearing when she sent it that she might have to spend the night in Chartres. Only read it and see what a plight she was in," said Molly, handing the smudgy, pencilled postal to Elise.

"Dearest Molly: Here I am alone in Chartres, where as far as I can see there is not one friendly soul. Got on the wrong train at Versailles. Have five sous left after buying this postal but am not discouraged. Will try to sell my sketch box. Have no jewelry but have enough gingerbread to keep me from starving. Will sit up all night in station. Get Pierce to come for me in morning and bring my toothbrush. Will be home soon as I get some money. Judy."

"Guess whom she met first in Chartres: Frances Andrews and her grandmother! Then Mr. Kinsella. But before she did anything, she sold her sketches for enough to get her here third class on the train. She has made up with Frances and is now as enthusiastic about her as she used to be down on her. What a Judy she is, anyhow!

"Mr. Kinsella has been here twice this morning to ask if he could see you. He is afraid you are ill because you are sleeping so late. He told me to beg you not to go to the art school this morning but to take a holiday with him. He says this wonderful weather will have to break soon, as it is too unseasonable to last."

Molly's heart was filled with joy to see the effect her words had on her friend.

Elise finished the last crumb of croissant and drained the last drop of coffee. "It does seem best to take advantage of the good weather for a little outing, and, besides, the model we have is thoroughly uninteresting this week."

Elise bounced out of bed and Molly noticed that all trace of her bad night had left her face. Elise did not remember that only the day before she had thought the model too interesting to think of cutting work for the day!

Judy, peeping from her balcony where Molly had been spoiling her, too, with breakfast in bed, saw Mr. Kinsella and Elise start off on their jaunt.

"Molly, Molly!" she screamed. "I have made a most wonderful discovery: Elise and Mr. Kinsella are—are—well, seekin'! As they went off just now there was something in the way he looked at her and she looked at him that made me know it's so."

"Well, old mole, if you had not been as blind as a bat you would have seen that all winter. I was dead to tell you, so you would not make Elise so jealous of you, but mother would not let me. She thought it would not be fair to Elise. I knew if you knew you would be careful——" but Judy could not let Molly finish.

"Careful! Elise jealous of me! Uncle Tom and me! Oh, Molly, Molly, how absurd! Why, Mr. Kinsella has kept close to me to be ready to catch Pierce by the heels and pull him out, in case I should decide to gobble him up. I thought everybody knew that. The only reason he decided to go off on this trip was that I had a heart-to-heart talk with him and told him that he need not have any fear of me, that I was—was—but never mind what I told him. Anyhow, he is not afraid I'll make a meal of his beloved Pierce."

"How about Pierce?" asked Molly. "Is he, too, relieved at his assured safety?"

"That kid!" sniffed Judy. "He is not in the least in love with anything but his art. I fancy it would bore him to death if he thought Uncle Tom and I had had that talk. He likes me just as he would another boy."

Molly felt very happy that the clouds were all clearing away and her friends were behaving as friends should. She went off to her lecture hoping that Mr. Kinsella and Elise would quickly come to an understanding, and glad that she and her beloved Judy were once more on the old confidential terms.

Mr. Kinsella and Elise did come to an understanding and that understanding was perfectly satisfactory to both of them. They spent a wonderful day together, following the trail Judy had taken the day before, the morning at St. Cloud, with luncheon later on at Versailles. But they did not dance with the wedding parties they met, nor did they take the wrong train and go to Chartres instead of back to Paris.

It seemed so marvelous to Mr. Kinsella that this young, handsome, brilliant girl should find anything in him to care for, middle-aged, careworn man that he felt himself to be. On the other hand, Elise was equally astonished that a man of Mr. Kinsella's keen intelligence and experience could put up with a foolish, silly girl like herself. He endeavored to make her understand what a remarkable young woman she really was; and she tried equally hard to explain to him that his age was one of his chief attractions in her eyes, but that his virtues were so numerous it was hard to tell which ones made her love him so much.

At any rate, they came back to Paris with a much better opinion of themselves than they had taken away. Mr. Kinsella looked more than ever like a gray-haired Pierce. He said he had taken a dip in the fountain of eternal youth and never intended to get a day older than he was. Elise's eyes were sparkling and her cheeks all aglow. Her mother could not have complained that she lacked animation now or that her sallow complexion needed steaming.

When they returned to the studio in Rue Brea, they found Mrs. Brown, Molly and Judy trying not to look expectant, but, as Judy said, "ready to pop with curiosity." Elise ran to Mrs. Brown, and throwing her arms around her dear chaperone, hid her blushing face on her shoulder; while Mr. Kinsella, with boyish ingenuousness, said: "Well, what do you think? Elise and I have gone and done it!"

Enthusiastic congratulations followed and no one asked the question: "Done what?"

"We thought at first we would not tell for a few days, but keep our secret; but I have been persuading Elise that there is no use in waiting for wedding finery. She is beautiful enough in the clothes she has. And we have determined to go to Rome, where Mrs. Huntington now is, and be married immediately."

"That will be splendid," declared Mrs. Brown, "but we are sorry not to have it here, so we can all be present. I hate to give up my girl, but, of course, she must go straight to her mother."

"The only thing I don't like about it is for me, of all people, to be the one to interrupt Elise's studies at the art school, after all my talk about its being so important for her to get in a winter of hard, continuous work! I am afraid Mrs. Huntington will think I am not very consistent," laughed the happy fiance.

Molly was wondering, too, what Mrs. Huntington would think of the match. She hoped Mr. Kinsella had told Elise of his former attachment to her mother, and that Elise would be prepared for the more than probable taunts from that far from considerate lady. Mr. Kinsella was well aware of the disposition of his prospective mother-in-law, and had prepared Elise by divulging to her the fact that he had at one time been engaged to her mother; but he spared her the knowledge of her perfidy. Mrs. Huntington had already told her daughter of what she designated a conquest of Tom Kinsella, as she was ever inclined to boast of the number of scalps of former suitors and to wear them as ornaments.

Mrs. Huntington proved to be very much pleased with the alliance. She had tried to inform herself of Mr. Kinsella's affairs and had been delighted to learn that he was really rich. She was too keen an observer not to know that Mr. Kinsella's interest in Elise was not altogether because of her father, nor yet her artistic talent. She had predicted to herself from the first that Tom Kinsella was falling in love with her daughter, and felt that her wisest course was to take herself off and not interfere in any way.

Elise, accompanied by her adoring lover and Pierce (Pierce rather dazed by the rapidity of the proceedings), and chaperoned by a lady produced by the ever resourceful Marquis d'Ochte, made her journey to Rome. She found her mother in a most gracious humor and not even inclined to object to the marriage being hurried. Elise had rather feared she would obstruct their plans with a plea for wedding clothes, but her mother knew very well when it was wise to acquiesce. She gave in very gracefully and actually consented to Elise's being married in a dress that was not absolutely new nor of the latest cut.

She felt repaid for her amiability when Mr. Kinsella informed her that his wife intended, with his entire approval, to make over the bulk of her fortune to her mother on her twenty-fifth birthday.

"I have enough for all of us, but I know you will be happier if you have an independent fortune," said the happy bridegroom. "I am so grateful to you for letting me have Elise that I wish I could do something to show my appreciation."

"All I can say is that Elise is a very fortunate girl," said Mrs. Huntington; and there was a glitter in her eye that looked hard but it was really an unaccustomed tear trying to form itself.

And so Elise and Mr. Kinsella went off on their honeymoon. We will not even try to find out where they went, but be glad to know that they found each other more and more delightful and congenial as time passed. Mr. Kinsella gave the impression more than ever of being a prematurely gray young man as happiness smoothed out the few lines in his face. Elise lost altogether the hard, bitter expression that had occasionally marred her beauty, and quickly blossomed into the sweet, lovely woman that Mother Nature had planned her to be but that her own mother had blindly and selfishly tried to nip in the bud.



CHAPTER XVI.

APPLE BLOSSOM TIME IN NORMANDY.

After the excitement occasioned by Elise's and Mr. Kinsella's sudden decision to go to Rome and be married, our friends in the Rue Brea settled down to weeks of hard work, interspersed with many delightful jaunts to theaters, picture galleries and places of interest in and near Paris.

Molly got much from the lectures at the Sorbonne and to her delight found she could "think in French." They say that is the true test of whether you know a language.

Judy and Pierce worked diligently at their respective art schools and made great progress. Judy took no more trips to the country alone. She said she was big enough, old enough, and ugly enough to take care of herself, but she was afraid she did not have sense enough.

Mrs. Brown was enjoying herself quite as much as the young people. Her cousin, the marchioness, looked to it that she did not become lonesome, including her in all of her plans, taking her shopping, to clubs and lectures, to teas and receptions. The Marquis d'Ochte and his son Philippe were always delighted when the American cousins were able to dine with them, and they had many charming evenings in their company.

Philippe was a faithful courier, holding himself in readiness to conduct them any and everywhere. He confided to his mother that he could not decide which girl, Molly or Judy, he loved most.

"How happy could I be with either, were t'other dear charmer away," he sighed.

"Well, my opinion is you will fall between two stools if you can't decide which one you want," answered his mother a little sharply, considering that it was her beloved son she was addressing. "Of course Molly is my choice, but Judy is charming and lovely, and if you think you will be happier with her you must not consider me. For my part, I have my doubts about either one of them accepting you." But Sally Bolling d'Ochte was not quite her honest self when she made that last remark, as she did not see how any girl in her senses could refuse her beautiful young son. "Next week we will all be at Roche Craie and maybe you can fix your seesawing heart. Cousin Mildred and the girls are delighted at the thought of getting out to the country for awhile, and goodness knows, I'll be glad to quit the glitter of Paris for a quiet rest."

All of them were glad to have a change. The spring was well under way. Paris was never more beautiful, with flowers everywhere; but Mrs. Brown confessed to being a little tired of housekeeping; and Molly was looking a little fagged. The lecture rooms were hot and the dinners at the restaurants were not so delightful, now that the novelty had worn off. Spring fever was the real matter with them and a good lazy time at the chateau in Normandy was all that was necessary to put them on their feet again. Pierce Kinsella had been included in the invitation, as the marchioness slyly told her son, to take care of the girl that he, Philippe, would finally decide not to be the one of all others for him.

Roche Craie was very interesting to the Americans. It was a castle literally dug out of chalk cliffs. The so-called new chateau (only about two hundred years old), was built out in front, but the original old castle was little more than a cave or series of caves. The family used only the new part but kept it all in absolute repair. The architecture was pure Gothic, vaulted roofs and pointed arches. Where the roof and walls were dug in the chalk, there was an attempt at carving, carrying out the Gothic spirit. Huge chimneys had their openings in the fields overhead, and strange, indeed, did it seem to find one of these old chimneys in a wheat field with poppies and corn flowers growing in its crevices.

"A very convenient country for Santa Claus to ply his trade," said Molly to Philippe, who was showing her over the estate. "But what is this peaked thing with the cross on it?"

"Oh, that is the steeple to the chapel, which is dug very far back under the hill and is one of the most interesting things about Roche Craie. We did not take you there this morning when we were showing you over the old castle, as my mother has a kind of horror of it and hates to go in it. There is a ghost story connected with it, and you must know by this time how ma mere shuns the disagreeable things of this life," answered Philippe, looking at Molly with growing admiration. Some persons seem to belong out of doors and Molly was one of them. Her clear, fine complexion could stand the searchlight of the brightest sun, her hair was like burnished gold, her eyes, Philippe thought, like the bluets in the fields of Normandy.

"Cousin Molly, you remind me of the beautiful Jehane de Saint-Pol. Jehane of the Fair Girdle, the beloved of Richard Coeur de Lion, Richard Yea-and-Nay. Her eyes were gray green while yours are of the most wonderful blue, but there is something about your height and slenderness, your poise, the set of your head, the glory of your hair that suggests her. If Mother gives the fancy dress ball that she is threatening, please go as Jehane. I should like to go as Richard."

Molly blushed. She was always confused by compliments and personalities and hoped Philippe would stop pressing them on her. They had been pleasant companions in Paris and she had liked being with him very much. He was extremely agreeable and well-informed, handsome and charming, but Molly preferred him as a cousin to a courtier. She had an idea that the title of "Yea-and-Nay" was rather suitable for him, more suitable than "Lion Hearted."

"Please tell me the ghost story about the chapel," she begged, changing the subject adroitly.

"All right, if you won't tell mother I told it. She has a horror of it and is afraid the servants might get timid and refuse to stay here alone while we are in Paris, if the old tale were revived. My people, you perhaps know, were Huguenots. The archives show that it was from flocks of sheep belonging to Roche Craie that the wool was taken to send as a present to Queen Elizabeth of England, in return for her gift of nine pieces of cannon to the downtrodden Huguenots.

"The owner of Roche Craie was one Jean d'Ochte, a man of great intelligence and integrity. He had been a gay courtier at the court of Charles IX, but, there, had come under the influence of Admiral Coligny and had turned Huguenot. His wife, much younger than himself, the beautiful Elizabeth, a cousin of the Guises, followed her husband's example but saw no reason why she need give up all gaiety and pleasure because of her change of heart. But Jean took her away from the court and all of its dissipations and dangers and brought her here to the old chateau, where she was literally buried alive in stupidity and ennui.

"Jean fought with the Prince of Conde against the Guises, but when peace was finally declared in 1570, I think it was, he came back to Roche Craie and began to get his estate in order. Elizabeth besought him to take her back to court where she had been a great favorite, but he feared that the life of gaiety would undermine her not too strenuous piety, and refused.

"The Huguenots were seemingly in great favor with Catherine de Medicis, who was preparing for her great coup, the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. The d'Ochtes were not overlooked by the cruel queen, but a guard was sent to Roche Craie headed by a zealous Jesuit. Jean was murdered in his bed but Elizabeth escaped with her little son Henri to the chapel. She shut the great iron door and managed to place the heavy bar so that the soldiers could not open it, but the artful Jesuit came up into this field and made the soldiers tear down the steeple and then he lowered himself into the chapel with a rope. It was raining in torrents and as the steeple was removed the floor was deluged. Elizabeth hid her little son behind the altar and ran to the door hoping, it is supposed, to divert the attention of the furious priest from her son to herself. She shrieked, and the soldiers in the field above heard her agonizing cry, 'God help me, God help me!'

"There was a tremendous clap of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning. The Jesuit lunged forward with his dagger raised, but the lightning struck before he could, and he and the Lady Elizabeth met death at the same moment. Strange to say, the little Henri, hiding behind the altar, was unharmed. The bolt from heaven had come straight through the aperture made by tearing down this steeple, not touching the soldiers in the field above or the frightened child below. It is said that the bodies of the lady and the priest were both entirely consumed. The soldiers, taking it as a sign from heaven, spared the young heir of Roche Craie; otherwise, the race would have been exterminated on that dreadful day.

"And now for the ghost story after my long narrative, which I am afraid must have bored you sadly."

"Oh, don't think it! I have been thrilled by it. Please go on," exclaimed Molly.

"You are very kind to find it interesting. It always excites me, especially when I think how close little Henri was to being killed; and had he not been spared, I myself could never have come into existence."

"That would have been a calamity, indeed," laughed Molly.

"Would it have made any difference to you, Cousin Molly? I should like to think it would have made some difference to you," and Philippe looked rather more ardent than Molly liked to see him.

"Of course it would make loads of difference to all of us, Philippe. But the ghost story, the ghost story! I believe you are afraid to tell it to me."

"Well, the legend runs that on a stormy night if the floor of the chapel, which is paved with soapstone, gets wet, the footprints of the Lady Elizabeth, where she ran across the deluged floor, are plainly visible. She was just out of her bed and her feet were bare. They say it shows she had a very small foot with a high arch, the print of the heel, a space where the instep arches over, and then the ball of the foot and the tiny toes. Peasants passing in the field above have heard (provided the night is stormy enough), the agonizing cry, 'God help me, God help me!' seeming to come from the old steeple."

"How wonderful! But tell me, have you never seen the footprints yourself?"

"Mother has such a horror of the story and the talk about ghosts that I have spared her feelings and never put the legend to the test. I used to think I'd go some stormy night alone to the chapel, but when the stormy nights come I am too sleepy or too indolent or afraid of disturbing mother or something else turns up, and I never have done it."

The young heir of the d'Ochtes led his cousin to a higher point of the hill overlooking the chateau where he could show her the whole estate of Roche Craie. It was a beautiful sight. The gentle hills sloped to the Seine with here and there a sharp cleft showing a cliff of chalk, standing out very white against the green of the spring grass.

Some of the peasants had their homes in the cliffs, and Philippe assured Molly that they were very comfortable, dry houses. It was a vast estate in the highest state of cultivation. The village was clean and prosperous, consisting of about twenty houses besides the ones dug in the cliffs, two shops and an inn. Across the river was a forest of great trees that made the beeches at Chatsworth seem saplings.

"Is the land across the river yours, too?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed, that is the best part of Roche Craie. My studies at Nancy have taught me what to do to keep our forest, and I am at work now preserving those beautiful old trees. You do like it here, don't you, Cousin Molly? It does not seem small and mean to you after Chatsworth, does it?"

"Small and mean! It is beautiful, the most beautiful place I ever saw! You must not get an idea that Chatsworth is magnificent like this."

As Molly looked out across the hills of this splendid French estate she thought of her home in Kentucky, of the beech woods and the orchard as it was before the old tree they called their castle blew down; and then she began to wonder what the orchard looked like now with Professor Green's bungalow occupying the site of the old castle. There had been no letter for her from Wellington, the week before she left Paris for Normandy, and the girl had secretly hoped it meant perhaps that her friend was on the eve of his departure from America. She longed for some definite news both of Professor Green and her brother Kent.

"What are you thinking about, Cousin Molly?"

"Apple trees," answered Molly, coming back to earth.

"Oh, are you especially fond of apple trees? I must show you the orchard over this hill. It is in bloom and a very beautiful sight. Not much to look at unless it is in bloom, however," and Philippe conducted Molly over the brow of another hill where a very orderly apple orchard was in full bloom.

Philippe broke off a spray for her. "I must not let the steward see me do such a thing. The old man would count the blossoms and tell me I had spoiled so many apples."

Molly buried her face in the cluster of flowers and her thoughts flew back again to the trees at Chatsworth, not the orderly, trimmed ones like these of Normandy, but old and gnarled and twisted. The dream she had had on the steamer came back to her and again she felt Edwin Green leaning over her, looking at her with his kind brown eyes and saying: "Molly, this is your orchard home."

She was awakened from her revery by Philippe, who seized her hand, apple blossoms and all, and addressed her in the most impassioned tones: "Cousin Molly! Molly, dearest Molly! I have longed for this moment as I want to tell you how much I am gratified that you like Roche Craie. The place means so much to my mother and father and to me that we are happy when any one likes it, but for you of all persons to be pleased with it, adds to its value in our eyes. We all of us want you to make your home here. I know it would be more convenable for me to address your mother first, but since I am half American you will pardon me if I let that half speak to you, and later on the French half can arrange with your charming mother."

Molly was greatly mystified. At first she had feared that Philippe was going to make love to her when he had seized her hand with so much ardor; but it turned out that he was merely offering Roche Craie as a home to her mother and herself in the name of the Marquis and Marquise d'Ochte. She was greatly relieved that he was not going to be sentimental and answered him gratefully:

"You are very kind, Philippe, but mother and I have our home in Kentucky, and while we are enjoying our stay in France, every moment of it, we have every intention of returning to our own country in the course of time. I cannot answer for mother, but I am almost sure she will take the same stand I do."

"But should she not, would you abide by her decision, like a dutiful daughter?" exclaimed Philippe eagerly. "My own mother has been very happy in her adopted country and you are strangely like her in some ways."

"Yes, but Cousin Sally had every reason for remaining in France. She had her Jean——"

"Ah," interrupted Philippe, "would not you have your Philippe? Could I not be as much to you as my father has been to my mother?"

At last Molly understood. Her cousin was proposing to her. Molly was by nature so kind that her first feeling was one of pity for the young man as she hated to hurt his feelings; but she was sure that he did not love her in the least and that her refusal of him would astonish him but not give him a single heartache.

"Philippe," she answered, looking him straight in the eye without sign of coquetry or softness, "you know very well you could never be to me what your father is to your mother; and one of the biggest reasons is that I am not to you what your mother is to your father and never could be. You are not in love with me nor am I in love with you. I have liked you a whole lot and I believe you like me, but there must be more than mere liking to make it right to marry. I don't see how you could have lived always in the house with your mother and father, who are as much sweethearts now as when they first married, and not understand something about real love."

Philippe's feelings ran the gamut from astonishment and embarrassment to humility. He was not by nature a conceited fellow, but so many mothers and fathers of so many demoiselles had approached him with a view to an alliance for those daughters, that it had never really entered his head that, when the time came for him to make a decision in choice of a wife, he would be refused. He did like Molly very much, liked and admired her, found her agreeable and interesting, lovely to behold and such a lady, and at the same time so perfectly acceptable to his beloved mother and father. She was in fact so entirely suitable to become the future Marquise d'Ochte. Had his mother not made a wonderful success as a marchioness? Were she and Molly not of the same blood and traditions? True, he did not have for Molly the grand passion that novelists write of; but a sincere liking might last longer than the so-called grand passion.

Molly's words brought him upstanding. After all, he did not understand anything about real love, not as much as this chit of an American girl. He bowed his head for a moment in deep dejection, and then, shrugging his shoulders, he smiled into her stern eyes a little wistfully.

"I thank you, Cousin Molly, for your salutary admonishment. You are right; I do not know what real love means. I have an idea I could learn, though, with as good a teacher as I am sure you would be. I value your friendship and liking so much that I am going to ask you to forget that I have made this stupid proposal and let us continue the good comrades we have been."

"Oh, Philippe, I have already forgotten it! You must not think I was severe, but I do like you so much I hated for you to demean yourself."

"There is one thing I should like to ask you, Cousin Molly: how do you happen to know so much about true love?" And the young man, his equanimity entirely restored, looked teasingly at his cousin. "Is it entirely theoretical?"



CHAPTER XVII.

THE GHOST IN THE CHAPEL.

Philippe told his mother of the outcome of his proposal to Molly and when he repeated her remark about her and her Jean, the good lady shed tears of remorse that she had encouraged Philippe to want to marry a girl that she well knew her son did not really and truly love. Molly's answer made her realize even more than before the fine, true heart of her little Kentucky cousin, and her regret was very great that Molly was not to become the bride of her son.

"Ah, my boy, how stupid we have been! Here you and I have gone serenely on all winter, confident that either one of these lovely girls, Judy or Molly, was ready to drop like a ripe plum if you but touched the tree. We never once thought of the damage we might do one of the girls. Suppose you had engaged the affections of both of them, while you were deciding which one you wanted the more? Thank goodness, there are no hearts broken, not even yours. Tell me, dear: will you try for Judy now?"

"As our American friends say: 'Not on your life,'" laughed Philippe. "Molly has taught me a lesson. I am not in love with Miss Julia Kean even as much as with my cousin, and with the example of happiness ever before my eyes that you and my father present, I shall be very careful and pick out for my wife one whom I truly love and who, I hope, truly loves me. I can't quite see how I escaped falling deeply in love with Cousin Molly. She is so sweet and so everything that I admire. Do you know, ma mere, I have an idea that the Providence that looks after children and fools has protected me from a calamity which falling in love with Molly would have been? I have a feeling that my little cousin is already in love with someone else, and that there never has been a chance for me."

"Well, what a wise young man a refusal has made of you!" teased his mother. "Two or three more experiences of the sort will make a real savant of you. What makes you have this feeling, this pricking in your thumbs?"

"Something about the way she spoke of love. Her eyes are certainly the mirrors of her soul, and there was a look in them that made me feel she knew what she was talking about."

"Well, we never can tell. I am glad my thoughtlessness and stupidity have not done any damage," said the marchioness, looking fondly at her handsome son and thinking in her heart that both girls must be either blind or already very much in love not to be crazy about her Adonis.

That night, the soft white clouds that had been the despair of Judy and Pierce all day as they had vainly tried to put them on canvas, came together and managed to make a very large black cloud which finally filled the whole heavens; and a fierce thunder storm ensued.

Molly and Judy lay awake talking. Judy had the hardihood to accuse Molly of having turned down a chance to become the future Marquise d'Ochte.

"How on earth do you know, Judy? I would never think of telling such a thing even to you, my very best friend. It seems a very unfair advantage to take of a man, to let people know he has been refused. But you are the greatest guesser in the world."

"It didn't take much guessing to come to this conclusion. Who's a mole now, you old bat? I have known for some time that the handsome Philippe has had us both under consideration and it was a toss up which one would be honored. I was betting on you but hoping I would draw the prize," laughed Judy.

"Oh, Judy!" exclaimed Molly, shocked a little and wondering if, after all, Judy was just flirting with her brother Kent.

"Oh, I didn't want to accept him, but I just wanted to jar him a little! I like him very much and am crazy about his mother and father, but his complacency in regard to you and me has rather—rather—well, 'got my goat.' I don't know how else to put it. It has never entered his aristocratic French mind that we would think of refusing him. He isn't exactly conceited, in fact, I don't think he is at all conceited; but things have come his way too much all his life.

"But my, wouldn't it be great to be mistress of this wonderful place? The chateau is simply perfect and the country around just screaming to be painted. Pierce and I found so many motifs this morning that I know I could live here a hundred years and not paint half of them. I am afraid if Philippe had chosen 'Apple Blossom Time in Normandy' to make love to me; and had first taken me on a high hill and shown me all of his wonderful estates, that I should have been tempted to make a marriage de convenance, in spite of my desire to jar your handsome cousin. Pierce and I were on the opposite hill trying to paint some cloud effects when Philippe broke off a spray of apple blossoms and gave it to you. I couldn't help seeing what ensued; but I got in front of Pierce, so he missed the tableau; and he was so taken up with the clouds that he did not know he was missing anything."

Molly was thankful for the darkness that hid her hot face. But the storm was becoming so severe that Judy dropped the subject and got up to look out of the window for more cloud effects.

"Oh, Judy, I forgot to tell you that Philippe told me the ghost story connected with the old chateau! Come on back to bed and I'll tell it to you," said Molly.

Judy accordingly abandoned the study of the storm clouds and eagerly drank in every word Molly had to tell her of the beautiful Elizabeth and the terrible night of Saint Bartholomew.

"Oh, Molly, delicious thrills are running up and down my backbone? And you say Philippe has never been to the chapel on a stormy night to test the truth of the story? Lived here all his life and never had the get-up-and-get to go find out? That is the keynote of his character. He lacks imagination, and that is one big reason both of us have had for not succumbing to his charms. There is no telling what havoc he might have played with our hearts if he had had more imagination."

Then both girls lay still listening to the storm, each one thinking of another good reason she had for not falling in love with poor Philippe, even if he had been gifted with the imagination of a Byron.

"Oh, what a clap of thunder!" Judy clutched Molly and held her close. "I have always been more afraid of thunder than lightning. Molly, I wonder if Elizabeth's footprints wouldn't be visible on such a night? Let's go see. I can't sleep for thinking of her. We can easily get there without being seen or heard."

Wrapped in their kimonos and armed with Judy's electric searchlight and a big pitcher of water, as Philippe had said the floor must be wet to bring out the footprints, the girls made their way to the haunted chapel. They groped along narrow passages connecting the new chateau with the old. There was an entrance to the chapel through the old chateau made since the fatal night of Saint Bartholomew, but the girls were not aware of it. They opened a narrow door on the court and ran through the pouring rain to the great door of the chapel. It was not locked but very heavy and it took their combined strength to push it open. The few moments that it took to accomplish this were enough for them to become wet to the skin.

How dark and grewsome the chapel was! The storm was raging. Looking up through the cracks in the little steeple, they could see flash after flash of continuous white lightning. They might have spared themselves the trouble of bringing the pitcher of water as the floor was already very wet from the leaks in the steeple. Molly clutched Judy, trying to keep from screaming, as something brushed her cheek.

"Something touched me! There it is again!" But the searchlight proved it to be nothing more than a great thick rope hanging from the steeple.

"Could it be the one the Jesuit came down?" gasped Judy.

"Hardly," whispered Molly. "Ropes don't last four hundred years. It must be the bell rope."

"Of course," exclaimed Judy, reassured. "What a stupid I am! But come on, we must examine the floor. Let's see: she started at the altar where she had concealed the boy, and then ran towards the door. The footprints should be along here where we are standing. Not enough wetness here." Judy turned over the pitcher and Molly had to jump to keep her feet out of the water. The girls stooped and began examining every inch of the flagging.

"Judy, Judy, look!" cried Molly. "This is a footprint. It stays dry while all the floor is wet. Look, the little toes and then a space for the high arch and then the slender little heel! Here is another and another."

Tense with excitement the girls stood up and faced each other. There was an extra loud crash of thunder and a vivid flash of lightning. There emerged from behind the altar a tall figure in a priest's black cowl, carrying a lantern.

If there had been any peasants in the field passing the old steeple on this night of terrible storm, they would have been able to bear witness to the truth of the ghost story of the beautiful Elizabeth. There was certainly a shriek of "God help me! God help me!" but it came from the over-wrought Judy. Molly reasoned quickly that ghosts of Jesuits would not carry kerosene lanterns; and, besides, that ghosts do not as a rule appear to two persons at the same time.

The man put down his lantern on the altar and threw back his hood, disclosing the features of Philippe. His lantern had little effect on the blackness of the chapel and Molly had turned off their searchlight at sight of the apparition. Philippe peered into the darkness and spoke with a slight agitation:

"Is some one in the chapel? I thought I heard a scream, but the thunder was so loud I am not sure."

Judy sat down in the puddle made by the overturned pitcher and gave a dry sob, while Molly turned on the searchlight and called out:

"Nobody but two penitents, Brother Philippe."

"Well, you gave me quite a turn! I thought you were at least the poor murdered Elizabeth," and Philippe strode forward and assisted the trembling Judy to her feet. "I couldn't sleep and I thought I would come and test the truth of the old tale about the footprints. I felt somehow that I had lacked in imagination never to have done it before. Certainly you girls have no lack of it."

"I wish I did lack a little of the abundance I possess," shuddered Judy. "I was as certain a moment ago that you were the murderous Jesuit as I am now that you are Philippe d'Ochte. But tell me: how did you get behind the altar without our seeing you; and where did you get that cloak? It is about the most picturesque thing I ever saw."

"There is an entrance to the old chateau from behind the altar; and as for my cloak it is an ordinary gens d'arme cape. It does look rather monkish. If you admire it, I will present it to you. It will make good studio property."

The young people had to examine the footprints more carefully, and of course Philippe discovered that they were really raised places in the rock, and for that reason showed when the floor was wet.

He conducted the girls back to the main building through the narrow corridor that had entrance to the chapel through a small door behind the altar.

"If you only had known of this way, you would have been spared a wetting. Both of you are drenched. There is a fire in the library. If you will come there you can dry off. I am so afraid you will catch cold," said Philippe. "I think you girls are a spunky pair. I have never known a French girl who would have dared to go on the adventure you have to-night."

"Well, I fancy we would not have dared to go had we really believed in ghosts. As for drying ourselves by the library fire I think we had much better go off to bed. We might rouse the household. Cousin Sally is not to know of our escapade, as you say she has a dread of this old story getting started up again," said Molly.

The two bade their young host good-night and crept quietly to their room.

"My, don't dry clothes and warm covers feel good!" exclaimed Judy, snuggling down in the lavender-scented linen sheets. "Molly, I was never more frightened in my life than when that figure appeared behind the altar! My not really believing in ghosts did not help me one bit. Did you ever see anything in the way of a mere man quite so excruciatingly handsome as Philippe when he threw back his cowl and stood bareheaded peering into the darkness?"

"Oh, Judy, what a girl you are! How could you take note of all that when you were in a little heap on the floor sobbing out your soul?"

"I peeped through my fingers. People don't sob with their eyes. What a picture he would make!" and Judy began to draw in the air. "Golden hair and beard, with the black peaked hood half off and that expression of looking into the future that he had when he spoke to ask who was there! 'The Young Prophet,' must be the title. He seems to have a latent imagination, after all. I believe I have done him an injustice. An awful pity one of us can't marry him! Somehow we ought to keep him in the family. I bet you I know why your Cousin Sally hates to have the ghost talked about! I just know she has made a trip to the chapel in a spirit of adventure and got good and scared."