where two long rays of light from the window lit up every pebble and blade of grass, else-` where shadows were heaping, and the great cliff rose black purple before the sky. Catherine looking out saw some one coming through the gloom and stop at the gate and open it, and she recognized Reine by the quick movement.

"Knave of trumps," said Madame Mérard, triumphantly, as Madame Fontaine stepped gently out of the room, and went out to meet her friend. The two women stood in the doorway talking in low tones, which seemed to suit the silence; they could scarcely see each other's face, only Reine's white flaps streamed in the shadow; her voice shook a little as she spoke, and her hand was trembling in Catherine's soft warm fingers. Poor Reine, she had come to Catherine in a sad and troubled mood. She had received a sad hurried word from Dick to tell her all was over at last that there was confusion and stir now in the house of which he was virtually the master. Mr. Baxter had untied his red tapes, and read the will by which it was left to him. Dick was not to take actual possession for a year, during which the income was to be applied to keeping up the estate as usual. and to succession expenses. Only a small sum was apportioned to Dick himself until he came into the property. And for the present their engagement was still to be secret. And poor Reine, in her perplexity, had written back to offer to set him free.

ble partie. That horrible greasy pack of cards which was brought out every afternoon inspired poor Catherine with a morbid feeling of disgust that would have been absurd if she had not struggled so hard against it. When they all noisily insisted that she must join them, she would put down her book in silence and come to the table. No one noticed the weary look in her dark eyes, or would have understood it any more than did the knaves of clubs and spades, with the thumb marks across their legs, staring at her with their goggle eyes. Sometimes thinking of other things as the hours went on, she would forget and hold the cards so loosely that old Mérard, in his odd little piping voice, would cry out, "Take care! take care! What are you about?" and then Catherine would start and blush, and try to be more careful. Little Madame Fontaine's lamp, although she was somewhat dazzled by the light as she tried with a trembling, unaccustomed hand to trim the wiek, was burning more brightly now perhaps than it had ever done in all her life before; and yet she might have told you, (only that she found it difficult to speak), she had never thought so hardly of herself, never felt so ashamed, so sorry for all that she had done amiss. Fontaine must have sometimes had a dim suspicion that his wife was tired, as she drooped over the cards, for he would send her to the piano, while he dealt the cards to the elders and to himself, and the dummy that replaced her, to the sound of Catherine's music. The shabby kings" He ought to marry a great lady now,' and queens performing their nightly dance, circled round and round and in and out in the country-dance which mortals call whist, and kept unconscious time to the measure. The lamp would spread its green light, the blue flames of the wood fire would sparkle and crackle, old Mérard, in his velvet cap with the long hanging tassel, would unconsciously whistle a little accompaniment to the music as he pondered over his trumps, and Fontaine would beat time with his foot under the table; as for Madame Mérard, erect and preoccupied, she avoided as much as possible listening to the sounds which distracted her, for the flick of her cards falling upon the table was the music she loved best to hear.

she said. It was not fitting that she should be his wife. His prospect of succession gave her no pleasure; on the contrary it seemed to put them more widely asunder. A great house! she liked her brick-floored room better than any splendid apartment in a palace. Her cotton curtains and quilt with the stamped blue pictures from the life of Joan of Arc were more familiar to her than down and damask and quilting. Better than any carpeted flight to her was the old stone staircase leading to her bedroom, built without shelter against the outside wall of the house; she went up to bed in the rain, sometimes with the roar of the sea booming on the wind from a distance; sometimes she sat down on the steps on still nights when the One night Madame Fontaine suddenly stars were shining over the horizon, and ceased playing, and went and looked out thought of Richard Butler, and looked and through the unshuttered window. Handfuls wondered and felt at peace. But in the of stars were scattered in the sky. There daylight she was unquiet and restless, she was the sound of the distant sea washing came and went, and worked harder than against the bastions of the terrace. The ever before. Petitpére remonstrated with her moon had not yet risen; the narrow garden and told her she could afford to spare herpaths glimmered in the darkness; except self. He did not know how things were

going, but he had a shrewd suspicion. Reine | sometimes although at the moment she scarcesaid no, she could not spare herself, she ly heeded it." " Reine, you are not angry?" must go on working for the present. And she said. now she came half-crying to Catherine. "I hate the secrecy," she said: "it is not fair upon me. If I were one of them they would not treat me so."

1

"Monsieur was not at home," Justine said. "Madame Fontaine was on the terWould he like to see Madame Mé

race.

rard?"

Dick hastily replied that he would try and find Madame Fontaine, and he strode off in the direction Justine indicated.

were twirling cheerfully upon the tall iron | little heed, though he returned suitable anspikes, when Dick came walking up to the swers. He was sorry to miss Fontaine, and châtlet one February morning about twelve yet he was glad to find her alone, he said. o'clock. He rang the bell. Madame Mé- Something had vexed him, and, like Reine, rard saw him through the dining-room win he had come to Catherine for sympathy and dow, and called to Justine to let the advice. Only before he began upon his gentleman in. own concerns he looked at her. Now that the flush had faded he saw that Madame Fontaine was a little thin and worn; her eyes were bright as ever, but there was a touching tired look under the dropping eyelids which made him fear all was not well. And yet her manner was very sweet, cordial, and placid, like that of a happy woman. She seemed unaffectedly glad to see him, as indeed she was; and it was with an innocent womanly triumph that she felt she could welcome him in her own home for the first time. The time had come, she told herself, when she could hold out her hand and be of help to him, and show him how truly and sincerely she was his friend. It was all she had ever dared to hope for, and the time had come at last. Perhaps if she had been less humble, less single-minded and inexperienced in the ways of the world, she might have been more conscious, more careful, more afraid; but the fresh crisp winter sun was illuminating her world; everything seemed to speak to her of hope, promise, courage, and the dead thorn had ceased to wound.

"You cannot lose your way," she said, as she went back to her kitchen, well pleased to escape so easily, and the dining-room door opened to invite the gentleman in just as he had disappeared round the corner of the house.

As Dick went walking down the little slopes which led from terrace to terrace, he took in at a glance the look of Catherine's life and the sound of it, the many-voiced sea with its flashing lights, the distant village on the jutting promontory, Petitport close at hand with its cheerful sounds, its market-place and echoes, the hammer of the forge, the dogs barking on the cliff, the distant crow of cocks. The sun was shining in his eyes, so that it was Toto who saw Dick first and came running up hastily from the cabane, calling to his stepmother. Then Catherine appeared with a glow upon her cheeks, for the morning air was fresh and delightful.

"I was told to come here to find you," Dick said, after the first few words. Madame Fontaine, I want you to tell me about Reine. I cannot understand it. I have just come from the farm; they tell me she is gone into a convent, she will not be at home for a week. What a folly is this?"

The two met very quietly. A gentleman in mourning took off his hat, a lady in a scarlet hood came up and held out her hand. As she did so Catherine thought she was Catherine saw he was vexed, and she holding out her hand across a great gulf. tried to describe to him the state of depresHeaven had been merciful to her, and she sion and anxiety in which Reine had come was safe, standing on the other side. Now to her to tell her of her resolution. that she saw him again she knew that she" She had no idea you were coming," said was safe. This was the moment she had Madame Fontaine. secretly dreaded and trembled to contemplate, and it was not very terrible after all. "I am sorry my husband is out," said Catherine, after she had asked him when he had come, and heard that the Beamishes had crossed with him the day before and wanted to see her again. We all talk a sort of algebra now and then, as Catherine talked just now. The history of the past, the faith of the future, the pain, the hope, the efforts of her poor little life, its tremulous unknown quantities, were all expressed in these few common platitudes "How do you do? I am glad to see you. My husband is not at home."

To all of which, indeed, Dick paid but

“But what else could she expect?" said Dick. "She writes a miserable letter, poor dear. She proposes to give me up; she says I am cruel, and leave her here alone to bear all sorts of injurious suspicion and insult. Of course she must have known that this would bring me, and when I come I find her gone - vanished in the absurd way. Indeed, I wrote and told her to expect me; but I see the letter unopened at the farm." Dick whose faults were those of over-easiness, was now vexed and almost unreasonable For one thing, he was angry with Reine for being unhappy. "Why will she always doubt and torture herself in this needless way? Why should she

mind the gossip of a few idiots? I want to see her, and hear from her that she does not mean all she says about throwing me over."

"Oh, indeed," said Madame Fontaine, "she does not mean it."

"It is a very little time to wait, and I could not help promising. My good old uncle has done everything for us," Butler went on; "she ought not to have been so over-sensitive when she knew it would all be set right."

mind. Perhaps it was an English custom for young women to invite strange gentlemen to dinner in their husband's absence. Oh, she required no explanation. She could see quite plainly for herself, only she confessed that it was what she herself would not have done; not now at her present age. In her time a wife could devote herself to the domestic hearth. Her husband's approbation was all that she desired. Now it seemed that excitement, dissipation, admiration, were indispensable. "Dinners in town," said the old lady, darkly, “music at home, expeditions, literature, correspondence, visits! . . ."

"Dear Madame Mérard," said Catherine, "I only go to Tracy."

Catherine wished he could have seen. the girl; one look of her proud sweet eyes would have been more to the purpose than all her own gentle expostulations. They were walking slowly towards the house all this time when at a turn of the path, and "Hon! and is not that enough?" said coming from behind a bush, they met a short Madame Mérard, angrily stirring something stumpy figure in a sun-bonnet. "I have in a saucepan (it was the tisane the devoted not even told my husband your secret,' ,"wife liked to administer to poor Monsieur Catherine was saying, and she stopped Mérard, who secretly loathed the decoction. short, although she remembered afterwards He was now sitting in the office to avoid the that Madame Mérard spoke no English. fumes). "Tracy that abode of vanity But Madame Mérard's little eyes could and frivolity! Where else would you go? see, penetrate, transfix. Oh, it was not. easy to blind Madame Mérard; she could see Catherine looking and talking earnestly to this unknown young man; she could see his expression as he replied to her appeal. Secretsurely Madame Fontaine had said secret. Oh! it was horrible. Madame Mérard knew enough English for that. Secret! could she have heard aright?

"I do not know this gentleman," said Madame Mérard, standing in the middle of the pathway on her two feet, and staring blankly.

"Let me present Mr. Butler," said Catherine gently, in French.

"Monsieur Fontaine is not at home," said Madame Mérard, still scowling and sniffing the sea breeze.

"Mr. Butler is coming again to-morrow to see him," said Catherine.

"Indeed," said the old lady.

If Madame Mérard could have had her way Dick would never have entered the châlet again. What infatuation was it that prompted Madame Fontaine to ask him to dinner- to invite him to press refreshment on him? Even old Mérard came out with some proposition. Eau sucrée ? One would think it flowed ready made from the sea. Happily she herself was there. No doubt her presence would prevent this young man from coming as often as he would otherwise have done. There was a secret flattery in this reflection.

But Dick was hardly out of the house when Madame Mérard began to speak her

never

Tracy, in truth, was the secret mainspring of all Madame Mérard's indignation and jealousy. The château had never called upon the châlet in Léonie's reign once. Madame Mérard herself was not invited, even now. But now since the family had returned notes and messages were for ever coming for this Englishwoman. Madame de Tracy had caught cold. Catherine must go down to see her in her bedroom. Madame de Tracy had bought a new bonnet, Catherine must give her opinion. Madame de Tracy could not disagree with any member of her household that Madame Fontaine was not sent for to listen to the story. And in truth, Catherine was so discreet, so silent and sympathetic, that she seemed created to play the rôle of confidante. The countess really loved the little woman. Poor Catherine! she sometimes thought that she would be glad to go no more to a place where she was so much made of, and so kindly treated. It seemed hard to come home and to compare the two. One place full of welcoming words of kindness and liberality; the other, narrow, chill, confined. And yet, here she had met with truest kindness, - thought the little creature-remembering all Fontaine's devotion and patient kindness. She was thinking of this now as she met the onslaught of the old lady, who went on with her attack, bombs flying, shells exploding, cannon going off, while the horrible steam of the saucepan seemed to choke and sicken the poor little enemy.

Yes," cried the furious old lady. "If