Punctually at the appointed hour Mr. Harland stood before the dark little house in the Rue St. Joseph; but he had hardly touched the bell before the door opened, and Annette confronted him.

"I am quite ready," she said, hurriedly: "I have been looking out for you for some time, because I did not wish to keep you waiting. Is it your pleasure to come in and wait a little, monsieur, or shall we take our walk now?"

"Well, it is a pity to waste even a quarter of an hour in-doors this lovely evening," returned Mr. Harland, in his quick, cheery manner; "so, if you are ready, Miss Ramsay, we will begin our stroll at once."

He looked at her rather keenly as he spoke, at the slim, girlish figure in the black dress. The hat shaded her face; but even at the first glance he could see she was very pale, and that her eyes were swollen, as though she had been crying. How young and pathetic she looked, standing there in the afternoon light, with the little silk kerchief knotted loosely round her shapely throat, and a tiny rosebud fastened in her dress! He was just a little silent as they turned down the street, for he feared to question her too closely; and he was much relieved when Annette began to talk to him in her frank, naÏve way.

"I fear I am a dull companion," she said, gently; "but I am a little sad at the thought that there will be no one but Clotilde to visit my mother's grave. I have been saying good-bye to it. That is why my eyes are so red. Look, monsieur; this rosebud is the first that has blossomed; was it selfish of me to gather it? The dear mother loved roses more than any other flowers; they were the offerings she liked best on her fÊte day; this little white bud will be a souvenir when I am far away. Monsieur, perhaps I am foolish; but I feel I shall miss my mother more when I can not kneel beside her grave."

"Oh, you will get over that feeling," replied Mr. Harland, hastily; "that is just how my wife feels about Mysie. Mysie was our youngest but one, and she died when she was six years old. My wife half broke her heart about her; and when we moved from Norbiton to Chislehurst, it was her one regret that we were leaving Mysie behind; but I used to tell her"—and here Mr. Harland's voice had a suspicion of huskiness in it—"that it was just fancy, that Mysie was as near as ever, and that it was better to think of her growing up in heaven among all the other children than to think of the poor perishing little body that lies in that Norbiton church-yard."

"You are right, monsieur; it is the truth you are telling me," returned Annette, humbly, and she looked up at him very sweetly; "but I can understand so well the regret of madame, your wife. That is the worst of us. We do forget so often that it is not our beloved who lie in the grave. At one moment we smile to think they are so safe in Paradise, and the next we are weeping over the grass mound that covers them. It is we who are inconsistent, faithless; too well do I know this, monsieur."

"Oh, it is natural; one does not learn everything at once," returned Mr. Harland, cheerily. Sorry as he was for her, he had not a notion how he was to talk to her; if only Louie or his wife were here—women always know what to do in such cases. "No one can blame you for fretting about your mother; a good mother is not to be replaced; but you are young, and after a time you will find yourself consoled. Why, your cousin Averil—no one but Mrs. Harland and myself know how that girl misses her father. He made an idol of her. I do not believe he ever crossed a wish of hers, except in his marriage, and she held her tongue about that, and he never found out the difference it made in her life. Yes, and she misses him still, though she says so little about it; only my wife finds her crying sometimes; but Averil is just the bravest-hearted little woman in the world; she is not one to inflict her feelings on other people."

Mr. Harland talked on all the faster as he saw Annette wipe away a furtive tear or two; he wanted to give her time to recover herself.

"It is all so true," she observed, in a broken voice, as he finished. "No, it is not wrong to weep for the best of mothers; our dear Lord has taught us that. Still, one must not sorrow too much. Monsieur, you have interested me greatly about my cousin; if I did not fear to fatigue you, I should like to hear more. Oh, we have come to the quay; now let us cross that little bridge lower down, and there we can walk quite close to the river. It is so green and quiet further on; nothing but wooded banks, and the blue river flowing on so peacefully."

"It is charming. Look at that young fellow in his boat, Miss Annette; he is going to take his little sister for a row. I bet you anything he is English before he opens his mouth. Yes, I thought so," as the lad shouted out, "Mind what you are about, Minnie. Now, then, look sharp and jump!"

"There are so many English," remarked Annette, softly. "I think Dinan is full of them. This boy—I have seen him before. There is no mother; but he is so good to that little pale sister. Often I have watched them. His name is Arthur; he is one of my friends; for, do you know," with a dreamy smile, "though there are only Clotilde and Gaston's wife, and the Old Manon Duclos, to whom I can talk, I have many friends, people whom I meet, and about whom I make up stories, and to whom I say good-evening under my breath when I meet them; for, when one is young, one longs for friends. As for this Arthur, I have spoken with him; for once, when he dropped his hat, I picked it up; and another time, when he was in some difficulty with his oar, I helped him, and so his little sister gives me a nod when we meet."

Mr. Harland felt no inclination to smile at this childish recital; on the contrary, his genial face was rather grave as he realized how lonely this girl had been. What would Averil say when he told her that? To think of bidding good-evening under her breath to strangers, and making up stories about them; he could not have laughed for worlds, in spite of the quaintness of the notion.

"Now I shall have my cousin," she went on. "Monsieur, there is something you said which I do not at all understand—something about my cousin Leonard marrying. Does not my cousin Averil live alone? No?" as Mr. Harland shook his head in an amused way. "With whom, then, does she live?"

"Why, with her step-mother, of course. Look here, Miss Annette, I see I must coach you up in the family history, or you will take all sorts of notions into your little head. Not that there is much to tell," with a sudden remembrance that Averil had begged him to say as little as possible about her affairs; "but you may as well know people's names."

"Are there so many people?" asked Annette, looking a little bewildered. "Where is it that my cousin lives?"

"At Kensington. It is rather an old house, but it is a very comfortable one, and there is actually a garden. Gardens do not abound in the fashionable parts of London; that is why I live at Chislehurst, because my wife and the girls, Louie especially, wanted a garden. It is Averil's house. She has her mother's fortune, beside what her father left her; and her step-mother and her family live with her."

"Step-mother? Ah, I see—the wife that my cousin Leonard married, and they had children. Yes, of course. That must be so nice for Averil."

"No; nonsense," returned Mr. Harland, still more amused. "You have got wrong notions altogether. Mr. Willmot never had any other child but Averil, and a boy who died. His second wife had a grown-up family; her name was Mrs. Seymour."

"And he married her? But that seems strange," observed Annette, for she was not without shrewdness.

"Oh, men do strange things sometimes. Mrs. Seymour was a very handsome woman, and she could make herself fascinating."

"And she was rich?"

"Rich? Oh, no; tolerably well to do; that was all."

"And the grown-up children—how many are there who live with my cousin Averil?"

"Three, without counting Lottie Jones. There is Maud; she is the eldest, and a fine, handsome girl she is, too; and Georgina, and Rodney. Rodney is his mother's darling; a good-looking, idle young scamp of a fellow."

"And Lottie Jones—and who may that be?"

"Well, Lottie is a sort of hanger-on—a niece of Mrs. Seymour; and it seems she has no one belonging to her but this aunt. She is a nice little girl, and Averil is very fond of her."

"Does she like her better than this Maud and Georgina?"

Mr. Harland laughed outright. "Come, come, Miss Annette, you are too sharp; you ask too many questions. Wait until you get to Redfern House, and then you will find out things for yourself."

A sensitive flush crossed Annette's face.

"You must pardon me if I seem too inquisitive," she said, timidly. "I did not know I was asking what was wrong; it was difficult to understand my cousin's household; but I will remember to wait, and not to tease you with any more questions. Indeed, you are so good, monsieur, that I do not wish to tease you at all."

"My dear little girl," returned Mr. Harland, kindly, "you do not tease me in the least; it is only that silly child Averil who has made me hold my tongue. 'Do not talk about me much to my cousin; let her find things out for herself'—that is what she said to me, and that is why I checked you just now."

"And you were perfectly right, monsieur. I will ask no more questions about my cousin. Look, there is a kingfisher—martin-pÊcheur they call him here. Is he not pretty? And did you see that water-rat? We have been sitting so still on this bank that they have forgotten to mind us."

"That reminds me that it is growing late, and that you and I must be hungry, and that our dinner at the Trois FrÈres will be waiting."

"Well, she was a little hungry," Annette confessed. The long walk had tired her also; she was not used to walking, much as she loved it. "For, you see, monsieur," she added seriously, "when one has to feed and clothe one's self, there is no time to be idle. One puts in another sprig into the lace-work, and then another, and then the light goes, and it is dreary to walk in the dusk; besides, there are les convenances—what you would call the propriety—one would not willingly offend against that."

"To be sure; how thoughtless I have been!" ejaculated Mr. Harland; but when he offered his arm, Annette shook her head with a smile. "She did not need help; she would do very well, and there was the bridge in sight, and Monsieur Arthur had returned from his row."

"She is Averil's sort," he said to himself, as he watched her graceful walk, and saw how bravely she was keeping up, in spite of her fatigue; and as soon as possible he hailed a fiacre.

"But that is extravagant," she protested, with a little pout. "And it is for me, I see that well, for you are not a bit tired, monsieur." But monsieur was not listening to her. He was wondering how long this girl would have borne her life, and if she could possibly have grown paler as the time went on.

"She is like a plant that has grown up in a dark cellar," he thought; and he almost shuddered as he remembered that room in the Rue St. Joseph; but by and by, as they sat together at the table d'hÔte, Annette forgot her fatigue in her astonishment at the magnificence of the feast.

"How many more courses?" she whispered to her neighbor, who was enjoying some excellent ragoÛt. "One goes on eating, and still there is more. At the Rue St. Joseph the dear mother and I were satisfied with coffee and eggs, and perhaps a salad. Sometimes Clotilde would bring us a dish of fried potatoes, or some stewed pears; then we feasted like gourmand. Is it possible, monsieur, that people dine like this every day?"

Mr. Harland was not too much engrossed with his dÉjeÛner to enjoy the girl's naÏvetÉ; on the contrary, he took a great deal of interest in the fact that the food, and most likely the pleasant excitement, had brought a tinge of color to her face. He insisted on her partaking of some delicious-looking pastry. "All young people like sweets," he said; and when he had finished, and they had their coffee at the window, he showed her the photographs that he had bought that morning, and talked, and asked questions about the places he had seen; and they were very happy indeed.

"She is a nice little thing, and I am sure Averil will like her," was his parting thought that night.

As for Annette, she scarcely slept at all, with mingled fatigue and excitement. Her thoughts traveled back to every event of the past day. Now she was sitting with old Manon Duclos, and the feeble old creature was weeping over her. "Must I lose thee, chÉrie? Oh, what news! What an unhappy fate! Who will read to me when thou art gone, ma petite? Who will be good to old Manon?" And then there had been that good-bye in the cemetery. How her tears had flowed over that little white rosebud! Nay, it was true what monsieur had said—it was not the dear mother who lay there; she must try to remember that. And then there had been the long walk. How lovely the river had looked in the evening sunshine. How kind and benignant monsieur had been!

"I hope I shall see him often," she thought. "Perhaps I was wrong to question him so closely about my cousin's household. But it was all so confusing; even now I do not seem to understand. How can my cousin Averil be mistress while her step-mother lives? She is only a girl like myself. I wonder if she be handsome? I think all English people are handsome. What a nice face monsieur has—so clear and honest. I think I love gray hair. But I remember he said she was little. Somehow, I can not picture her. And this Lottie Jones. Ah, it is all bewildering! How strange I shall feel among all those people." And Annette sighed, for she was tired, and her poor little heart was aching for her mother; and when at last she fell asleep, it was to dream that they were sitting together in the little room down-stairs.

Annette slept so soundly after all her fatigues, that it was quite late when she woke, and she had only just time to dress herself, and swallow the coffee Clotilde brought her, before Mr. Harland drove up to fetch her.

Perhaps it was just as well that she had only those few moments in which to take leave of her old life. She bade adieu very quietly to Clotilde. "I shall never forget thee, my best friend," she said, gently. "One day, if my cousin permit, I will come and see thee and Gaston and Toinette."

As for Clotilde, she wept volubly. "Le bon Dieu would watch over their dear mademoiselle. HÉlas! the place would be empty without her. No; she must not forget them; she would have their prayers," and so on. A thousand blessings followed her in that shrill voice. The girl smiled rather sadly as she listened to them.

"Poor old house!" she said, softly, as they drove away. "In spite of hard work, one had happy hours. Always it is so in life—the good and the bad mingled, and some have more of God's sunshine than others." And then she was silent, and Mr. Harland did not disturb her, for he knew by a certain kindly instinct that the girlish heart was stirred to its depths.