fragrance. It was a sweet fair-smelling beautiful world, this district de Baux, into which he had strayed, straight from the boulevards and theatres of imperial Paris.

Old Pierre welcomed him smilingly. M. de Baux came out to kiss him on both cheeks. "Come to the potager," he said. The children are there. Yolande has been asking for you all the morning." So they stepped across the sun-dappled courtyard, the Marquis leading the way.

A rippling laugh struck upon their ears as they went between the lettuce beds. Beyond was a mulberry garden, and it was from thence the laughter and the voices came.

High up, among the branches of one of the trees, was perched a girl in a white frock. Beside her, cross-legged, was a curly-headed boy, while at the foot of the tree, all neat and trim, stood little fat Eulalie, vainly remonstrating with her sister's acrobatic performances. From an early age this dear child was impressed with the fact that her mission in the world was to reprove and teach. Only, alas! Yolande was a very inapt pupil.

They looked like a pair of lovebirds, the boy and girl sitting up there, with their bright eyes and dark heads peeping out between the leaves. But the moment the girl saw her father, she flew through the air, like Zazel, only the other way, and flung her arms round his neck. "Vois pétite--here's another lay figure for thee to decorate," said M. de Baux, indicating Trevilyan. "Put thy necklace on him now." But Yolande's only answer was to clasp her arms tighter round her father's neck. It was a yoke that never galled.

"Well, give Henry the necklace now," continued M. de Baux, coaxingly. "What, not one kiss, not one bead even, when he has travelled so far to see thee!"

"Yes, just one bead I will give him," returned Yolande. Then she stood on tiptoe, and, pulling Henry's head down to her lips, she gravely kissed him on his forehead.

"Well, you have grown stingy over your beads," said the father, watching her with amused glances. "Do you ever get any, now, De Longueville?" he asked of the boy who was still sitting perched up in the tree.

"Very seldom, Monsieur," replied De Longueville, looking down with a pretty smile. "She is keeping them all for somebodysome day."

Like a wild cat she flew at him. Like a wild tiger she clutched him, and began to pommel his ears, his eyes, his cheeks. The boy struggled, but did not attempt to defend himself. The combat ended

by the downfall of both combatants, De Longueville without his cap, and Yolande minus a breadth of her white frock.

But

"It was her confirmation dress," said Eulalie to her father. M. De Baux did not answer. He only looked very gravely at both his children.

"What is to be done with her?" he asked of Trevilyan, as they turned away together out of the mulberry garden.

It was a question he asked over and over again during Trevilyan's stay at the Château. "What was to be done with her?" when she tumbled into the lake, and was rescued by a pitchfork. "What was

to be done with her?"-when she rifled the cherry trees-when she rode her pony through the vineyards-when she let the young chickens out from under their coop-when she tore her frocks-when she tormented her nurse, and teazed poor little fat Eulalie beyond bearing? "Send her to school," suggested Trevilyan, laughing over the sorry appearance of his young cousin, who, just raked out of the lakes, stood there with chattering teeth and tangled hair, a poor little woebegone Ophelia.

"We did send her to the convent," cried the Marquis in despair. "But she stole the Abbess's spectacles, and would have been expelled but that she ran away of her own accord, and was found the next morning lighting a fire in a wood-house with the help of Raoul de Longueville."

"Why not have a governess, then?" continued Trevilyan, laughing still.

A governess! A young lady with me in the house. Eh, mon Dieu, quelle horreur. Et les convenances! mon cousin?" said M. de Baux, holding up his hands.

"Then, my resources are exhausted," declared Trevilyan. And it was not wonderful that they should be. For how could an English bachelor of two-and-twenty be expected to provide for the necessities of two little French girls?

So the Marquis had to fall back upon his own ideas, and presently a letter came to Trevilyan to tell him of a most providential event which had occurred. A widowed half-sister of the Marquis had consented to take charge of his house, and to superintend the education of his daughters. It was true he knew but little of this halfsister of his, but what arrangement could be better, more natural, &c.

Trevilyan rather doubted the success of it, but he duly congratulated M. de Baux on his trouvaille, and expressed a wish that Yolande should write to him. This, from time to time, she did, and the funny little childish, blotted, ill-spelt letters were curiously acceptable

to the young attaché. There would be a certain moisture about his eyes, if there were also laughter on his lips, as he read them.

You are

"Why are you English?" she would write. "I detest the English. They are all horrid old women. Even in their history I seldom find a man. a man, Henri, but I think it is your French blood that makes you so."

Then again

"When are you coming again to Baux? The vintage is just begun. There is plenty of corn and wine. The people sing as they gather the grapes, they dance at night when their work is done. Sometimes we go out to help in each pastime. Come and join in our music and mirth."

Or another

"It is a terrible winter.

of cold and starvation. ville is no longer here.

not know the worst.

Snow lies thick on the plains.
Many of the men have gone to fight.

The children die
Raoul de Longue-

There is terrible news from Paris, and yet perhaps we do Come and cheer us if you can, my cousin."

There were a score of such letters in Henry's desk at home, in his memory here. He could not go to Baux in answer to these requests. Sickness and death kept him at home. Nor was it till many years afterwards that Henry Trevilyan found his way once more through the olive woods to the old grey Château de Baux.

Well, here he was, at last, once more. He had renewed the memories of his youth. He had pieced together Yolande's childish letters, woven them one into the other as it were, with great long stretches between. And there were dropped stitches, here and there, there was many a tangle and twist besides. Henry felt that Madame Dicken's big fingers might only bungle these things the more. And yet—.

And yet he awoke suddenly to the consciousness that he was both cold and sleepy. He roused himself with a start. The fire had gone out. Only a little heap of grey ashes remained. The candles had burnt low. Dim shadows filled the room. He thought he would go to bed.

He knew his way perfectly well through the house, but once outside the smoking-room all was dark. His own candle only cast a weird and uncertain light through the vast hall. By its light, however, he groped his way through the passage, and presently began to climb the turret stairs.

The turret stairs were not only dark, but draughty as well. The windows towards the upper part did not close properly. An icy wind came piercing through them. Henry's candle flickered and spluttered. All of a sudden it went out.

What could have blown it out? There was no more draught at

that particular spot than anywhere else. Was there not? What then was that flutter he had heard, as of a leaf tossed by autumn winds. And surely he had felt some one fly past him at that moment.

He stood still to think. Was the Château then haunted? He had never heard of it before.

A clock struck one. Its vibrating strokes came sounding in through one of the half-closed windows. Trevilyan pushed it open a little further, and looked out.

The snow had ceased falling by this time. The stars were bright in the sky. But the stable roofs were crystallized with snow, and down there, in the courtyard, a soft white downy carpet was spread.

It was a carpet meet for the pure young feet of the God-child so lately born. It was a pathway fit for secretary Eginhard to fly across with an emperor's daughter in his arms. It was a frozen field over which another brown-eyed Erena Maximilianovna might skate to rejoin her lover on the high road to Siberia, or to Stettin, or to New Caledonia, or wherenot. And Mother Nature, who loves all manner of tender lovers, would throw down another handful of snow to cover up their foot-prints, or else, the angels from their wings would pluck out many a feather, and send them flying earthwards. . . .

Henry Trevilyan stood at the window. He was not an Eginhard, but he wished he owned an Erena.

Suddenly, as if in answer to his unspoken wish, someone came drifting across the snow carpet. It was a white gown, with a woollen hood. Under the hood gleamed a pair of soft dark eyes, and a pretty tremulous mouth. It was Yolande de Baux. doubt of that. Or-or-it was her fetch !

There was no

Trevilyan watched her. She flitted across the courtyard, then back again. Her footsteps were so light, so quick, the angels would not have much difficulty in covering them over. she came across they were slower and heavier.

But the third time

She was dragging something along with her. She was half carrying, half supporting, half leading someone. And this someone was a man, whether young or old Trevilyan could not tell, for all he could see was a bowed head, and a bent form, and a pair of weak, tottering legs that seemed to have scarcely the strength to walk.

Having made these observations, he did not wait for any more, but putting down his candle he flew towards the bottom of the stairs. A gust of cold wind met him there, and then he remembered that a door led from thence into the courtyard.

He heard it close; he heard a shuffle of feet; he heard a feeble,

cracked voice saying, "There is someone there. Yolande, turn the lantern."

"No, you mistake, mon ami,” said Yolande's soft voice. "There can be no one about at this time of night. Courage, we have only a few more steps to take."

"But there is someone," repeated the man's voice rather impatiently. And another step brought them face to face with Henry Trevilyan.

He stood aghast. The sick man looked up bewildered. Yolande alone did not lose her presence of mind.

"Is it you or your ghost?" she asked calmly.

"Both," replied Trevilyan. Then severely, "But how comes it, Yolande, that you should be here at this hour of night, in company with a stranger?"

"Are you a stranger ?" asked the girl quietly.

"I-no-God knows I am only here to protect you."

"But who is that?" he asked, indicating the man, who he now saw was both young and handsome, albeit worn and wasted by disease.

"That-this is Raoul de Longueville," said Yolande. Then turning to him she added, “As we cannot keep our secret, mon ami, it is well we have encountered one whom we may trust."

Raoul bowed acquiescence; he looked very worn and weary.

"I would tell you the whole story now, only it is a long one, and you see how ill he is. He could not remain where he was-in a woodhouse where we two had hidden when we were children. There was a hole in the roof, and the wood I had stored there was all taken away. Ah, mon cousin, it is not I—but Eulalie who tears her frocks now," added Yolande rather bitterly.

Trevilyan was mystified. Indeed the whole affair was to him a mystery.

"But what are you going to do with him now?" he asked. That was more to the purpose.

"I have made up a room for him at the top of the stairs," she answered. "It is a miserable place, but at least it is better than the wood-house."

"He had better come into my room," said Trevilyan decidedly. "There is a fire there, and I will take care of him for the night."

"Ah, so, that would be best. You would like that, would you not, Raoul? Here, mon cousin, take his arm, and lead him carefully up the stairs."