Louis I am thankful all the same;" she curtseyed profoundly, and then swept haughtily on to the door; "but, Clémence, when I want advice about my behaviour, I will ask for it.'

IV.

MONSIEUR DE Vos is pacing slowly up and down the courtyard of the "Ours d'Or," his head droops forward, his hands are clasped behind him; between them he holds an open letter. He has been walking up and down in perplexed silence for at least ten minutes-silence unbroken except by the vociferations of Clémence's canary-bird from his green and gold cage in one of the arbours.

The silence, however, is not solitary. Eulalie stands at her kitchen door. The wind has a keen easterly twang in it, but Eulalie has forgotten her rheumatism; she stands with her left hand clasping her waist, and the fingers of the right hand pressed against her lips, as if to keep in words.

For, though she has been dumb, her face is full of defiance. She has burst forth once in vehement disapproval, and has been bid to hold her peace; but the remainder of her objections are on her tongue with a sure purpose of being spoken.

The letter between her master's fingers is from Clémence; it tells in simple words that Madame de Vos is better, but that she needs change of air and scene, and that Clémence wishes to bring her grandmother home to the "Ours d'Or."

In his heart Monsieur de Vos feels the truth of his old servant's words, that Madame de Vos has always ill treated Clémence, and that there will be strife if she comes back; but Auguste de Vos is too dutiful to permit Eulalie's tongue this licence, and he has told her sternly to mind her own business.

"It is my business," muttered the cook; "but it ought to be yours.” He stops at last in his walk, and comes up to Eulalie.

66

They will be here to-morrow," he says: "you had better see that their rooms are ready."

"Monsieur," Eulalie's face looks as wooden as one of the painted figures in the courtyard, "I love you and Mam'selle, but I cannot obey a new mistress; you must then engage a new cook for the 'Ours d'Or.'

"Eulalie," the master's face is as set as the maid's, " you are good, but you are also imbecile. Do you not know that you could not live away from Mam'selle Clémence? do you not know also that any other soup than yours would give me indigestion? There, it is ended; I will not hear another syllable."

Monsieur de Vos probably thinks it best not to trust to his cook's self-control, for he walks quickly up the arched entrance-way, and stands looking out over the little Place.

Clémence does not complain in her letter to her father, and yet the tone of it troubles him. Like many another silent man, seemingly self-absorbed and indifferent, Auguste de Vos is keenly sensitive to the joys and sorrows of those he loves; his sympathy with Clémence is so perfect, that he knows already that her visit to Bruges has been unhappy, but he is not going to question her.

"She will tell me what I ought to know," he said. "Clémence is good; but she has a gift that is rarer among women than goodness— she knows when to speak, and when to be silent."

But when she came, though Clémence was silent, Monsieur de Vos was soon informed of the disunion in the Scherer household.

Madame de Vos had not recovered the use of her left hand; but she was no longer bedridden, and her tongue wagged quite as freely as

ever.

She told her son that she was quite sure Rosalie's ill-temper and jealousy had driven Clémence away from Bruges.

Monsieur de Vos felt indignant; that his good patient child, after all she had suffered, should be ill treated by any one, was hard to bear; but unkindness from Rosalie, for whom Clémence had given up the happiness of her young life, seemed to the tender father the highest pitch of ingratitude.

"And Louis, my mother, how does he behave?"

"I have no quarrel with Louis; he is perhaps not at home so much as he used to be, but what will you, Auguste? If a woman is jealous and finds fault, you cannot expect a man to be always patient."

"When people love each other so foolishly, that it is necessary to set others aside that just these two may marry, ma mère-it seems to me," here Monsieur de Vos became conscious of his frowning brows and irate voice, and smoothed himself into a more dutiful aspect,— "it seems to me that such a pair should be more than usually loving and happy. But it is true in this as in other things, ill-gotten goods never prosper."

Madame de Vos put her handkerchief to her small round eyes. She was not crying; but it seemed to her that her son's words were personal, and it behoved her to resent them.

"You forget that I approved of the marriage, Auguste, and it is impossible with my experience that I could mistake. Louis was much more suited to Rosalie than to Clémence."

"I agree with you;" and this ended the discussion, but not the anger of Monsieur de Vos.

V.

MEANTIME at Bruges the sad discord had increased. Till her illness, Madame de Vos had taken all housekeeping matters off Rosalie's hands; and now that she had no one even to consult, the

young wife found her task too irksome. Her sharp temper made her servants dissatisfied and unwilling, and Louis Scherer complained bitterly of the discomfort of his home.

"If you stayed in-doors, Rosalie, and minded the house and the children, instead of parading like a peacock on the Kauter, chattering to popinjays, one might get a dinner or a supper one could eat." At this Rosalie flew out in rebellion. "She had been brought up to be waited on. She had never done servants' work, and she was

not going to begin."

"And about the Kauter," she said, passionately, "it is too bad. I may speak to Captain Delabre, or I may not; but I go to the Kauter to hear the band play, not to seek him. It is quite different from you, who go out every evening to talk to Eugénie Legros." Louis shrugged his shoulders.

"Ma foi," he said, wearily, "I am growing tired of this, Rosalie. You are always angry when I go to see Legros; but it has never occurred to me, when I go to smoke a pipe with him, that I might also talk to his daughter. As you suggest it, I will try perhaps. Au revoir. I advise you to cultivate good temper."

But Louis Scherer did not go as usual to see his old friend. Rosalie's temper had never struck him so unfavourably as it did tonight. She had grumbled incessantly, but she had never spoken so openly. Rosalie had parted angrily from her sister, and had told Clémence that it was her visit that had stirred up strife; and though this was not true in the sense in which the poor jealous girl meant it, it was true that Louis had become more aware of his wife's ungentleness by means of the contrast she offered to Clémence. She had grown into a way of upbraiding her husband for everything he did, and yet she felt aggrieved by his want of tenderness. Louis Scherer, on this evening, did not even give himself the enjoyment of his pipe. He was deeply, thoroughly unhappy.

"And women's tempers do not improve with age," he thought. "Who could have guessed a sweet, blooming girl like Rosalie could change into such fretfulness?"

He paced up and down beside the canal. Lights in the distance twinkled among the trees, and glittered faintly on the water. Some people had stopped on the nearest bridge, and were laughing merrily. "Why do I endure this existence?" he said, moodily. "My cousin Jacques, at Brussels, has often said he would gladly exchange his clerkship for mine. I have enough for myself and for Rosalie. It is hard to leave the children, but it is better to leave them for a time; at least, anything is better than this constant strife. I will not submit to it. I will tell Rosalie my intention; then the next time she finds fault with me, I will write to Jacques."

Louis Scherer was good-tempered, and soft, and weak; but he was selfish.

It did not occur to him that in himself lay a means of soften

ing and helping the irritable temper his cold, insouciant manner fretted. He represented to himself that Rosalie was not the girl he had married. He had more to vex him than she had, and yet he never began a quarrel, though she was so vain in manner and extravagant in dress.

"There is no doubt," said Monsieur Scherer, as he walked slowly back to his own door, "that I am an exceedingly ill-used husband.” His next remark was not so true. "It is my own fault, for taking things so quietly. I will end the whole affair."

He went home, and found Rosalie sitting where he had left her. She had really been crying bitterly; but she would not let Louis guess this, and when he announced his determination, she listened in silence. Louis waited, but she did not speak; and he turned away, and went to see Legros.

Rosalie began to cry afresh. There was a tap at the door, and Captain Delabre came in. He was a fine-looking man, much taller than Louis Scherer, with a bold, swaggering air.

He seemed disturbed when he saw Madame Scherer crying. "Madame is in sorrow," he said, awkwardly; and he sighed.

It seemed to Rosalie as if she had not fully realised her husband's unkindness till now. Louis, to whom she had given herself and her love, had actually threatened to desert her; and here was this grand gentleman-a grade higher in the army than Louis had ever beentroubled at even the sight of her grief.

Her heart felt bursting; it relieved itself in a fresh flow of sobs and tears.

The captain looked still more tender and sympathetic. He felt that he should like to punch the head of Louis Scherer.

"Pardon me, madame; may I not ask what is your sorrow?" Rosalie's sobs grew less frequent.

"I cannot tell you, monsieur." A little quivering sob came; but she wiped her eyes, and felt ashamed of her wet face.

I am the most miserable woman in the world."

"But-but

"Ma foi, do not say so; it makes me too sad. But can I not make you happier?"

"Ah! if

"No,

The Captain's voice was very soothing in its tenderness. Louis would only speak to me like that," she thought. monsieur, no one can make me happy. My husband is angry with me, and I" here her sobs began again.

Captain Delabre took Madame Scherer's hand.

"The man who can cause grief to so fair and angel-like a being

and then he stopped abruptly. The door had opened, and Louis Scherer stood frowning on the threshold.

Captain Delabre did not let go the hand he held. He rose with admirable coolness.

"Bon soir, madame," he said. "I am so pleased to hear better

news of Madame de Vos.

Ah! ça, Scherer, where did you spring

from? If I were not pressed for time, I would stay and smoke a pipe with you; but, as it is, au revoir;" and he was gone before Scherer could recover himself.

Rosalie's eyes were dry at once. husband, but her heart was full of fear.

She looked angrily at her

"So this is the way thou spendest the lonely evenings I hear so much of." Louis had come forward, and he stood facing his wife.

In reality, this was only the second visit of Captain Delabre; but Rosalie felt too much outraged by her husband's suspicion to answer him quietly. She got up and faced him, pale and trembling with anger.

"It is too much, Louis. For six months, at least, thou hast left me every evening; and am I to have no society or sympathy? Even on the day of the fête, because I spoke to some of my friends, thou wert angry, and I had to get home as I could."

Louis had recovered his self-possession. He spoke in a calm, stern voice, which frightened his wife a little.

"Thou art unwise to recall that day, Rosalie. In all this cold estrangement which has come between us, I have tried to avoid reproaches, perhaps because I am so weary of thine; but I was not blind at the fête. I saw thy vanity and folly, and not only with Delabre. If I left the fête alone, it was not till thou hadst twice refused to come with me. On that day, Rosalie, the choice was with thee between me and thy vanity; now I choose between thee and peace. It is useless to believe that I am necessary to the happiness of a vain, inconstant woman."

At first she had softened, but the last words brought back all her pride.

"It is too wicked," she said, passionately, speaking more to herself than to her husband. "He is to spend all his time with others, and I am to be mute and meek, and I may not even listen to a sentence from another man. No, indeed, it is true; thou art not necessary to my happiness. I cannot well be less happy than I am with thee."

"It is settled then-we separate ;" but Louis lingered, and kept his eyes fixed on the head so scornfully turned away.

Rosalie shrugged her shoulders, and then she went suddenly out of the room, ran upstairs to Madame de Vos's bed-chamber, and locked herself in.

VI.

THE fat, rosy-cheeked portress tapped at the door of the nuns' parlour in the convent of the New Jerusalem.

"A note for the Sour Marie," she said, when she had been bidden to come in.

"For the Sœur Marie?" and then a little chorus of wonder and