the change--as she had only a childish recollection of the
place, and it was not written over the gateway that scarcely the bare
walls remained in her father's possession--yet the paucity of
domestics, and their thread-bare attire, might well startle her; and
above all, that her own parent had not the heart to welcome his beloved
child in front of the ancestral dwelling!

"Is my father ill?" she cried, as without awaiting help she leapt from
her saddle.

"It is only a sharp attack of gout, lady," replied the porter, glancing
up at an arched window that looked into the court, as if expecting that
at least his master would beckon from thence to his daughter, even
though his ailments might prevent his descending the stairs. But the
window was empty, and a blush suffused Garcinde's face as her glance,
which had taken the same direction, came back unsatisfied and
distressed. "I will go upstairs to him, Aigleta," she whispered, "wait
here till I call you."

She went, the others descended from their horses and made them over to
the servants. Geoffroy after exchanging a few rapid words with the
porter: "Anything new?" "All as it was," took his own horse to the
stable, unbridled him, and then crossed the courtyard on his way to his
little turret without taking any notice of Aigleta, who, lost and
forsaken, sat on a stone bench amongst the menials, and could have wept
heartily over so disappointing a return to the much desired home, had
there not been too many lookers on. She saw the young man take his way
to the well-known rose-embowered tower, but his head hung down so
dejectedly that she did not venture to address him, or ask him to let
her go with him to their old play-ground. As for him, he seemed to have
forgotten that he was in the world, or that he walked among men.
Although he had only had a little bread and wine in the early morning,
and it was now past noon, he had no thought of eating or drinking, but
sat in his turret-chamber on his mother's bed, motionless like one
struck by lightning, his widely-opened eyes fixed on his father's
song-book, which on his entrance he had taken down from the shelf and
opened out on his knee. Yet he did not seem to be reading, but rather
listening to some words that his own heart was setting to the music,
whether glad or sorrowful none could have guessed from his stony
aspect. All at once, however, he started back into life, and his dark
face flushed deeply; he sprang so hastily fro