ouetted against the sky.

The porter returned, solemn and impassive. He opened the gate without
a word. We all passed through--M. Charnot somewhat uneasy at entering
under false pretenses, as I guessed from the way he suddenly drew up his
head. Jeanne seemed pleased; she smoothed down a fold which the wind had
raised in her frock, spread out a flounce, drew herself up, pushed back
a hairpin which her fair tresses had dragged out of its place, all
in quick, deft, and graceful movements, like a goldfinch preening its
feathers.

We reached the terrace, and arranged that M. and Mademoiselle Charnot
should wait in an alley close at hand till I received permission to
visit the collections.

I entered the house, and following a lackey, crossed a large
mosaic-paved hall, divided by columns of rare marbles into panels filled
with mediocre frescoes on a very large scale. At the end of this hall
was the Countess's room, which formed a striking contrast, being small,
panelled with wood, and filled with devotional knick-knacks that gave it
the look of a chapel.

As I entered, an old lady half rose from an armchair, which she could
have used as a house, the chair was so large and she was so small. At
first I could distinguish only two bright, anxious eyes. She looked at
me like a prisoner awaiting a verdict. I began by telling her of the
death of Lampron's mother. Her only answer was an attentive nod. She
guessed something else was coming and stood on guard, so to speak. I
went on and told her that the portrait of her daughter was on its way
to her. Then she forgot everything--her age, her rank, and the mournful
reserve which had hitherto hedged her about. Her motherly heart alone
spoke within her; a ray of light had come to brighten the incurable
gloom which was killing her; she rushed toward me and fell into my arms,
and I felt against my heart her poor aged body shaking with sobs. She
thanked me in a flood of words which I did not catch. Then she drew back
and gazed at me, seeking to read in my eyes some emotion responsive to
her own, and her eyes, red and swollen and feverishly bright, questioned
me more clearly than her words.

"How good are you, sir! and how generous is he! What life does he lead?
Has he ever lived down the sorrow which blasted his youth here? Men
forget more easily, happily for them. I had given up all hope of
obtaining the portrait. Every year I sent him flowers which meant,
'Restore to us all that is l