hey represented either the
French classics--Racine, Bossuet, Chateaubriand, Lamartine--which had
formed the study of Julie's convent days, or those other books--George
Sand, Victor Hugo, Alfred de Musset, Mazzini, Leopardi, together with
the poets and novelists of revolutionary Russia or Polish nationalism or
Irish rebellion--which had been the favorite reading of both Lady Rose
and her lover. They were but a hundred in all; but for Julie Le Breton
they stood for the bridge by which, at will, memory and dreamful pity
might carry her back into that vanished life she had once shared with
her parents--those strange beings, so calm and yet so passionate in
their beliefs, so wilful and yet so patient in their deeds, by whose
acts her own experience was still wholly conditioned. In her little room
there were no portraits of them visible. But on a side-table stood a
small carved triptych. The oblong wings, which were open, contained
photographs of figures from one of the great Bruges Memlings. The centre
was covered by two wooden leaves delicately carved, and the leaves were
locked. The inquisitive housemaid who dusted the room had once tried to
open them.--in vain.

On a stand near the fire lay two or three yellow volumes--some recent
French essays, a volume of memoirs, a tale of Bourget's, and so forth.
These were flanked by Sir Henry Maine's _Popular Government_, and a
recent brilliant study of English policy in Egypt--both of them with the
name "Richard J. Montresor" on the title-page. The last number of Dr.
Meredith's paper, _The New Rambler_, was there also; and, with the
paper-knife still in its leaves, the journal of the latest French
traveller in Mokembe, a small "H.W." inscribed in the top right-hand
corner of its gray cover.

Julie finished her Stores order with a sigh of relief. Then she wrote
half a dozen business notes, and prepared a few checks for Lady Henry's
signature. When this was done the two dachshunds, who had been lying on
the rug spying out her every movement, began to jump upon her.

But Julie laughed in their faces. "It's raining," she said, pointing to
the window--"_raining!_ So there! Either you won't go out at all, or
you'll go with John."

John was the second footman, whom the dogs hated. They returned
crestfallen to the rug and to a hungry waiting on Providence. Julie took
up a letter on foreign paper which had reached her that morning, glanced
at the door, and began to reread its closely wr