ud, deep eyes.

* * * * *

When he had gone, Julie moved to the window and looked out into the
gathering dusk. It seemed to her as if those in the room must hear the
beating of her miserable heart.

When she rejoined her companions, Dr. Meredith had already risen and was
stuffing various letters and papers into his pockets with a view to
departure.

"Going?" said Lord Lackington. "You shall see the last of me, too,
Mademoiselle Julie."

And he stood up. But she, flushing, looked at him with a wistful smile.

"Won't you stay a few minutes? You promised to advise me about Therese's
drawings."

"By all means."

Lord Lackington sat down again. The lame child, it appeared, had some
artistic talent, which Miss Le Breton wished to cultivate. Meredith
suddenly found his coat and hat, and, with a queer look at Julie,
departed in a hurry.

"Therese, darling," said Julie, "will you go up-stairs, please, and
fetch me that book from my room that has your little drawings
inside it?"

The child limped away on her errand. In spite of her lameness she moved
with wonderful lightness and swiftness, and she was back again quickly
with a calf-bound book in her hand.

"Leonie!" said Julie, in a low voice, to Madame Bornier.

The little woman looked up startled, nodded, rolled up her knitting in a
moment, and was gone.

"Take the book to his lordship, Therese," she said, and then, instead of
moving with the child, she again walked to the window, and, leaning her
head against it, looked out. The hand hanging against her dress trembled
violently.

"What did you want me to look at, my dear?" said Lord Lackington, taking
the book in his hand and putting on his glasses.

But the child was puzzled and did not know. She gazed at him silently
with her sweet, docile look.

"Run away, Therese, and find mother," said Julie, from the window.

The child sped away and closed the door behind her.

Lord Lackington adjusted his glasses and opened the book. Two or three
slips of paper with drawings upon them fluttered out and fell on the
table beneath. Suddenly there was a cry. Julie turned round, her
lips parted.

Lord Lackington walked up to her.

"Tell me what this means," he said, peremptorily. "How did you come by
it?"

It was a volume of George Sand. He pointed, trembling, to the name and
date on the fly-leaf--"Rose Delaney, 1842."

"It is mine," she said, softly, dropping her eyes.

"But ho