under
foot; she freed herself from--"was uns alle baendigt, das Gemeine!"

Then as she stood before the oval mirror in a classical frame, which
adorned the mantel-piece of what had once been Lady Mary Leicester's
room, her eye was vaguely caught by the little family pictures and texts
which hung on either side of it. Lady Mary and her sister as children,
their plain faces emerging timidly from their white, high-waisted
frocks; Lady 'Mary's mother, an old lady in a white coif and kerchief,
wearing a look austerely kind; on the other side a clergyman, perhaps
the brother of the old lady, with a similar type of face, though
gentler--a face nourished on the _Christian Year_; and above and below
them two or three card-board texts, carefully illuminated by Lady Mary
Leicester herself:

"Thou, Lord, knowest my down-sitting and my uprising."

"Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."

"Fear not, little flock. It is your Father's good pleasure to give you
the kingdom."

* * * * *

Julie observed these fragments, absently at first, then with repulsion.
This Anglican pietism, so well fed, so narrowly sheltered, which
measured the universe with its foot-rule, seemed to her quasi-Catholic
eye merely fatuous and hypocritical. It is not by such forces, she
thought, that the true world of men and women is governed.

As she turned away she noticed two little Catholic pictures, such as she
had been accustomed in her convent days to carry in her books of
devotion, carefully propped up beneath the texts.

"Ah, Therese!" she said to herself, with a sudden feeling of pain. "Is
the child asleep?"

She listened. A little cough sounded from the neighboring room. Julie
crossed the landing.

"Therese! tu ne dors pas encore?"

A voice said, softly, in the darkness, "Je t'attendais, mademoiselle."

Julie went to the child's bed, put down her candle, and stooped to kiss
her.

The child's thin hand caressed her cheek.

"Ah, it will be good--to be in Bruges--with mademoiselle."

Julie drew herself away.

"I sha'n't be there to-morrow, dear."

"Not there! Oh, mademoiselle!"

The child's voice was pitiful.

"I shall join you there. But I find I must go to Paris first. I--I have
some business there."

"But maman said--"

"Yes, I have only just made up my mind. I shall tell maman to-morrow
morning,"

"You go alone, mademoiselle?"

"Why not, dear goose?"

"Vous etes fatiguee. I would like