ed through the house, and went out
into the courtyard. Here were more people, more gay dresses,
gossip, cigars, and coffee; more benches and tables set in the
scanty shade of the formal round-topped trees that stood in
square green boxes round the paved quadrangle. Outside in the
road, a boy with a monkey stood grinding a melancholy organ;
the sun seemed setting to the pretty pathetic tune, which
mingled not inharmoniously with the hum of voices and sudden
bursts of laughter; the children were jumping and dancing to
their lengthening shadows, but with a measured glee, so as not
to disturb too seriously the elaborate combination of starch
and ribbon and shining plaits which composed their fete day
toilettes. A small tottering thing of two years old, emulating
its companions of larger growth, toppled over and fell
lamenting at Graham's feet as he came out. He picked it up,
and set it straight again, and then, to console it, found a
sou, and showed it how to put it into the monkey's brown
skinny hand, till the child screamed with delight instead of
woe. The lad had a kind, loving heart, and was tender to all
helpless appealing things, and more especially to little
children.

He stood watching the pretty glowing scene for a few minutes,
and then went in to his solitary _rechauffe_ dinner. Coming out
again half an hour or so later, he found everything changed.
The monkey boy and his organ were gone, the sun had set,
twilight and mists were gathering in the valley, and the
courtyard was deserted; but across the grey dusk, light was
streaming through the muslin window curtains of the salon, the
noise of laughter, and voices, and music came from within now,
breaking the evening stillness; for everyone had gone indoors
to the salon, where the gas was lighted, chairs and tables
pushed out of the way, and Mademoiselle Cecile, the fat good-
natured daughter of the _proprietaire_, already seated at the
piano. The hall outside fills with grinning waiters and maids,
who have their share of the fun as they look in through the
open door. Round go the dancers, sliding and twirling on the
smooth polished floor, and Mademoiselle Cecile's fingers fly
indefatigably over the keys, as she sits nodding her head to
the music, and smiling as each familiar face glides past her.

Horace, who, after lingering awhile in the courtyard, had come
indoors like the rest of the world, stood apart at the further
end of the room, sufficiently entertain