ing her voice into a still lower
whisper, while a shudder, she scarce knew why, passed over her frame.

"What does my father do," resumed Gabriel, "in that room at the top of
the house? Does he tell you that secret?"

"He makes experiments in chemistry. You know that that was always his
favourite study. You smile again! Gabriel, do not smile so; it appalls
me. Do you think there is some mystery in that chamber?"

"It matters not what we think, belle-mere; it matters much what we know.
If I were you, I would know what is in that chamber. I repeat, to be
safe, you must have all his secrets, or none. Hush, that is his step!"

The door-handle turned noiselessly, and Olivier entered. His look
fell on his son's face, which betrayed only apparent surprise at his
unexpected return. He then glanced at Lucretia's, which was, as usual,
cold and impenetrable.

"Gabriel," said Dalibard, gently, "I have come in for you. I have
promised to take you to spend the day at M. Bellanger's; you are a great
favourite with Madame. Come, my boy. I shall be back soon, Lucretia. I
shall but drop in to leave Gabriel at my cousin's."

Gabriel rose cheerfully, as if only alive to the expectation of the
bon-bons and compliments he received habitually from Madame Bellanger.

"And you can take your drawing implements with you," continued Dalibard.
"This good M. Bellanger has given you permission to copy his Poussin."

"His Poussin! Ah, that is placed in his bedroom [It is scarcely
necessary to observe that bedchambers in Paris, when forming part of the
suite of reception-rooms, are often decorated no less elaborately than
the other apartments], is it not?"

"Yes," answered Dalibard, briefly.

Gabriel lifted his sharp, bright eyes to his father's face. Dalibard
turned away.

"Come!" he said with some impatience; and the boy took up his hat.

In another minute Lucretia was alone.

"Alone," in an English home, is a word implying no dreary solitude to
an accomplished woman; but alone in that foreign land, alone in those
half-furnished, desolate apartments,--few books, no musical instruments,
no companions during the day to drop in,--that loneliness was wearying.
And that mind so morbidly active! In the old Scottish legend, the spirit
that serves the wizard must be kept constantly employed; suspend its
work for a moment, and it rends the enchanter. It is so with minds that
crave for excitement, and live, without relief of heart and affection,