d keep the secret of her escape as long
as possible, reporting her refusal to appear at supper, and making such
excuses as might very probably prevent the discovery of her flight till
next day.

'And then,' said Eustacie, 'I will send for thee, either to Saumur or
to the old tower! Adieu, dear Veronique, do not be frightened. Thou
dost not know how glad I am that the time for doing something is come!
To-morrow!'

'To-morrow!' thought Veronique, as she shut the door; 'before that you
will be back here again, my poor little Lady, trembling, weeping, in
dire need of being comforted. But I will make up a good fire, and shake
out the bed. I'll let her have no more of that villainous palliasse. No,
no, let her try her own way, and repent of it; then, when this matter is
over, she will turn her mind to Chevalier Narcisse, and there will be no
more languishing in this miserable hole.'

CHAPTER XVI. THE HEARTHS AND THICKETS OF THE BOCAGE.

I winna spare for his tender age, Nor yet for his hie kin;
But soon as ever he born is,
He shall mount the gallow's pin.--Fause Foodrage.

Dusk was closing in, but lamps had not yet been lighted, when with a
trembling, yet almost a bounding heart, Eustacie stole down the stone
staircase, leading to a back-door--an utterly uncanonical appendage to a
nunnery, but one much used among the domestic establishment of Bellaise.

A gleam of red light spread across the passage from the half-open
kitchen door, whence issued the savoury steam of the supper preparing
for Monseigneur. Eustacie had just cautiously traversed it, when the
voice of the presiding lay-sister called out, 'Veronique, is that you?'

'Sister!' returned Eustacie, with as much of the Angevin twang as she
could assume.

'Where are you going?'

'To the Orchard Farm with this linen.'

'Ah! it must be. But there are strict orders come from Madame about
nobody going out unreported, and you may chance to find the door locked
if you do not come back in good time. Oh! and I had well-night forgot;
tell your mother to be here early to-morrow, Madame would speak with
her.'

Eustacie assented, half stifled by the great throb of her fluttering
heart at the sense that she had indeed seized the last moment. Forth
then she stepped. How dark, waste, and lonely the open field looked!
But her heart did not fail her; she could only feel that a captivity was
over, and the most vague and terrible of her anxieties soothed, as