ose of D'Argenton. The house had been originally a
shooting-box belonging to a distant chateau. A new tower had been added,
and a weathercock, which last gave an aspect of intense respectability
to the place. They visited the stable and the orchard, and finished
their examination by a visit to the tower.

A winding staircase, lighted by a skylight of colored glass, led to a
large, round room containing four windows, and furnished by a circular
divan covered with some brilliant Eastern stuff. A couple of curious
old oaken chests, a Venetian mirror, some antique hangings, and a high
carved chair of the time of Henri II., drawn up in front of an enormous
table covered with papers, composed the furniture of the apartment. A
charming landscape was visible from the windows, a valley and a river, a
fresh green wood, and some fair meadow-land.

"It is here that HE works," said his mother, in an awed tone.

Jack had no need to ask who this HE might be.

In a low voice, as if in a sanctuary, she continued, without looking at
her son,--

"At present he is travelling. He will return in a few days, however. I
shall write to him that you are here; he will be very glad, for he is
very fond of you, and is the best of men, even if he does look a little
severe sometimes. You must learn to love him, little Jack, or I shall be
very unhappy."

As she spoke she looked at D'Argenton's picture hung at the end of this
room, a picture of which the one in her room was a copy; in fact,
a portrait of the poet was in every room, and a bronze bust in the
entrance-hall, and it was a most significant fact that there was no
other portrait than his in the whole house. "You promise me, Jack, that
you will love him?"

Jack answered with much effort, "I promise, dear mamma."

This was the only cloud on that memorable day. The two were so happy in
that quaint old drawing-room. They heard Mere Archambauld rattling her
dishes in the kitchen. Outside of the house there was not a sound. Jack
sat and admired his mother. She thought him much grown and very large
for his age, and they laughed and kissed each other every few minutes.
In the evening they had some visitors. Pere Archambauld came for his
wife, as he always did, for they lived in the depths of the forest. He
took a seat in the dining-room.

"You will drink a glass of wine, Father Archambauld. Drink to the health
of my little boy. Is he not nice? Will you take him with you sometimes
into the f