days later by herself, and this time was led into the garden, which,
like the house, was very small, but full of roses and other
sweet-smelling things. Madame--for Barbara noticed that most people
seemed to call her so--was busy watering her flowers, and had on big
gloves and an apron. When she saw the girl coming, she came forward to
welcome her, saying, with a deprecatory movement towards her apron--

"But this apron!--These gloves! Had I known it was you, mademoiselle,
I should have changed them and made myself seemly. Why did you not
warn me, Jeannette?"

"Madame should not work in the garden and heat herself," the old woman
said doggedly; "she should let me do that."

But madame laughed gaily.

"Oh, but my flowers know when I water them, and could not bear to have
me leave them altogether to others." Then, in explanation to her
visitor, "It is an old quarrel between Jeannette and me. Is it not, my
friend? Now I am hot and thirsty. Will you bring us some of your good
wine, Jeannette?"

They were sitting in a little bower almost covered with roses, and
Barbara felt as if she must be in a pretty dream, when the maid came
back bearing two slender-stemmed wine-glasses and a musty bottle
covered with cobwebs.

"It is very old indeed," madame explained.

"Jeannette and I made it, when we were young, from the walnuts in our
garden in Rouen."

Having filled both glasses, she raised her own, and said, with a
graceful bow, "Your health, mademoiselle," and after taking a sip she
turned to Jeannette, repeating, "Your health, Jeannette." Whereupon
the old woman curtsied wonderfully low considering her stiff knees.

Barbara did not like the wine very much, but she would have drunk
several glasses to please her hostess, though, fortunately, she was not
asked to do so. They had a long talk, and the old lady related many
interesting tales about the life in Rouen and in Paris, where she had
often been, so that the time sped all too quickly for the girl. When
she got home she found two visitors, who were sitting under the trees
in the garden waiting to have tea. One was an English girl of about
fourteen, whom Barbara thought looked both unhappy and sulky. The
other was one of the ladies whose school she was at.

"This is Alice Meynell," Mademoiselle Therese said with some fervour,
"and, Alice, _this_ is a fellow-countrywoman of your own." But the
introduction did not seem to make the girl any happier, and she