d
not leave out; but she was unfeignedly glad when the lady refused on
the score of too much English correspondence.

The following day being gloriously fine, they started for the drive in
great contentment, going by Mademoiselle Vire's choice towards La
Guimorais, a little village some seven kilometres away on the coast.
The pony was tractable and well behaved, and they rolled along slowly
under the shady trees and past the old farms and cottages, Mademoiselle
Vire's face alone, Barbara thought, being worth watching, while
Jeannette sat opposite, her hands folded in her lap.

Just before reaching La Guimorais the road branched off towards a
lonely _manoir_, empty now, and used by some farmer for a storehouse.
Yet there was still a dignity about it that neither uncared-for garden
nor ruined beauty could destroy.

"May we go close, quite close to it?" Mademoiselle Vire asked, and
Barbara turning the pony's head into the lane, pulled up beside the
high gray walls.

"The master once, the servant now, but still noble," the old lady
whispered, as her eyes, wandering lovingly over it all, lingered at
last upon a bush of roses near the gate. The flowers were almost wild,
through neglect and lack of pruning, and not half so fine as many in
the little lady's own garden; but Barbara, noticing the longing look,
slipped out and gathered a handful.

"The farmer would spare you those, I think, madame, if it pleases you
to have them."

"He would surely spare them to me," madame repeated, and buried her
face in their fragrance. Then she laid them in her lap.

"Drive on, my dear, I have seen all I wish," she said. She was silent
till they passed into the main road again. Then she said, with a
backward look at the _manoir_--

"I once stayed there for a very happy summer with my father, and a
well-beloved friend. They are both in Paradise now, and I hope, by
God's good grace and the intercessions of our Lady, I am nearer them
each year."

Her face was perfectly serene, but poor old Jeannette's was all
puckered up, and the tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. As for
Barbara, she did not speak for a time.

The village was a quaint little place, just a few houses dropped
together beside the sea, which sang to them for ever.

"Let us not go in out of the clean, strong air," Mademoiselle Vire
said, as they stopped in front of the inn. "May we drink tea at the
door?"

They slipped the reins through a ring in the flags