e close, then, as if it had
suggested another story to his mind, he looked towards where his uncle
and Miss Britton were walking up and down.

"I would give anything--almost anything, at least--that he might be
happy now; he has had a great deal of the other thing in the past," he
said.

"So would I," Barbara agreed. "You know, I couldn't quite understand
it before, but I do now. When you're ill--or supposed to be--you see
quite another side of Aunt Anne and one that she doesn't always show.
Of course, your uncle is just splendid. I can't understand how aunt
could have been so silly."

Denys laughed softly, then grew grave, and when they spoke again it was
of other things, for both felt that it was a subject that must be
touched with no rough, everyday fingers. "They would hate to have it
discussed," was the thought in the mind of each. But the story of
Mademoiselle Vire, and all that he had heard about her, made Denys wish
to see her, and as Aunt Anne felt it a duty to call there before
leaving St. Servan, Barbara took them all in turns, and was delighted
because her old friend made a conquest of each one. Even Miss Britton,
who did not as a rule like French people, told her niece she was glad
she had not missed this visit.

As neither Mademoiselle Vire nor Miss Britton knew the other's
language, the interview had been rather amusing, and Barbara's powers
as interpreter had been taxed to the uttermost, more especially as she
felt anxious to do her part well so as to please both ladies. When
Mademoiselle Vire saw that her pretty remarks were not understood, she
said gracefully--

"Ah! I see that, as I am unfortunate enough to know no English,
madame, I can only use the language of the eyes."

Barbara translated the remark with fear and trembling, afraid that her
aunt would look grim as she did when she thought people were talking
humbug, but instead, she had bidden Barbara reply that Mademoiselle
Vire would probably be as far beyond her in elegance in that language
as in her own; and the girl thought that to draw such a speech from her
aunt's lips was indeed a triumph.

The lady certainly did smile at the inscription Mademoiselle Vire wrote
on the fly-leaf of a book of poems she was giving the girl, and which,
Miss Britton declared, was like an inscription on a tombstone--

"A Mademoiselle Barbara Britton,
_Connue trop tard, perdue trop tot._"

But she did not laugh when she heard what the little