but I think it is good for a girl to learn to be independent and
self-reliant. I made careful inquiries, and the people seem to be very
good at teaching French--they used to live in Paris--and they are quite
respectable. Of course, you may not find everything just as you like
it, and if it is really unpleasant, you can write me, and I shall
arrange for you to return here. But Paris would be more distracting
for you to live in, and in a week or two far too hot to be pleasant.

"Besides, I should like you really to _study_ the language, so that you
may profit by your stay in France, as well as enjoy it. If I stayed
with you you would never talk French all the time." She stopped a
moment, and took a stitch or two in her knitting, then added in a tone
quite different from her usual quick, precise way, "Your father was a
splendidly straight, strong man--in body and mind. Try to be like him
in every way. He would have wished his eldest daughter to be sensible
and courageous."

Barbara flushed with pleasure at the praise of her father. She had
never heard her aunt mention him before, and she leaned forward
eagerly, "Thank you, Aunt Anne--I want to be like him."

She would gladly have kissed her, but the family habit of reserve was
strong upon her.

"Let me see," continued her aunt, "can you ride?"

Barbara laughed.

"I used to ride Topsy--the Shetland, you know--long ago, but father
sold him."

Her eyes followed her aunt's across the garden and the end of the
street, to the distant glimpse of the Bois de Boulogne, where riders
passed at frequent intervals, and her eyes glowed. "Doesn't it look
jolly?" she said. "I used to love it."

Aunt Anne nodded.

"I used to ride in my youth, and your father rode beautifully before he
was married, and when he could afford to keep a horse. He would like
you to have done so too, I think. If there is any place where you can
learn in St. Servan, you may. It will be a good change from your
studies."

"Oh, aunt!" and this time reserve was thrown to the winds, and Barbara
most heartily embraced her. "Oh, how perfectly splendid of you! It
has always been my dream to ride properly, but I never, never thought
it would come true."

"Dreams do not often," Miss Britton returned, with a scarcely audible
sigh; then she gathered up her soft white wool. "There is the first
bell, child, and we have not changed for dinner. Come, be quick."

The next morning a heavily-laden ca