e of her unchanged regard. On the morning
of our departure I rose early, according to custom, and went forth. It
was but little past sunrise, and a delicate fine rain, as thin as a
muslin veil, was falling. The earth and the blooming plants were
drinking it up eagerly; it was so gentle that it would not roughly
strike the most delicate flower. I walked about the gardens and
terraces, and then went toward the Italian garden, which always seemed
to be consecrated to Francezka. I was scarcely surprised, early as it
was, to see her walking up and down the box walk, with Bold by her
side. She had the hood of her crimson mantle drawn over her head, and
was walking slowly up and down, a branch of roses in her hand. Her
face was not joyful, but rather meditative, and it made my heart leap
to see how it lighted up when she saw me within a yard of her.

"I did not mean to let you slip away, Babache, without one private
word with you," she cried, as I joined her. "I thought if I came out
here I should probably find you. See how strong is habit. Here I am,
walking and watching with my dog and my friend, just as I have done
for seven years past, and he for whom I watched and waited--my best
beloved--is safe at home; and yet I come always once a day to this
spot, and give thanks. And I thank God for you and Bold. You know, it
is high praise to be classed with Bold."

"I know it, Madame," said I, "and Bold is a happy dog now that his
master is come home."

Francezka's brow clouded a little, and she looked about her to be sure
that no gardeners or possible eavesdroppers were near.

"No," she said gravely, even with a little quiver of her lip. "Bold is
not a happy dog. He did not know his master, and does not know him
now, and to think of how Bold and I loved and watched and waited for
seven years--how many conversations we had about Gaston--and how Bold
always assured me that his master would return. I think he was not
less comforting than you, and much more encouraging. And now he cares
nothing--he even snarls at Gaston--"

She looked reproachfully at the old dog, trotting by her side. He was
aged, but he had not lost his sight, or his teeth, or his native good
sense, for at the charge brought against him he looked his mistress
steadily in the eye, and then coolly turned off, as much as to say:

"If you choose to complain of me to Captain Babache, at least I scorn
to defend myself."

"It must have been very hard on Gaston," I