ight," she replied irrelevantly.

Suddenly I remembered Gignoux, but even as I was about to tell her of
the incident Antoinette appeared in the doorway. She was very pale, but
her lips were set with excitement and her eyes shone strangely. She was
still in her riding gown, in her hand she carried a leather bag, and
behind her stood Andre with a bundle.

"Quick!" she said; "we are wasting time, and he may be gone."

Checking an exclamation which could hardly have been complimentary to
Auguste, the Vicomtesse crossed quickly to her and put her arm about
her.

"We will follow you, mignonne," she said in French.

"Must you come?" said Antoinette, appealingly. "He may not appear if he
sees any one."

"We shall have to risk that," said the Vicomtesse, dryly, with a glance
at me. "You shall not go alone, but we will wait a few moments at the
hedge."

We took the well-remembered way through the golden green light under the
trees, Antoinette leading, and the sight of the garden brought back to
me poignantly the scene in the moonlight with Mrs. Temple. There was no
sound save the languid morning notes of the birds and the humming of the
bees among the flowers as Antoinette went tremblingly down the path
and paused, listening, under the branches of that oak where I had first
beheld her. Then, with a little cry, we saw her run forward--into the
arms of Auguste de St. Gre. It was a pitiful thing to look upon.

Antoinette had led her brother to the seat under the oak. How long
we waited I know not, but at length we heard their voices raised, and
without more ado Madame la Vicomtesse, beckoning me, passed quickly
through the gap in the hedge and went towards them. I followed with
Andre. Auguste rose with an oath, and then stood facing his cousin
like a man struck dumb, his hands dropped. He was a sorry sight indeed,
unshaven, unkempt, dark circles under his eyes, clothes torn.

"Helene! You here--in America!" he cried in French, staring at her.

"Yes, Auguste," she replied quite simply, "I am here." He would have
come towards her, but there was a note in her voice which arrested him.

"And Monsieur le Vicomte--Henri?" he said. I found myself listening
tensely for the answer.

"Henri is in Austria, fighting for his King, I hope," said Madame la
Vicomtesse.

"So Madame la Vicomtesse is a refugee," he said with a bow and a smile
that made me very angry.

"And Monsieur de St. Gre!" I asked.

At the sound of my voice he