that startles you, does it? Then I shall tell the truth, and I’ll back up Aunt Margaret through thick and thin.”
“What do you mean?”
“What Aunt Margaret says. That long Scotch copper-miner is no match for you.”
“Harry!”
“And I shall tell him this, if he comes hanging about here where he sees he is not wanted, and stands in the way of a gentleman of good French Huguenot descent, I’ll horsewhip him. There!”
He turned on his heel, and bounded up the old staircase three steps at a time.
“Oh!” ejaculated Louise, as she stood till she heard a sharp tap at her aunt’s door and her brother enter and close it after him. “Mr Pradelle, too, of all people in the world!”
“Ah, my darling,” cried Aunt Margaret, looking up from the tambour-frame and smoothing out the folds of her antique flowered peignoir. “Bring that stool, and come and sit down here.”
Harry bent down and kissed her rather sulkily. Then in a half-contemptuous way he fetched the said stool, embroidered by the lady herself, and placed it at her feet.
“Sit down, my dear.”
Harry lowered himself into a very uncomfortable position, while Aunt Margaret placed one arm about his neck, struck a graceful pose, and began to smooth over the young man’s already too smooth hair.
“I want to have another very serious talk to you, my boy,” she said. “Ah, yes,” she continued, raising his chin and looking down in his disgusted face; “how every lineament shows your descent! Henri, I do not mean to die until I have seen you claim your own, and you are received with acclamation as Comte Henri des Vignes.”
“I say, aunt, I’ve just brushed my hair,” he protested.
“Yes, dear, but you should not hide your forehead. It is the brow of the des Vignes.”
“Oh, all right, auntie, have it your own way. But, I say, have you got any money?”
“Alas! no, my boy.”
“I don’t mean now. I mean haven’t you really got any to leave me in your will?”
There was a far-off look in Aunt Margaret’s eyes as she slowly shook her head.
“You will leave me what you have, aunt?”
“If I had hundreds of thousands, you should have all, Henri; but, alas, I have none. I had property once.”
“What became of it?”
“Well, my dear, it is a long story and a sad one. I could not tell it to you even in brief, but you are a man now, and must know the meaning of the word love.”
“Oh; yes, I know what that means; but I say, don’t fidget my hair about so.”
“I could not tell you all, Henri. It was thirty years ago. He was a French gentleman of noble descent. His estates had been confiscated, and I was only too glad to place my little fortune at his disposal to recover them.”
“And did he?”
“No, my dear. Those were terrible times. He lost all; and with true nobility, he wrote to me that he loved me too well to drag me down to poverty – to share his lot as an exile. I have never seen him since. But I would have shared his lot.”
“Humph! Lost it? Then if I had money and tried for our family estates, I might lose it too.”
“No, no, my boy; you would be certain to win. Did you do what I told you?”
“Yes, aunt; but I can’t use them down here.”
“Let me look, my dear; and I do not see why not. You must be bold; and proud of your descent.”
“But they’d laugh.”
“Let them,” said Aunt Margaret grandly. “By-and-by they will bow down. Let me see.”
The young man took a card-case from his pocket, on which was stamped in gold a French count’s coronet.
“Ah! yes; that is right,” said the old lady, snatching the case with trembling fingers, opening it, and taking out a card on which was also printed a coronet. “Comte Henri des Vignes,” she read, in an excited manner, and with tears in her eyes. “My darling boy! that will carry conviction with it. I am very glad it is done.”
“Cost a precious lot, aunt; made a regular hole in your diamond ring.”
“Did you sell it?”
“No; Vic Pradelle pawned it for me.”
“Ah! he is a friend of whom you may be proud, Henri.”
“Not a bad sort of fellow, aunt. He got precious little on the ring, though, and I spent it nearly all.”
“Never mind the ring, my boy, and I’m very glad you have the cards. Now for a little serious talk about the future.”
“Wish to goodness there was no future,” said Harry glumly.
“Would you like to talk about the past, then?” said the old lady playfully.
“Wish there was no past neither,” grumbled Harry.
“Then we will talk about the present, my dear, and about – let me whisper to you – love!”
She placed her thin lips close to her nephew’s ear, and then held him at arm’s length and smiled upon him proudly.
“Love! Too expensive a luxury for me, auntie. I say, you are ruffling my hair so.”
“Too expensive, Henri? No, my darling boy; follow my advice, and the richest and fairest of the daughters of France shall sue for your hand, and be proud to take your noble name.”
“I say, auntie,” he said laughingly, “aren’t you laying on the colour rather thick?”
“Not a bit, my darling; and that’s why I want to talk to you about your sister’s friend.”
“What, Maddy?” he said eagerly; “then you approve of it.”
“Approve! Bah! you are jesting, my dear. I approve of your making an alliance with a fat Dutch fraülein!”
“Oh, come, aunt!” said Harry, looking nettles; “Madelaine is not Dutch, nor yet fat.”
“I know better, my boy. Dutch! Dutch! Dutch! Look at her father and her mother! No, my boy, you could not make an alliance with a girl like that. She might do for a kitchen-maid.”
“Auntie, she’s a very charming girl.”
“Silly boy! Go and travel, and see the daughters of France.”
“And she’ll be rich some day.”
“If she were heiress to millions she could not marry you. As some writer says, eagles do not mate with plump Dutch ducklings. No, Henri,
