low—and spares no one its pangs."
"Pangs? Ah, bah! it shall have no pangs for me!"
"Ah, mamzelle! do not be rash."
"How will it take me, Jeannette? Tell me, that I may be prepared. Will it come like a fiery dart to my bosom, bringing a light to my eyes, and a colour of roses to my cheeks? Or will it take me sadly, rendering my cheek pale and my spirits low? Tell me, Jeannette."
"Not the last way, mamzelle"—the voice was slow now—"for you are too proud."
"You are right, Jeannette, I am too proud! 'Tis not I who must be pale and afraid. 'Tis the other. Love must come to me humble and suing—to be glad or sorry at my will. Is it not so, Jeannette?"
"How should I know, mamzelle?"—sadly—"I dread its coming at all."
"Bah! what matters it? And why should it come? I, for one, do not want—— Ah! do not scream so, Jeannette—it is a man—he is hurt."
The man scrambled to his feet, and tried to bow, but his face was ghastly.
"I beg your—pardon——"
"You are hurt, monsieur. Do not try to apologise. Jeannette, help him to the house. Follow me."
The man leant on Jeannette's stout shoulder, and followed the stately little figure through the sunny, twisting paths, sweet and rich with their wealth of roses, up to the old château with its narrow windows gleaming in the sunshine.
"Here, Jeannette," said the little mistress of the roses and the château. "Monsieur, you will rest on the sofa."
He obeyed the wave of the small white hand and lay down.
"Jeannette, send for Dr. Raunay."
Jeannette departed.
The man opened his blue eyes.
"I am so sorry——"
"You must not speak," eyeing him with grave, dark eyes. "You will keep quiet till the doctor comes."
He submitted.
Jeannette returned immediately.
"Are you thirsty?" asked his little hostess gently.
"No—thank you."
"You want for nothing?"
"No, thank you."
She sat down and waited.
Then later—"Jeannette, lower the blinds. Make no noise."
"Thank you," said the man.
"Do not speak!"—frowning.
He smiled a little.
"Mamzelle, suppose he dies?"
"Jeannette, how dare you?"
"But his face is white; and"—her suspicions bursting out—"how came he to fall into mamzelle's garden?"
"Jeannette, leave the room!"
"That I will not! No, I will not! Jeannette knows what is owing to her mistress, and to leave——"
"Well, well"—quickly—"but do not dare to utter another word."
Jeannette mumbled rebelliously, but retired to a corner vanquished.
The man opened his eyes as a soft wave of air was wafted across his face.
A pair of soft, dark eyes looked down pityingly into his.
He shut his own with a murmured word of thanks, and let her fan him. Jeannette came ponderously across the room.
"Mamzelle, it is not fitting——"
"Did I not forbid you to speak?" said the haughty young voice.
"Yes, but Jeannette knows what is due to mamzelle, and——"
"Mademoiselle also knows."
Something in the tone stopped the old servant's words, and once more she retired vanquished.
The man smiled to himself.
Dr. Raunay came and pronounced a bad sprain of the left arm to be the only injury the man had received.
The doctor's sharp, black eyes were full of questions, but Mademoiselle Stéphanie met his gaze calmly, indifferently, and he dared not put one question into words.
"Monsieur, of course, will be our guest," she said when the doctor had taken his departure.
The man reddened slowly under his tan.
"I—really——" He raised himself on his right elbow.
Jeannette eyed him with sharp suspicion.
"Of course, you will stay," said mademoiselle, with her little imperious air.
"But I am quite well enough to go to an inn——"
"There is not one within five miles, and that—well——" A little expressive wave of the small hands and a whimsical smile finished her sentence.
"I do not like to trespass——"
"It is not trespassing," with pretty warmth; "indeed, monsieur, you must accept of our hospitality."
"Then thank you very much."
"And—your luggage? Is it with friends? They will be anxious—we will send——"
She was too courteous to ask with whom he was staying. Yet she wondered much, for, beyond poor cottages, there were no dwellings within many miles of Ancelles.
"I am alone," he answered; "I have walked from B—— to-day."
Jeannette snorted. She plainly did not believe him. B—— was thirty and more miles distant. The suspicion in her stare grew deeper.
"Oh," said Stéphanie.
"My luggage——" He hesitated; yet what could he do without it? "It is only a small bag—it is—er—outside your garden wall," he finished desperately.
"Jeannette, please see that it is fetched at once."
No faintest spark of surprise appeared in his hostess's small face. She seemed quite used to having strangers tumble over her wall into her garden, quite used to luggage being left outside the wall.
The man was distinctly amused, but he was touched too.
An old manservant, with a faint, indescribable old-world air, that fitted in with the château and the garden and the roses somehow, brought food
