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Barbara in Brittany

<h3> CHAPTER XVIII. </h3> <h3> AUNT ANNE AGAIN. </h3> Barbara had not been so frequently at the bath-house of late, the sea proving more attractive, and she was therefore surprised one day on going there to find a new bath-boy. She missed her old plain-faced friend and wondered what had become of him. "Is he ill?" she asked at the office on her way out. The woman pursed up her lips; "No, he is not ill," she said. "But we found that he was not of the character that we thought." "But he had been with you some years," Barbara expostulated, for the boy had confided that fact to her. "He had, but he had degenerated, we found." A dreadful doubt seized Barbara that his dismissal might be due to the help he had given her in Alice's escape, and in that case she would be partly responsible for him. "Will you kindly give me his address?" she said, turning back again to the office. The woman looked doubtful, and said she was not sure if she had it. "I think if he has been with you several years, you must surely know where he lives," Barbara persisted; and seeing her determined look, the woman apparently thought it would be the quickest way to get rid of her, and did as she was asked. Barbara repeated the name of the street and the number once or twice as she went out, and wondered how she should begin to find her way there, though consoling herself by thinking it was not the first time she had hunted up unknown addresses successfully since she had come to France. It was very hot, and for a moment she hesitated, wondering whether she would not put off her search till another time; then she decided it was her duty to look the boy up at once. Asking a kindly postman if he could direct her to the address, she found that the house was in one of the streets near the quays. Though rather a long way off, it was not difficult to find, and once found it was not easily forgotten, for the smells were mingled and many. Barbara wandered down between the high old houses, looking at the numbers—when she could see them—and finally found the one she sought. She had not to wait long after knocking, and the door was opened by the bath-boy himself, who stared at her in astonishment. "Ma'm'selle?" he said doubtfully, as if uncertain whether she were a messenger of ill omen or not. "I have come to call," Barbara explained. "May I please come in?" His face broadened into the familiar grin, and he shuffled down the passage before her, wearing the same heelless list slippers that had first attracted Barbara's attention to him in the bath-house. The room he took her into smelt fresh and clean, and indeed was half full of clean clothes of all descriptions. "My mother is blanchisseuse," the boy said, lifting a heap of pinafores from a chair. "I am desolated that she is out." "Yes. Guillaume, will you please tell me why you were sent away from the bath-house?" Guillaume looked uncomfortable, and moved his foot in and out of his slipper. "Why, ma'm'selle—I was dismissed. They said it was my character, but that is quite good. I do not drink, nor lie, nor steal; my mother was always a good bringer up." "Then was it because of helping the English lady to escape? Was it that, Guillaume?" The boy swung his slipper dexterously to and fro on his bare toes. "It was doubtless that, ma'm'selle, for it was after the visit of the lady she belonged to that I was dismissed. My mother warned me at the time. 'It is unwise,' she said, 'for such as you to play thus.' But the little English lady looked so sad." "I am sorry, Guillaume. I do wish it had not happened." "So do we, ma'm'selle," said the boy simply, "for my mother, who is blanchisseuse, has lost some customers since then, too, and I cannot get anything here. To-morrow I go to St. Malo or Param� to try—but they are much farther away. Yet we must have money to keep the little H�l�ne. She is so beautiful and so tender." "Who is H�l�ne?" inquired Barbara; and at the question the boy's face glowed with pride and pleasure. "I will bring her to you, ma'm'selle; she is now in the garden. She is with me while I am at home." He shuffled off, and returned in a few minutes with a little girl in his arms: so pretty a child that Barbara marvelled at the contrast between them. "She is not like me, hein?" he asked, laughing. "H�l�ne, greet the lady," and Barbara held out both hands to the little girl, who, after a long stare, ran across to her. In amusing her and being herself amused, Barbara forgot the reason of her visit, and only remembered it when the little girl asked her brother suddenly if he would fetch her a roll that evening. The boy looked uncomfortable. "Not to-night," he hastened to say, "but the mama, she will bring you something to-night for supper. I used to bring her a white roll on my way home from the baths," he explained to Barbara. "May I give her one to-night?" the girl asked quickly, putting her hand into her pocket. "I would like to." But the boy shook his head. "No, no, the mama would not like it—the first time you were in the house. Some other time, if ma'm'selle does us the honour to come again." "Of course I will. I want to see how you get on at St. Malo or Param�," she said, "and whether H�l�ne's doll gets better from the measles." "Or whether she grows wings," put in H�l�ne in waving her hand in farewell. Barbara was very thoughtful on her way back, and before reaching the house, she had determined to give up her riding for the present. One more excursion she would have, in which to say good-bye to Monsieur Pirenne, who had been very kind to her; but it seemed rather selfish to use up any more of the liberal fund which her aunt had supplied her with for that purpose. After all, it was hard that the bath-boy, through her fault, could not even supply his little sister with rolls for her supper. Mademoiselle Th�r�se was somewhat surprised at the sudden decision, and perhaps a little annoyed by it, for she had grown accustomed to the trips to Dinard, and would miss them greatly. Monsieur Pirenne was also disturbed, because he feared "Mademoiselle had grown tired of his man�ge." Barbara assured him to the contrary, and tried to satisfy them both with explanations which were as satisfactory as such can be when they are not the real ones. As to connecting the girl's visits to the ex-bath-boy—which Mademoiselle Th�r�se thought were due merely to a passing whim—and the cessation of rides, she never dreamed of such a thing. The result of the boy's inquiries at St. Malo and Param� were fruitless at first, and Barbara had paid several visits, and was beginning to feel almost as anxious as the mother and son themselves before the boy succeeded in his search. But one afternoon when she arrived she found him beaming with happiness, having found at least a temporary job at Param�, and one which probably would become permanent. "That news," she said, shaking the boy's hand warmly in congratulation, "will send me home quite light-hearted." But somehow, though she was honestly glad, it did not make her feel as happy as it should have done, and she thought the road back had never seemed so long, nor the sun so hot. She would gladly have missed her evening lesson and supper, but she feared that of the two evils Mademoiselle Th�r�se's questions would probably be the worse. Indeed, when in the best of health, that lady's conversation was apt to be wearisome, but when one felt—as Barbara had for the past few days—that bed was the only satisfactory place, and that even harder than it used to be, then mademoiselle's chatter became a penance not easily borne. "You are getting tired of us, and beginning to want home," the Frenchwoman said in rather offended tones two days later, when Barbara declined to go with her to Dol. "I am sorry we have not been able to amuse you sufficiently well." "Oh, that isn't it at all," Barbara assured her. "It is just that I have never known such hot weather before, and it makes me disinclined for things." "You are looking whitish, but that is because you have been staying in the house too much lately. Dol would do you good and cheer you up." "Another time," the girl pleaded. "I think I won't go to-day," and the lady left her with a shrug, and the remark that she would not go either. She was evidently annoyed, and Barbara wondered what she should do to atone for it; but later in the day she had a visit that drove the thoughts of Dol from both her mind and mademoiselle's. She was sitting in her room trying to read, and wondering why she could not understand the paragraph, though she had read it three or four times, when Mademoiselle Th�r�se came running in excitedly to say there were two American gentlemen downstairs in the salon to see her—one old, one young. "Mr. Morton," was the name on the card. "Why, it must be the American pretender!" cried Barbara; who, seeing her companion's look of surprise, added hastily, "the elder one used to know my Aunt Anne, and they have both been in Paris; it was the younger one who helped Alice Meynell there." "Then, indeed, I must descend and inquire after her," said mademoiselle joyfully. "I will just run and make my toilet again. In the meanwhile, do you go down and entertain them till I come." But Barbara was already out of the room, for she thought she would like to have a few minutes conversation before Mademoiselle Th�r�se came in, as there might not be much opportunity afterwards. "How nice of you to call on me," she said, as she entered the salon. "I was just longing for one of the English-speaking race." The elder Mr. Morton was tall and thin, with something in his carriage that suggested a military upbringing; his hair and eyes gray, the latter very like his nephew's grown sad. "The place does not suit you?" the elder man inquired, looking at her face. "Oh, yes, I think so; it is just very hot at present." "Like the day you tried to ride to Dol," the nephew remarked, wondering if it were only the ride that had given her so much more colour the first time he had seen her, and the sea breeze that had reddened her cheeks the last time. But there were so many things the girl was anxious to hear about, that she did not allow the conversation to lapse to herself or the weather again before Mademoiselle Th�r�se, arrayed in her best, made her appearance. She at once seized upon the younger man, and began to pour out questions about Alice. "You need not fear any bad results," Mr. Morton said to Barbara. "My nephew is very discreet;" and Barbara, hearing scraps of the conversation, thought he was not only discreet but lawyer-like in his replies. The visit was not a very long one, Mr. Morton declining an invitation to supper that evening, with promises to come some other time. But before they went, he seized a moment when Barbara's attention was engaged by his nephew to say something that his hostess rather resented. "The young lady does not look so well as I had imagined she would. I suppose her health is quite good at present?" "She has complained of nothing," Mademoiselle Th�r�se returned, bridling. "Why should she be ill? The food is excellent and abundant, and we do everything imaginable for the comfort of our inmates." "I am sure you do, madame," he replied, bowing. "I shall have the pleasure of calling upon you again, I hope, before long. As I knew Miss Britton it is natural for me to take an interest in her niece when in a foreign land. Your aunt, I suppose, is now in England?" he added casually to Barbara. "Yes—staying with us for a day or two; but I hope she will come here before I go, and we could make an excursion on our way home." "That would be pleasant for both, I am sure," Mr. Morton replied, taking a ceremonious leave of Mademoiselle Th�r�se, and a simple, though warmer one of Barbara. The young man said little in parting, but as soon as they were in the street he laid his hand hurriedly on his uncle's arm. "The girl is ill, uncle, I am sure of it; she is not like the same person I met before; and that Mademoiselle Th�r�se would drive me crazy if I weren't feeling up to the mark." "No doubt; what a tongue the woman has! But what do you want to do, Denys, for, of course, you have made up your mind to do something?" Denys frowned. "Of course I don't want to seem interfering, but I won't say anything at home in case of frightening her mother. But——" he paused and looked up at his uncle—"do you think it would seem impertinent to write to the aunt? She might come a little sooner, perhaps, and, being at Mrs. Britton's, could use her judgment about telling her or not." Mr. Morton pondered, his mind not wholly on the girl whom they had just left; then remembering his nephew he brought his thoughts down to the present. "I should risk the impertinence if I were you, Denys. But what about the address?" "I know the village and the county," Denys said eagerly. "I should think that would find her. I will do it when I get back." But it proved more difficult to write than he imagined, and it was some time before—having succeeded to his satisfaction—he brought the letter to his uncle for criticism. It ran thus:— "DEAR MADAM,—I am afraid you may think it rather impertinent on my part to write to you, but I hope you will forgive that, and my apparent interference. I am Denys Morton, whom your niece met some time ago on the way to Dol, and, as my uncle and I were passing this way in returning from a little tour, we called on Miss Britton, and both thought her looking ill. The doctor here is, I believe, quite good, but Mademoiselle Th�r�se, though doubtless a worthy lady, would, to me, be rather trying in time of illness. I should not write to you, but I fear Miss Britton will not, being unwilling to worry you or any of those at home. My uncle made a suggestion on the matter to Mademoiselle Th�r�se, which was not very much liked by that lady, therefore he thought I might write you. He asks me—if you still remember him as a 'past acquaintance'—to give you his regards. "Hoping you will forgive my officiousness. "Yours truly, "DENYS MORTON." "That is quite passable," Mr. Morton said when he had read it. "I think you will hardly give offence. I wonder if she remembers me?" "She could hardly help doing that," and Denys nodded affectionately at his uncle. "But I shall be much happier when this letter arrives at its destination. The address is not very exact. However, we will see, and we can call again to-morrow—it would be kind, don't you think, to one of our 'kith,' so to speak, and in a foreign land?" The uncle smiled. "It would be kind, as you say, Denys, so we will do it." But when they called the following afternoon they were told that Miss Britton was in bed and Mademoiselle Th�r�se engaged. As a matter of fact, she was in the midst of composing a letter to Mrs. Britton, for when Barbara had said as carelessly as she could, that she would stay in bed just for one day, Mademoiselle Th�r�se, remembering her visitor's "remarks the previous afternoon, had taken alarm and sent for the doctor, and now thought it would be wiser to write to Mrs. Britton. Having wasted a good many sheets of paper, and murmured the letter over several times to herself, she sought her sister out. "Listen," she said proudly, "I think I have succeeded admirably in telling Mrs. Britton the truth and yet not alarming her, at the same time showing her that by my knowledge of her language I am not unfitted to teach others." "HONOURED MADAM,—I am permitting myself to write to you about your dear daughter, who has entwined herself much into our hearts. There are now some few days she has seemed a little indisposed, and at last we succeeded in persuading her to retire to bed, and called in the worthy and most respectable, not to say gifted, family doctor who gives us his attention in times of illness. He expressed his opinion that it was a species of low fever, what the dear young lady had contracted, out of the kindness of her good heart, in visiting in time of sickness the small sister of the bath-boy (a profession which you do not have in England)—— "That shows my knowledge of their customs, you see," the reader could not refrain from interpolating; then she continued with a flourish— "and the daughter of a worthy blanchisseuse, who is in every respect very clean and orderly, therefore we thought to be trusted with the presence of your daughter, but whom, in the future, we will urge the advisability of leaving unvisited." Mademoiselle paused a moment for breath, for the sentence was a long one, and she had rolled it out with enjoyment. "Of course," she said to her sister, "I have not yet visited the house of this blanchisseuse, but I inquired if it was clean, and, would not have allowed the girl to go if the report had not been favourable; but to continue— "Your daughter, in the excellence of her heart, would not, perhaps, desire to rouse your anxieties by mentioning her indisposition, but we felt it incumbent upon us, in whose charge she lies, to inform her relatives, and, above all, her devoted mother. "With affectuous regards, "Yours respectably, "TH�R�SE LOIR�." "There!" exclaimed the writer in conclusion. "Do you not think that is a fine letter?" Her sister shrugged her shoulders. "Probably it is, but you forget I cannot understand English. But pray do not trouble to translate it," she added hastily; "I quite believe it is all that you say." "Yes, you may believe that," and Mademoiselle Th�r�se closed the envelope. "I think it will make an impression." In that belief she was perfectly right, and perhaps it was a fortunate thing that Aunt Anne was there to help to remove the impression; for, that lady having already had Denys Morton's letter, was prepared for this one, and was glad she had been able to tell the news in her own way to her sister-in-law the day before. "Don't look so scared, Lucy," she said. "I don't suppose there is anything much amiss, though I shall just pack up and go at once. What an irritating woman this must be—quite enough to make any one ill if she talks as she writes." With characteristic promptitude Miss Britton began to make her preparations immediately, and only halted over them once, and that was when she hesitated about packing a dress that had just come home, which she said was ridiculously young for her. "It will get very crushed," she muttered discontentedly. "But then—— Oh, well, I might as well put it in," and in it went. Mrs. Britton hovered anxiously about her, and watched her proceedings wistfully. "You don't think I should go too, do you, Anne?" she asked. "Not at present, certainly," Miss Britton returned promptly, regarding her with her head on one side. "I promise I will let you know exactly how things are, and whether you would be better there. I would say 'Don't worry' if I thought it were the least good, but, of course, you will." Then she stooped and fastened a strap of her trunk. "It was a most sensible thing of the young Morton to write straight away, and, probably, if they are there, they will be quite sure to see Barbara has all she wants—the uncle always was a kind-hearted man." Then she straightened her back and declared everything was ready. She crossed by night from Southampton to St. Malo, and was greatly afraid that she would arrive "looking a wreck," and, to prevent that she partook largely of a medicine she had seen advertised as a "certain cure for sea-sickness." Her surprise equalled her delight when she awoke in the morning, having slept peacefully all night, and she refused to believe that her good night was probably owing to the calmness of the sea and not to the medicine. She looked with a little dismay at the shouting, pushing crowd of porters and hotel touts waiting on the quay, wondering how she would manage to keep hold of her bag among them all, and, as she crossed the gangway, clutched it more tightly than before. "No," she said, as some one took hold of it as soon as her foot touched the quay. "You shall not take my bag—I would not trust it to any one of you. You should be ashamed of yourselves, screaming like wild Indians." It was just then that Denys Morton and his uncle came through the crowd. "That is she—there," the elder man said, recognising her after fourteen years. "Go and help; I will wait here." It was at a crucial moment, when Miss Britton was really getting exasperated and rather desperate, that the young man came up, and she accepted his assistance and explanation with relief. "My uncle is down here," he said. "We have a fiacre waiting. There is always such a crush and rout on the quay, we thought we had better come to pilot you through." The young man, in spite of his easy bearing, had been a little anxious as to how the two would meet again, and dreaded lest there might be some embarrassment. But beyond an air of shyness that sat strangely on both, and a kind of amused wonder at meeting after so many years, there was nothing to show that they had been more than mere acquaintances, and the talk centred chiefly on Barbara. "She does not know you are coming yet," Denys said. "Mademoiselle Th�r�se got your telegram, but said it would be better not to tell your niece in case the ship went down on the way!" "What a cheerful person to live with!" Miss Britton ejaculated. "I'm afraid I may be very rude to her." "I hope not," Mr. Morton said. "It would do no good, and she seems to be an excellent lady in many ways." "We shall see!" Miss Britton replied grimly, getting out of the fiacre; and Denys felt rather sorry for Mademoiselle Th�r�se. But Miss Britton was often worse in imagination than in reality, and she behaved with all due politeness to both the sisters, who met her at the door, and led her into the salon. She even bore a certain amount of Mademoiselle Th�r�se's explanations with patience, then she got up. "Well, well, I would rather hear all that afterwards, mademoiselle, and if I may just take off my hat and coat I will go straight up to my niece. I had breakfast on board." A few minutes later Aunt Anne opened Barbara's door and entered, a little doubtful lest her sudden appearance might not be bad for her niece, but thinking it could not be much worse than a preparation "by that foolish woman." Barbara was lying with her back to the door, but something different in the step made her turn round, and she sprang up in bed. "Aunt Anne! Aunt Anne!" and dropping her face into the pillow began to cry. Aunt Anne stood a moment in doubt. It was such a rare thing to see any of "the family" cry that she was startled—but not for long; then she crossed the room and began to comfort her niece. "It was dreadfully foolish of me," the girl said after a while, "but it was so nice to see you again. Mademoiselle Th�r�se is very kind, but—she creaks about, you know, and—and fusses, and it is a little trying to have foreigners about when you are—out of sorts." "Trying! She would drive me distracted. Indeed, if I had only her to nurse me I should die just to get rid of her!" "Oh, she's not quite so bad as that," Barbara returned. "She has been very kind indeed, aunt, and is a very good teacher; and you get used to her, you know." "Perhaps. But now I'll just tell you how they are at home. Then you must be quiet, and, as I crossed in the night, I shall be glad of a rest too. I can stay in here quietly beside you." Miss Britton having had a little experience in sickness, saw that, though probably there was no need for anxiety, Barbara was certainly ill. She felt more reassured after she had seen the doctor, who she allowed "seemed sensible enough for a Frenchman," and wrote her sister-in-law a cheery letter, saying the girl had probably been doing too much, and had felt the strain of the affair of the "solicitor" more than they had realised. "The doctor says it is a kind of low fever," she told the Mortons; "but I say, heat, smells, and fussiness." After a few days' experience, she owned that the Loir�s were certainly not lacking in kindness, but still she did not care to stay there very long; and she told Denys Morton that she had never been so polite, under provocation, in her life before. The uncle and nephew, who had not yet moved on, did not speak of continuing their travels for the present, and Miss Britton was very glad to know they were in the town. One of Barbara's regrets was that she had missed seeing the meeting between Mr. Morton and her aunt, and that she was perhaps keeping the latter from enjoying as much of his company as she might otherwise have done. There were many things she wanted to do with Miss Britton when allowed to get up, but in the meanwhile she had to content herself with talking about them. She was much touched by the attention of Mademoiselle Vir�, who sent round by Jeannette wonderful home-made dainties that, as Barbara explained to her aunt, "she ought to have been eating herself." A fortnight after Miss Britton's arrival Barbara was allowed to go downstairs, and, after having once been out, her health came back "like a swallow's flight," as Mademoiselle Th�r�se poetically, though a little ambiguously, described it. She and her aunt spent as much time out of doors as possible, going for so many excursions that Barbara began to know the country round quite well; but, though many of the drives were beautiful, none seemed to equal the one she had had with Mademoiselle Vir�, which was a thing apart. They drove to La Guimorais again one afternoon, and on their return the girl told Denys Morton, who had been with them, the story of the manoir. He was silent for a little at the close, then, as if it had suggested another story to his mind, he looked towards where his uncle and Miss Britton were walking up and down. "I would give anything—almost anything, at least—that he might be happy now; he has had a great deal of the other thing in the past," he said. "So would I," Barbara agreed. "You know, I couldn't quite understand it before, but I do now. When you're ill—or supposed to be—you see quite another side of Aunt Anne and one that she doesn't always show. Of course, your uncle is just splendid. I can't understand how aunt could have been so silly." Denys laughed softly, then grew grave, and when they spoke again it was of other things, for both felt that it was a subject that must be touched with no rough, everyday fingers. "They would hate to have it discussed," was the thought in the mind of each. But the story of Mademoiselle Vir�, and all that he had heard about her, made Denys wish to see her, and as Aunt Anne felt it a duty to call there before leaving St. Servan, Barbara took them all in turns, and was delighted because her old friend made a conquest of each one. Even Miss Britton, who did not as a rule like French people, told her niece she was glad she had not missed this visit. As neither Mademoiselle Vir� nor Miss Britton knew the other's language, the interview had been rather amusing, and Barbara's powers as interpreter had been taxed to the uttermost, more especially as she felt anxious to do her part well so as to please both ladies. When Mademoiselle Vir� saw that her pretty remarks were not understood, she said gracefully— "Ah! I see that, as I am unfortunate enough to know no English, madame, I can only use the language of the eyes." Barbara translated the remark with fear and trembling, afraid that her aunt would look grim as she did when she thought people were talking humbug, but instead, she had bidden Barbara reply that Mademoiselle Vir� would probably be as far beyond her in elegance in that language as in her own; and the girl thought that to draw such a speech from her aunt's lips was indeed a triumph. The lady certainly did smile at the inscription Mademoiselle Vir� wrote on the fly-leaf of a book of poems she was giving the girl, and which, Miss Britton declared, was like an inscription on a tombstone— "A Mademoiselle Barbara Britton, Connue trop tard, perdue trop t�t." But she did not laugh when she heard what the little lady had said on Barbara's last visit. "We are of different faiths, mon amie, but you will not mind if I put up a prayer for you sometimes. It can do you no harm, and if we do not meet here again, perhaps the good God will let us make music together up yonder." Miss Britton fixed the day of departure as soon as Barbara was ready for the journey, proposing to go home in easy stages by Rouen and Dieppe, so that they might see the churches of which Mr. Morton had talked so much. The uncle and nephew had just come from that town, and were now returning to Paris, and thence, Denys thought, to England. Mademoiselle Th�r�se was "desolated" to hear that Barbara's visit was really drawing to a close, and assured her aunt that a few more months would make Barbara a "perfect speaker; for I have never known one of your nation of such talent in our language," she declared. "Of course that isn't true," Miss Britton said coolly to Barbara afterwards, "though I think you have been diligent, and both Mademoiselle Vir� and the queer little man next door say you speak fairly well." The "queer little man next door" asked them both in to supper before they went, to show Miss Britton, he said, what a Frenchman could do in the cooking line. Barbara had some little difficulty in persuading her aunt to go, though she relented at last, and the experience was certainly very funny, though pathetic enough too. He and his sons could talk very little English, and again Barbara had to play interpreter, or correct the mistakes they made in English, which was equally difficult. They had decorated the table gaily, and the father and son both looked so hot, that Barbara was sure they had spent a long time over the cooking. The first item was a soup which the widower had often spoken of as being made better by himself than by many a chef, and consisted of what seemed to Barbara a kind of beef-tea with pieces of bread floating in it. But on this occasion the bread seemed to have swelled to tremendous proportions, and absorbed the soup so that there was hardly anything but what seemed damp, swollen rolls! Aunt Anne, Barbara declared afterwards, was magnificent, and plodded her way through bread sponges flavoured with soup, assuring the distressed cook that it was really quite remarkable "potage," and that she had never tasted anything like it before—all of which, of course, was perfectly true. The chicken, which came next, was cooked very well, only it had been stuffed with sage and onions, and Monsieur said, with pride, that they had thought it would be nice to give Mademoiselle Britton and her niece one English dish, in case they did not like the other things! It was during this course that Barbara's gravity was a little tried, not so much because of the idea of chicken with sage and onions, as because of the stolidity of her aunt's expression—the girl knowing that if there was one thing that lady was particular about, it was the correct cooking of poultry. There were various other items on the menu, and it was so evident that their host and his eldest son had taken a great deal of trouble over the preparation of the meal, that the visitors were really touched, and did their best to show their appreciation of the attentions paid them. In that they were successful, and when they left the house the widower and his sons were wreathed in smiles. But when they had got to a safe distance Aunt Anne exclaimed, "What a silly man not to keep a servant!" "Oh, but aunt," Barbara explained, "he thinks he could not manage a servant, and he is really most devoted to his children." "It's all nonsense about the servant," Miss Britton retorted. "How can a man keep house?" Nevertheless, when Mademoiselle Loir� began to question her rather curiously as to the dinner, she said they had been entertained very nicely, and that monsieur must be an extremely clever man to manage things so well. One other visit Barbara made before leaving St. Servan, and that was to say good-bye to the bath-boy. It had needed some persuasion on her part to gain her aunt's permission for this visit. "But, aunt, dear," Barbara said persuasively, "he helped me with Alice, and lost his place because of it. It would be so very unkind to go away without seeing how they are getting on." "Well, I suppose you must go, but if I had known what a capacity you had for getting entangled in such plots, Barbara, really I should have been afraid to trust you alone here. It was time I came out to put matters right." "Yes, aunt," Barbara agreed sedately, but with a twinkle in her eyes, "I really think it was," and she went to get ready for her visit to the bath-boy. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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