"He is a droll of a farceur," murmured the
abbé, "this Monsieur de Béranger, although he
has written some bitter things against the reverend
fathers the Jesuits! What do you want,
young girl?" he added suddenly, and throwing,
accidentally of course, the hand which held the
book behind him, but still keeping the page open
with appreciative forefinger.

"If you please Monsieur l'Abbé——" poor
Lily began.

"But I do not please," the ecclesiastic
rejoined, sharply. "I have nothing to do with
you. You are not a catechumen. You do not
belong to my class. Go to your minister. I can
have nothing to say to you. Enfin, que me
voulez–vous."

"Oh! Monsieur l'Abbé, do pray hear me,"
the girl pleaded, joining her hands, and her eyes
beginning to stream, "I am so truly, so
miserably unhappy."

"By your own fault, I take it, young girl,"
remarked the abbé; "the worthy Mademoiselle
Marcassin—a true shepherdess to her flock—
reports you as being obstinate, rebellious,
opinionated, recalcitrant. Kindness and severity
have been tried, and both in vain, to you. Go to
your minister—are you an Anglican or a Puritan?
—and demand of him what prayers and
penitence you should resort to, in order to enter
into a better frame of mind."

"But I have no minister," cried Lily, despairingly;
"I have no friends, I have no home. I
am quite alone in the world. I am a poor little
English girl, left, abandoned, deserted here by
cruel strangers. I am destitute, and an object
of charity. I have never been outside these
walls for seven years. I strive my best to be
good, and to learn, and to work, but I am always
punished and made miserable. Oh! I am most
wretched and helpless."

"Tiens," muttered the abbê, taking out the
blue cotton handkerchief and wringing the
bassoon nose, but without the bassonic sonorousness,
"this has the appearance of being pitiable."

"Oh, sir; dear, kind Monsieur l'Abbé, if you
would only intercede for me; if you would only
soften Madame's heart towards me! If I could
only be sent back to England, perhaps the good
ladies with whom I was at school when a very,
very little girl, near London, might know
something of my friends."

"It is hardly possible," said the abbé, not
unkindly, and shaking his head. "Madame has told
me under what circumstances you are here.
Perhaps the wicked people who imposed upon
her, likewise robbed some mistress of a school là–
bas, down there in England, when you were an
infant. Have you no other friends that you can
remember, however faintly?"

Lily hesitated for a moment. How could she
name Cutwig and Co.? Old Mr. Cutwig had
given her a new shilling, and Mr. Ranns (on
account of the Co.) a Noah's Ark, and 'Melia
a kiss; but this acquaintance of two hours'
duration could scarcely, with propriety, be
called friendship. And then she thought of the
braided and whiskered man on board the boat,
who had given her "joggolate." Could he be
called a friend? Alas! no. Finally, her thoughts
reverted to the tall gentleman who had been so
kind to her at the Greenwich dinner. She had
never forgotten him. A thousand times she had
thought of him with gratitude and affection.
Many and many a time, pining and shivering in
her wretched bedchamber, she had asked herself:
"Shall I write to him? He told me his name. It
was William—Sir William Long. Shall I write
a letter to Monsieur Sir William Long, England,
and pray him to come and help the poor little
girl he was so kind to, ever so many years ago?
But who would post a letter for me? If it were
discovered, I should be sent to the cave for a
week. And, besides, he has forgotten me. I
only amused him for a moment. He is married
and happy." And poor Lily, as she thought this,
found herself burning with blushes and choking
with tears.

No, she could not give the name of Cutwig
and Co., nor of the man with the braid and the
beard, and a strange shame and nervousness
prevented her naming him whom she yet vaguely
believed to be her friend. She told the abbé,
with dolorous meekness, that she had no friends,
so far as she knew, anywhere in the world.

"Pauvre petite!" said the Abbé Chatain, taking
out the blue cotton handkerchief again. "What,
then, can be done for you?" he resumed, after
a brief silence.

Lily could tell him that, and eagerly, too. She
had been brooding over and elaborating a feeble
little scheme for months. "Oh!" she cried, "if
Madame would only be kind and merciful to me,
she could make me happy, I am sure, at once.
It would not be at all difficult. Thanks to the
instruction I have received at the Pension—and
oh, pray believe that I am very grateful for it—I
know enough, I hope, to undertake the duties of
a nursery governess, or at least I could be an
under teacher in a village school. Or I would
work at my needle, or wait at table, or do house–
work, or anything, if she would only allow me to
leave this dreadful place, and be kind enough not
to tell everybody that I am wicked and rebellious."

"You are full of romantic ideas," replied the
priest, after cogitating for some moments over
Lily's audacious proposition; "but we will hope
for the best. Go in peace, my child, and do not cry.
I, myself, will speak to Mademoiselle Marcassin
on this topic, and we will see what can be done."

He patted Lily gently on the head, and strode
away. And the girl returned to her needlework,
and, for the first time since Polly Marygold left
the Pension Marcassin, a golden ray brought
daylight and hope streaming into her soul.

The abbé was as good as his word. An evening
or two afterwards, while he was playing his
modest game of backgammon with Mademoiselle
Marcassin, he took occasion to say, as though
inadvertently: