On a cushion of tambour-work, which was
moved about as the sun's rays affected different
strips of the flooring, couched, grave and
magisterial, and with a frill of fur like an
Elizabethan ruff round his neck, a monstrous Angora
cat. It was said, long ago, that no human being
could ever have been as wise as Thurlow looked;
but the impenetrable sagacity of the Angora's
countenance would have reduced the chancellor,
wig, seals, and all, to idiotcy by contrast. The
Angora cat's name was Miriflon.

In this room there was a handsome circular table
of marqueterie, laden with books, with flowers,
with needlework. There were cunning little green
silk screens to subdue the light and the heat of
the fire, which, notwithstanding the warmth of
the weather, was crackling on the polished
andirons of the roomy chimney. In a far-off
alcove there was a bed: looking more, however,
like a vast, ottoman: with a faultlessly adjusted
counterpane of quilted crimson silk.

By the work-table, a screen before her eyes,
in a long low invalid chair, reclined a very
old lady, whose hair was like undressed, but
highly bleached, flax; whose lineaments seemed
to have been cut in marble; whose complexion
was soft and clear as virgin wax. Her hands,
Lily noticed, were as white as the Marcassin's;
but they were mild hands, gentle hands, innocent
hands, hands that closed only when they were
clasped in prayer, that opened only to give
something away. She was clad in grey silk, and a
kind of laced kerchief was tied under her head.
She wore spectacles, and she had not a tooth in
her head; but she looked, for all that, very like a
saint.

"Kiss her, my child," whispered Madame
Prudence.

Lily trembled all over: and, she scarcely
knew why, her eyes filled with tears. Then, by
an involuntary movement, she crept down to her
knees, and took the lady's hand, which was soft
and glossy, and, holding it between her own,
gently kissed it.

The lady disengaged her hand and patted the
brown curls nestling by her.

"And so you are to be my little pet bird," she
said, in a low yet silvery shrill voice. "We are very
good friends already, I can see. Monsieur l'Abbé
has told me all about you. You have nothing to
fear here, Lily Floris."

To Lily's inexpressible delight the lady spoke
English—her own pure, sonorous, native tongue;
at which Madame Prudence, not understanding
a word, looked on in highly critical admiration.

Madame de Kergolay smiled at the girl's
ill-concealed astonishment.

"Don't be afraid," she continued; "this is
not a Pension Anglaise. You are surprised to
hear me speak your language. Well, it is partly
mine. I am English by descent, though not by
birth. My grand-nephew, whom you will see
some of these days (the scamp), is English from
head to foot. Yes; I come of an English family—
have you never heard of the Greyfaunts of
Lancashire? No, you are too young—but I was
born in France. My father was exiled in the '45
for his attachment to the true king, and I was
brought up by the English Benedictines—ah!
the good sisters—in Paris; and when I left
the convent I married Monsieur de Kergolay."
She sighed as she spoke, and turned to a
portrait supported on a little easel near her.
It represented a handsome gentleman with
powdered locks, but with a full dark moustache,
who wore a white uniform coat with blue facings,
and the cross of St. Louis at the button-hole.
"Yes," the baroness murmured. "He was
the bravest captain in his regiment, and the
bravest gentleman in all Brittany. Nay, I libel
them: the Bretons are all brave, and there is none
bravest."

She was given to ramble sometimes in her
discourse, and an unusual flow of volubility was
succeeded by a silence somewhat blank. Madame
Prudence beckoned Lily away.

"We will leave her a little while," whispered
the good housekeeper." She is easily fatigued.
Madame is of a great age. Figure to yourself,
my dear: eighty-six. She is weak, but ah! she
has the courage of a Mousquetaire Gris in her."

"She is a very beautiful old lady, and I am
sure she is good," Lily said, thoughtfully.

"You are right, little seer," returned the
housekeeper, tapping the girl familiarly under
the chin. "Beauty like hers laughs at time.
Now it is a lantern, very clear and pellucid,
through which her beautiful soul shines. The abbé
says that she will be asked few questions on the
great voyage. Her papers are all in order. Do
you know that M. l'Abbé Edgeworth, who
confessed the martyr king, gave her absolution
himself when, with six of her old governesses, the
Benedictines, she was mounting the fatal tumbril
that was to convey her to the scaffold? And it
was only by a miracle she escaped."

"Poor lady," murmured Lily. "How beautiful
she must have been."

"Beautiful!" repeated Madame Prudence.
"Ah! her beauty has gone through rude trials.
Fire and famine and slaughter, insult and torture,
captivity exile poverty, and hunger. And now,
with the exception of her graceless grand-nephew,
she is left quite alone."

"Why, I am quite alone too," quoth Lily,
simply.

"Poor little lamb! I didn't mean to hurt your
feelings. There! You are to be no longer alone.
Madame la Baronne will love you very dearly,
and Vieux Sablons will take as much care of you.
as though you were Azor the pug-dog, or
Miriflon the cat, and I will come and see you
whenever I can spare half an hour; and, bless my
heart, here is Babette, the femme de chambre,
who will show you the little room that is to be
yours. And now, really, I must kiss you and
bid you good-by, or my dear abbé will think I
am lost."

And Madame Prudence, confiding Lily to the
care of Babette, who was a homely woman of