kind of blush she thought that she might meet
the tall gentleman who had met her at the
Greenwich dinner when she was a child, and
had been kind to her.

But what if she should fall into the hands of
the strange and imperious lady who had brought
her from beyond the sea! Well, she had borne
that before, and might bear it again. It could
scarcely be worse than the misery she was now
enduring.

To England, then. But how? She was as
ignorant of the means by which the desired land
was to be reached as any child of five years old
could be, nor did she venture to ask any one
around her for information. She knew nothing
of the formalities requisite to procure a passport
even for inland travelling, or how she was to reach
the coast, or get on board ship. She would ask,
she thought, when she had taken to flight, and
was beyond pursuit. Pursuit! Would any one
deem it worth his while to pursue so forlorn and
deserted a little maiden as she was? At all
events, she would seek her way, and, if necessary,
beg it. Perhaps it would end in her dying of
hunger and cold like the Children in the Wood;
and where were the Robin Redbreasts who would
cover her with leaves?

Nineteen francs and seventeen centimes: that
was the sum total of her resources: the residue
of Madame de Kergolay's last gift of
pocket-money. How sorry she was, now, that she had
bought those little lawn cuffs and kerchief at
"Le Chat qui pelote" in the Rue St. Denis.
But she was happy then, and had not been scolded
—ah! so cruelly—and did not dream of
running away. Was her contemplated flight wrong?
Ay, surely it was; both wicked and
self-willed, and hard-hearted, and ungrateful. But
what was she to do? Who was to advise, to
censure, to dissuade her? She had no friends,
and she was Quite Alone.

Stay! She had a golden locket which
Madame de Kergolay had given her. It was
encircled, too, with small diamonds, and contained
a lock of hair of the Martyr King of Louis the
Sixteenth. She would be obliged to sell that
if her money were insufficient to take her to
England. There were plenty of shops on the
quays, where they advertised in the windows to
buy old gold, and silver, and diamonds, in any
quantity and at good prices. Was it not base,
mean, almost felonious, to sell the pretty trinket
which she whom Lily loved best in the world
had given her? Truly her conscience told her it
was. But she had no hope, no means, save in
the disposal of that locket. Perhaps the dealer
would be merciful enough to keep it for her till
she could earn enough money to buy it back
again, and then she would return it to Madame
de Kergolay. She tormented herself with all
kinds of blundering sophistry, and, had she been
a professed logician, she could not have arrived
at last at more erroneous conclusions. At all
events, the locket had been given to her. Was
it not her own ? She tried to persuade herself
that it was. To a certain extent, it might have
been; but never, surely, to use as a basis for
running away. Well, God forgive her her
naughtiness, she thought desperately. But she
must sell the locket.

And why to England, since she knew that
Edgar Greyfaunt had gone thither? Should not
prudence, pride, that "maidenly modesty," her
want of which the cruel Madame de Kergolay
had taunted her with, deter her from following
to a strange land the man she loved, but who
could not care five centimes for her? Again
sophistry came to her aid. She was not following
him. England was a very large place.
There was surely room enough there for two.
Besides, had she not a right in England?
Was she not of English birth? Had she not passed
a portion of her childhood there? Might she
not find friends in England? Friends! A
fresh burst of sobs broke from her, as she
remembered how utterly friendless and alone
she was.

All this and much more she thought of on
her way to the little bedroom where she had
once been so happy. She had scarcely the heart
to enter it again, or to open the casement and
look out upon the housetop, and see the blue
smoke wreathing upwards, and listen to the
jangling piano, and the voice of Jules quarrelling
with Scraphine his wife. She had nothing more
to do with Paris. Its sights and sounds were
to be henceforth estranged from her. For an
hour or more she sat on the stairs outside her
door, her face in her hands, her tears mingling
with her thoughts, her sense of thorough
loneliness and misery with both. And then she
went into her chamber, and cast herself on the
bed, and lay there thinking and sobbing till it
was dark.

They brought her up some dinner in due
season; but the ancient servitor, acting
probably under instructions, only knocked at the
door, and telling her in a harsh voice that her
repast was served, left it there on a tray, and
retired. He came up again in an hour's time,
found that the viands had not been touched,
and took the tray away again without a word.

"Let her starve herself if she chooses," the
unbending old lady down stairs said, when the
ancient servant, whose heart was bleeding,
somehow, for Lily, represented these facts to his
mistress. "It is a voluntary act on her part.
She is not locked in. The food was placed at
her door, and she was duly informed of its being
there."

"But suppose mademoiselle becomes ill—
falls into a languor—into syncope, in a word—
madame would be very sorry."

"Madame would be nothing whatever of the
kind," the old lady retorted, sharply. "Hold
your tongue. You presume upon my indulgence,
and the privilege of long service. Are you,
too, about to turn on me—ungrateful?"

"Heaven forbid, madame."

"It would seem like it. As for her starving
herself, or falling ill, there is no danger of that.
I tell you, that it is only her temper. Mere
sulkiness and obstinacy. This is the way
with girls of the present generation. When I was at