expecting congratulations perhaps; but I was
too much stunned with my surprise. The
buxom, red-armed, apple-cheeked Susan who,
when she blushed, blushed the colour of
beetroot; who did not know a word of French;
who regarded the nation (always excepting
the gentleman before me) as frog-eating
Mounseers, the national enemies of England!
I afterwards thought, that perhaps this very
ignorance constituted one of her charms. No
word, nor allusion, nor expressive silence, nor
regretful sympathetic sighs, could remind
M. de Chalabre of the bitter past, which he
was evidently striving to forget. And, most
assuredly, never man had a more devoted
and admiring wife than poor Susan made
M. de Chalabre. She was a little awed by
him, to be sure; never quite at her ease
before him; but I imagine husbands do not
dislike such a tribute to their Jupiter-ship.
Madame Chalabre received my call, after
their marriage, with a degree of sober, rustic,
happy dignity, which I could not have foreseen
in Susan Dobson. They had taken a
small cottage on the borders of the forest; it
had a garden round it, and the cow, pigs, and
poultry, which were to be her charge, found
their keep in the forest. She had a rough
country servant to assist her. in looking after
them; and in what scanty leisure he had,
her husband attended to the garden and the
bees. Madame Chalabre took me over the
neatly furnished cottage with evident pride.
"Moussire," as she called him, had done this;
Moussire had fitted up that. Moussire was
evidently a man of resource. In a little
closet of a dressing-room belonging to
Moussire, there hung a pencil drawing,
elaborately finished to the condition of a bad
pocket-book engraving. It caught my eye,
and I lingered to look at it. It represented
a high narrow house of considerable size,
with four pepper-box turrets at each corner;
and a stiff avenue formed the foreground.

"Château Chalabre?" said I, inquisitively.

"I never asked," my companion replied.
"Moussire does not always like to be asked
questions. It is the picture of some place he
is very fond of, for he won't let me dust it
for fear I should smear it."

M. de Chalabre's marriage did not diminish
the number of his visits to my father. Until
that beloved parent's death, he was faithful
in doing all he could to lighten the gloom of
the sick room. But a chasm, which he had
opened, separated any present intercourse
with him from the free unreserved friendship
that had existed formerly. And yet for
his sake I used to go and see his wife. I
could not forget early days, nor the walks to
the top of the clover field, nor the daily
posies, nor my mother's dear regard for the
emigrant gentleman; nor a thousand little
kindnesses which he had shown to my absent
sister and myself. He did not forget either
in the closed and sealed chambers of his
heart. So, for his sake, I tried to become a
friend to his wife; and she learned to look
upon me as such. It was my employment in
the sick chamber to make clothes for the
little expected Chalabre baby; and its
mother would fain (as she told me) have asked
me to carry the little infant to the font, but
that her husband somewhat austerely
reminded her that they ought to seek a
marraine among those of their own station in
society. But I regarded the pretty little
Susan as my god-child nevertheless in my
heart; and secretly pledged myself always to
take an interest in her. Not two months
after my father's death, a sister was born;
and the human heart in M. de Chalabre
subdued his pride; the child was to bear the
pretty name of his French mother, although
France could find no place for him, and had
cast him out. That youngest little girl was
called Aimée.

When my father died, Fanny and her
husband urged me to leave Brookfield, and come
and live with them at Valetta. The estate
was left to us; but an eligible tenant offered
himself; and my health, which had suffered
materially during my long nursing, did
render it desirable for me to seek some
change to a warmer climate. So I went
abroad, ostensibly for a year's residence only;
but, somehow, that year has grown into a
lifetime. Malta and Genoa have been my dwelling
places ever since. Occasionally, it is
true, I have paid visits to England, but I
have never looked upon it as my home since
I left it thirty years ago. During these
visits I have seen the Chalabres. He had
become more absorbed in his occupation than
ever; had published a French grammar on
some new principle, of which he presented
me with a copy, taking some pains to explain
how it was to be used. Madame looked
plump and prosperous; the farm which was
under her management had thriven; and as
for the two daughters, behind their English
shyness, they had a good deal of French
piquancy and esprit. I induced them to take
some walks with me, with a view of asking
them some questions which should make our
friendship an individual reality, not merely an
hereditary feeling; but the little monkeys
put me through my catechism, and asked me
innumerable questions about France, which
they evidently regarded as their country.
"How do you know all about French habits
and customs?" asked I. "Does Monsieur
de—does your father talk to you much about
France?"

"Sometimes, when we are alone with him
—never when any one is by," answered Susan,
the elder, a grave, noble-looking girl, of
twenty or thereabouts. " I think he does not
speak about France before my mother, for
fear of hurting her."

"And I think," said little Aimée, " that he
does not speak at all, when he can help it; it
is only when his heart gets too full with
recollections, that he is obliged to talk to us,