beyond.

It was still early when, after breakfasting by himself in the salle-à-manger, he found his way into the garden; no one was stirring, it seemed deserted; he wandered along the gravel paths, trod down the tall grass as he crossed the lawn, and arrived at the confines of the little domain. On two sides it was bounded by a narrow stream, separating it from the road beyond; at the angle of the garden the shallow, trickling water widened into a little fall crossed by a few planks; there were trees and bushes on each side, and the grassy garden bank sloped down to the stream. It was very green, and peaceful and dewy. Horace stood still for a minute looking at the flickering lights and shadows, and watching the dash and current of the water.

"Fi donc, Mademoiselle, tu n'es pas raisonnable," cries a sweet shrill little voice close to him, "tu es vraiment insupportable aujourd'hui."

He turned round and saw a child between five and six years old, dressed in a shabby little merino frock and white pinafore, standing with her back towards him, and holding out a doll at arm's length, its turned-out pink leather toes just touching the ground.

"Veux-tu bien être sage?" continues the small monitress with much severity, "encore une fois, un, deux, trois!" and she made a little dancing-step backwards; then with an air of encouragement, "Allons, mon amie, du courage! We must be perfect in our steps for this evening, for you know, Sophie, if you refuse to dance, M. le Prince will be in despair, and M. le Baron will put his hand on his heart and cry, 'Alas, mademoiselle, you have no pity, and my heart is desolated!' "

"Madelon!" cries a voice through the trees in the distance.

"Me voici, papa!" she answered, stopping the dancing-lesson and looking round. As she did so she caught sight of Horace, and gazed up in his face with a child's deliberate stare. She had great brown eyes, a little round fair face, and light hair curling all over her head. She looked up at him quite fearlessly for a moment, and then darted away, dashing against somebody who was coming along the path, and disappeared.

"Take care, ma petite; you nearly knocked me down!" cried a good-humoured voice, belonging to a large gentleman with a ruddy face, and black hair and beard. "Ah! good morning, Monsieur," he continued as he approached Horace; "I rejoice to see that you have not yet quitted Chaudfontaine, as you spoke of doing last night."

"I have changed my mind," said Horace, smiling as he recognised his fellow-traveller of the night before. "I think of staying here to-day, and not leaving for Brussels till to- morrow morning."

"You will not regret it," said his companion, as they turned back towards the hotel, and walked on slowly together; "it is true there is not much here to tempt you during the day; but numbers will arrive for the four o'clock table-d'hôte. In the evening there will be quite a little society, and we shall dance. I assure you, monsieur, that we also know how to be gay at Chaudfontaine."

"I don't doubt it," answered Graham; "and though I don't care much about dancing——"

"You don't care about dancing?" interrupted the Belgian with astonishment; "but that is of your nation, Monsieur. You are truly an extraordinary people, you English; you travel, you climb, you ride, you walk, and you do not dance!"

"I think we dance too, sometimes," said the young Englishman, laughing; "but I own that it is walking I care for most just now—the country about here seems to be wonderfully pretty."

"In fact it is not bad," said the Belgian, with the air of paying it a compliment; "and if you take care to return in time for the four o'clock table-d'hôte, you cannot do better than make a little promenade to gain an appetite for dinner. I can promise you an excellent one—they keep an admirable cook. I entreat you not to think of leaving for Brussels; and precisely you cannot go," he added, drawing out his watch, "for it is just the hour that the train leaves, and I hear the whistle at this moment."

And, in fact, though they could not see the train from where they stood, they heard its shrill whistle as it rushed into the station on the other side of the river.

"So it is decided," said Graham, "and I remain."

"And you do wisely, Monsieur," cried his companion; "believe me, you will not regret passing a day in this charming little spot. Do they speak much in England of Chaudfontaine, Monsieur?"

"Well, no," Horace was obliged to acknowledge, "they do not."

"Ah!" said the Belgian, a little disappointed; "but they speak of Brussels, perhaps?"

"Oh! yes, every one knows Brussels," answered Graham.

"It is a beautiful city," remarked his companion, "and has a brilliant society; but for my part, I own that at this season of the year I prefer the retirement, the tranquillity of Chaudfontaine, where also one amuses oneself perfectly well. I always spend two or three months here—in fact, have been here for six weeks already this summer. Affairs called me to Aix- la-Chapelle last week for a few days, and that was how I had the good fortune to meet Monsieur last night."

"It was very lucky for me," said Horace. "I am delighted to be here. The hotel seems to be very empty," he added. "I have seen nobody this morning except one little girl."

"But no, the hotel is almost full—people are gone to mass, perhaps, or are in bed, or are breakfasting. It is still early."

"That little girl," said Horace—"does she belong to the house?"

"You mean the little girl who ran against me as I came up to you just now? No, the propriétaire of the hotel has but one daughter, Mademoiselle Cécile, a most amiable person. But I know that child—her father is one of the habitués of the hotel. She is much to be pitied, poor little one!"

"Why?" asked Graham.

"Because her father—ah! bon jour, Madame—excuse me, Monsieur, but I go to pay my respects to Madame la Comtesse!" cried the Belgian, as an elderly red-faced lady, with fuzzy sandy hair, wearing a dingy, many-flounced lilac barége gown, came towards them along the gravel path.

"At last we see you back, my dear Monsieur!" she cried—"ah! how many regrets your absence has caused!—of what an insupportable ennui have we not been the victims! But you are looking better than when you left us; your journey has done you good; it is plain that you have not suffered from absence."

"Alas! Madame," cries the other, "you little know! And how, for my part, can I venture to believe in regrets that have left no traces? Madame is looking more charming, more blooming——"

Horace waited to hear no more; he left the pair standing and complimenting each other on the sunny pathway, and wandered away under the shade of the big trees, crossed the little stream and the white dusty road beyond, and began to ascend the hills.

"What an ugly old woman!" thought the lad. "She and my friend seem to be great allies; she must be at least ten years older than he is, and he talks to her as if she were a pretty girl; but she is a Countess apparently, and I suppose that counts for something. Oh! what a jolly country!"

He strode along whistling, with his hands in his pockets, feeling as if he had the world before him to explore, and in the happiest of moods. Such a mood was not rare with Horace Graham in these youthful days, when, by force of a good health, and good spirits, and a large capacity for fresh genuine enjoyment, he was apt to find life pleasant