friends of the family who did not take pleasure in exhibiting their fondness for the little creature whose presence had cured the Marquise of the most terrible of maladies.

It is true that Dolores was such a lovely child no one could help loving her. She promised to resemble her mother. She had the same luxuriant golden hair, the same large, dark eyes, the same energy, the same sweetness of disposition and of voice. The Marquis and Coursegol, who had seen the gypsy, and who still remembered her, were often struck by the strong resemblance that seemed to make Tiepoletta live again in Dolores. The child also possessed the same tender heart, vivid imagination and honorable instincts. Her mind absorbed with marvellous facility the instruction which she received from the Marquis and which she shared with his son. She had a wonderful memory, and what she learned seemed to be indelibly imprinted upon her mind. She was loving in disposition, docile and sweet-tempered, and had already won the love of all who came in contact with her.

Philip actually worshipped his little sister. He was five years her senior, a large, noisy, almost coarse boy, rather vain of his birth and of the authority which enabled him to lord it over the little peasants who sometimes played with him. But these faults, which were destined to be greatly modified by time, concealed a thoroughly good heart and disappeared entirely when he was with Dolores.

It was amusing to see the tenderness and care with which he surrounded her. If they were walking together in the park, he removed all the stones which might hurt her tiny feet or cause her to stumble. If a dainty morsel fell to his share at the table, he transferred it from his plate to that of Dolores. If they dressed her in any new garment, he was never weary of admiring her, of telling her how beautiful she was, and of fondling her luxuriant golden curls. If it was necessary to punish Philip, they had only to deprive him of the society of Dolores. But unfortunately this punishment, the most severe that could be inflicted upon him, grieved his sister as much as it did him, so it was used rarely and only in grave cases. One of the favorite amusements of the two children was to walk with Coursegol, and this was not a delight to them alone, for that faithful fellow was never so happy as when roving about the fields with them.

Often, during those lovely spring mornings that are so charming in the south, they descended the hill and strolled along the banks of the Garden. The delicately-tinted willows that grew on the banks drooped over the stream, caressing it with their flexible branches. Above the willows, fig trees, olives and vineyards covered the base of the hill with foliage of a darker hue, which in turn contrasted with the still deeper green of the cypress trees and pines that grew upon the rocky sides of the cliff. This luxuriant vegetation, of tints as varied as those of an artist's palette, mirrored itself in the clear waters below together with the arches of the massive Pont du Gard, whose bold yet graceful curves were festooned with a dense growth of creeping vines.

Coursegol called the children's attention to the beauties of the scene, thus awakening in their young hearts appreciation of the countless charms of nature. They played in the sand; they fished for silver carp; hunted for birds' nests among the reeds. There were merry shouts of laughter, continual surprises and numberless questions. In answering these, all Coursegol's rather primitive but trusty knowledge on scientific subjects was called into requisition. When they returned home they were obliged to pass the cave, and Dolores, who knew nothing of her history, often entered it in company with Philip if they found it unoccupied by the much-dreaded gypsies.

At certain seasons of the year, early in the spring and late in the summer, roving bands of Bohemians encamped on the banks of the Gardon, and Philip and Dolores took good care not to approach them, especially after an evening when an old gypsy woman, struck perhaps by the child's resemblance to Tiepoletta, pointed Dolores out to some of the tribe who went into ecstasies over her beauty. One of the gypsies approached the children to beg, which so terrified them that they clung frantically to Coursegol, who found it difficult to reassure them.

These pleasant rambles, the lessons which she recited to her adopted father, the religious instruction she received from the Marquise and long hours of play with Philip made up the life of Dolores. Day succeeded day without bringing anything to break the pleasant monotony of their existence, for the capture of a mischievous fox, an encounter with some harmless snake, or the periodical overflow of the Gardon could scarcely be dignified by the name of an event: yet these, or similar incidents furnished the children with topics of conversation for weeks together.

They took little interest in the news that came from Paris, and though they sometimes observed a cloud on the brow of the Marquis, or tears in the eyes of his wife, they were ignorant of the cause. Nor was it possible for them to understand the gravity of the political situation or the well-founded fears of the Royalists, which were frequently mentioned in the letters received at the château.

Thirteen serene and happy years passed after Dolores became the adopted daughter of the Marquis de Chamondrin, before she made her first acquaintance with real sorrow. She had grown rapidly and her mental progress had kept pace with her physical development. She promised to be an honor to her parents and to justify them in their determination to keep her with them always.

But the Marquis had not lost sight of the projects formed years before in relation to his son's future. As we have previously stated, the Marquis, even before the birth of his son, dreamed of restoring in him and through him the glory of the house of Chamondrin—a glory which had suffered an eclipse for more than a quarter of a century. It was now time to carry these plans into execution. Philip was eighteen, a vigorous youth, already a man in stature and in bearing, endowed with all the faults and virtues of his race, but possessed of more virtues than faults and especially of an incontestable courage and a profound reverence for the name he bore. The Marquis had about decided that the time to send him to Paris had come. He had been preparing for this event for some months and, thanks to the economy in which he had been so admirably seconded by his wife, he had laid by a very considerable amount; enough to supply Philip's wants for five years at least—that is, until he would be in a position to obtain some office at court or a command in the army.

But the Marquis had taken other measures to insure his son's success. He had appealed to family friends, and through the Chevalier de Florian, an occasional guest at the château, he had received an assurance that Philip would find an earnest champion in the Duke de Penthieore. Fortune seemed inclined to smile on the young man; nevertheless the Marquis was beset with doubts, for all this occurred in the year 1783, just as the hostility to the king was beginning to manifest itself in an alarming manner, and the Marquis asked himself again and again if this was a propitious moment to send so young a man, almost a boy, into a divided and disaffected court—a court, too, that was subjected to the closest espionage on the part of a people already deeply incensed and irritated by the scandal and debauchery of the nobility, and utterly insensible to the king's well-meant efforts to institute a much-needed reform.

But the birth of the Dauphin, which occurred that same year, dissipated M. de Chamondrin's doubts. He was completely