buildings were open, and by the end of the week they all felt they could "personally conduct" tours all over Paris.

It was rather hard when the last day came, because they knew that the house would seem horribly empty without Barbara. The two little ones were on the verge of crying all the afternoon, and Frances had to be very stern, while Donald rose to flights of wit hitherto undreamed of, to keep up every one's spirits.

Of course the two elder ones knew it would be hardest on them after Barbara left, because some of her responsibility would fall on their shoulders. But they were quite determined she should have a cheerful "send-off" next morning, so they bribed the children with promises of sweets if they did not cry, and they succeeded in giving her quite a hilarious good-bye at the station.

After the train had gone, however, and they turned homewards, Frances felt that if she had not promised Barbara to help her mother she would have hidden herself in the attic and cried, although that would have been so "horribly babyish" for a girl of twelve that she knew she would have felt ashamed of herself afterwards; though perhaps, her pillow could have told tales of a grief confided to it that the gay-hearted Frances did not usually indulge in.

CHAPTER II.

NO. 14 RUE ST. SUPLICE.

Meanwhile, Barbara and her aunt pursued their journey, and in due time arrived at Newhaven, where the first thing they were told was that the tide was unusually low at Dieppe, which would prevent them entering that harbour, and therefore they were not going to leave Newhaven for another hour and a half. Aunt Anne gazed in indignation upon their informant, and declared it was scandalous that a boat, timed to leave at a certain hour, should be so irregular and unpunctual; whereupon the captain, shrugging his shoulders, said that the lady should complain to the moon about the tides rather than to him.

They managed to fill in the time very well with lunch, however, and after a little grumbling, Aunt Anne resigned herself to Fate, though she was glad enough when they finally steamed out of the harbour. Miss Britton was not a very good sailor, and in preparation for "the voyage," as she called the crossing, had accumulated great stores of knowledge as to how to treat seasickness. She established herself on the upper deck, let down a deck-chair as low as it would go, and replacing her hat by a weird little Tam o' Shanter, covered her eyes with a handkerchief.

"To avoid seasickness, Barbara," she said, "you must lie as flat as possible, keep the eyes closed, and breathe in correspondence with the ship's motion—though," she added, "I really cannot tell at present which is its motion; perhaps there will be more when we get farther out."

Barbara chuckled, but deferred making similar preparations until the motion was more defined, for she was much too interested in what was going on around her to close her eyes to it all.

Aunt Anne asked her at intervals if it was getting rougher, but though her niece assured her there were no signs of such a thing, she did not venture to sit up until they were quite near Dieppe.

"Oh, aunt!" Barbara exclaimed joyfully, "just look at all the officials in their high-peaked hats. Don't they look nice, so Frenchy and foreign!"

"You would hardly expect them to look English," Aunt Anne returned drily, and began to gather together her belongings preparatory to leaving the boat.

"It is some time since I have been in France, Barbara," she exclaimed, "having been quite contented with our own beautiful land; but I remember it was best to be very quick in going to the train so as to get good seats. Follow me closely, child."

Barbara obediently did as she was told, and having got safely through the troubles of the douane, they chose their carriage and proceeded to arrange their possessions.

"My umbrella!" Aunt Anne cried suddenly, looking anxiously on the racks and under the seat. "Barbara, I must have left it on the boat; why did you not remind me? You must just run back for it now—but don't let the train go without you. Run, child, run!"

Barbara obediently hurried away, and after a halting and somewhat lengthy explanation on the quay, was allowed to go on board again, and spied the missing umbrella on the deck. When she returned, the train had been moved higher up, and she could not distinguish the carriage anywhere. The guard was already beginning to wave the signal, and Barbara felt she was a lost passenger, when a dark, stout little man dashed up to her and seized her by the arm.

"Par ici, par ici," he cried, "votre maman vous attend, mademoiselle," and they flew down the platform with the guard shouting warnings behind them. They were barely in time, and Barbara sank panting into her seat.

"Fancy!" Aunt Anne cried indignantly—"fancy getting lost like that! It just shows that you are not fit to look after children when you cannot manage an umbrella!"

Barbara was too breathless to reply and too much amused, perhaps, really to mind. The country was pretty enough, but it soon began to grow dusk, and they wondered when they would arrive in Paris. The train was due at 7.30, but there did not seem to be the least chance of getting in at that hour, for, late as they already were, they continued to lose time on the way. The little Frenchman was their only companion, and he did not seem to know much English.

However, between his shreds of that language and Barbara's scanty French she managed to find out that they would not arrive in Paris until midnight. Aunt Anne expressed her annoyance in no measured terms, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled, until she collapsed into a corner speechless with disgust. He left them at Rouen, and Barbara, watching her aunt sleeping in a corner, wondered what they would do when they finally did arrive at the station. But, as soon as the lights of the Gare de Lazare showed through the darkness, Miss Britton began to bestir herself, and, when the train stopped, marched boldly out of the carriage as if she had been in Paris dozens of times.

In a little while they were seated in a fiacre, going along through brightly-lighted streets, feeling very satisfied that they were actually nearing their destination. But their content did not last long, for soon leaving the lighted thoroughfares, they turned into a dark road with high walls on either side, and just a lamp now and then. It really seemed rather lonely, and they both began to feel uncomfortable and to wonder if they were being taken to the wrong place. Stories of mysterious disappearances began to flit through Barbara's brain, and she started when Aunt Anne said in a very emphatic tone, "He looked a very nice cabman, quite respectable and honest."

"Yes," Barbara said meekly, though she had hardly noticed him.

"I knew it was some distance from the station, of course."

"Yes," Barbara replied once more, and added, "of course," as Miss Britton began to look rather fierce.

"It was a little stupid of you not to think of proposing to stay in the station hotel while I was collecting the wraps," she went on rather sharply, and Barbara was trying to think of something soothing to say, when the cab drew up suddenly and they were both precipitated on to the hat-boxes on the other seat.

Barbara put her hat straight and looked out of the window. It certainly seemed to be a funny place to which they had come. The houses were high and narrow, and the one they had stopped at had a dirty archway without a single light; but, as the driver showed no intention of getting down and ringing, Barbara stepped out and groped about for a bell or a knocker of some kind. Then the cabman, pointing with his whip up the archway, said, "Numero quatorze, par là." The girl did not much relish going into the darkness by herself, for she was sure there must be some mistake. But