broken heart. But somehow, as she stood there, glancing shyly from time to time towards the sick man, the rosy finger of hope seemed busy at the locked door of her heart, which beat swiftly at the messenger's knock, for all her outward calm. And so it came that she lingered in the turret-room, passing from questions of his wound to talk, hesitatingly at first, but with growing curiosity, of that distant home of his in fair Touraine, sunny, laughing Touraine, with its langorous breezes and fair meadows, its fruits and flowers, and the dancing waters of the Loire, so different to their own grey Vilaine. Then, as if half ashamed of her eagerness, or because the brown eyes that looked up into hers brought the blushes to her cheeks and a sudden inexplicable thrill to her beating heart, or because she had caught a grave reproof in Father Ambrose's face which seemed to warn her of unmaidenliness, she became of a sudden the quaintly-stiff little châtelaine once more, speaking to the priest instead of to the patient concerning salves and ointments and such like with the air of a matron of fifty.

"The wound heals favourably," said Father Ambrose, and for all his reverent estate there was a twinkle of amusement, or perhaps sympathy, in his kind old eyes as he glanced from the flushed, childish face, with its framing of red-gold curls and white headdress, to the eager one on the bed, which looked up with such an admiring gaze at the now averted face of his fair visitor. "Monsieur will doubtless be able to continue his journey in a week's time, but he must be careful, for the reopening of an old wound is ever more dangerous than a new one."

"Except the new one be at the heart," smiled d'Estrailles slyly.

Gwennola turned, answering the smile half shyly, half coquettishly, as she replied: "But Monsieur's heart is unscathed? The sword——"

"Truly, mademoiselle is right; the sword spared my heart, but nathless I fear it has not gone unscathed, for what is a sword point compared to a maiden's eyes—if," he added softly, "those eyes be cold?"

Gwennola's face flushed again, and the blue eyes in question drooped, to hide perchance a tell-tale light which shone in them, but Father Ambrose's gentle voice interrupted the conversation.

"Nay, nay, monsieur," he urged reprovingly, "French compliments suit ill to a Breton maiden's ears; for the rest, it is not well that you should talk too long, lest the threatened fever of last night overcome you; if you would be again in the saddle before a week has passed you must e'en be obedient."

"Verily," sighed Henri d'Estrailles with a faint grimace, "your words are doubtless golden, my father, though scarcely sweet to the ear, yet I must e'en obey, seeing that I do ill to grasp too greedily at hospitality which must needs be more pain than pleasure to bestow."

"Nay, monsieur," interrupted Gwennola gently, "we of Mereac grudge no man our hospitality, but——"

"Ay, the but," replied d'Estrailles wistfully. "Mademoiselle, believe me, my gratitude is unbounded, yet I cannot but comprehend how distasteful is the presence of a Frenchman to a family bereaved as the good father here has told me, nor would I linger one moment longer than it is necessary to my hurt; though," he added softly, "I must needs leave behind me for ever somewhat that I had dreamed to keep my own for all time."

She did not reply, only met his pleading glance with one which was half wonder, half glad comprehension, the look of a child who sees before it joys hitherto undreamt of, yet gazes, doubting whether they be for him. The look lingered in her eyes even when she had left the sick man's chamber, and gone slowly down the winding stairway into the great hall.

"Ah, my Nola, so there thou art. Comest thou not with thy old father to-day a-hawking?"

The Sieur de Mereac stood by the long table booted and spurred, his falcon on his wrist, his cloak flung over his shoulder, a gallant figure, in brave attire, his kindly, keen grey eyes fixed questioningly on his daughter. She ran to him, curtsying and smiling, and slipped one slim arm round his caressingly.

"I knew not that it was your pleasure, monsieur my father," she replied, smiling up at him with loving eyes. He stroked back her ruddy curls fondly as he looked down into the beautiful face.

"Thy father always wants thee, little one," he said tenderly, "as thou knowest very well, spoilt child as thou art. And so thou dost not want to come and see me try my new gerfalcon! Donna Maria? tiens! look then how beautiful a bird she is!"

"She is altogether perfect," murmured Gwennola, stroking the bird's soft plumage, "and to-morrow thou shalt again take her hawking, my father, and I will accompany thee on my little Croisette. Say, is it not so?"

"But why not to-day, little bird?" he asked, half impatiently. "See, the sun shines, and the air is glorious. Fie, then! is it because Guillaume is not here?"

A shadow fell across the bright face, and she drew back with a sigh.

"No, my father," she said in a low voice; "that thou knowest very well,—oh, father!"—and once again she clung to him with a sudden, new-born tenderness—"thou knowest that I want none but thee,—only thee for always."

"Nay, child," he replied, patting her cheek kindly "that would never do; but see, when thou art married to Guillaume we shall still be together; there will come no stranger lord to carry my little sunbeam away from Mereac, leaving it cold and grey for ever. Say then, little one, is that not well?—thou and Guillaume, and the old father here? Tiens! give me a kiss, my Gwennola, for her Spanish Majesty waxes as impatient as my good Barbe without. Adieu, petite, and be kind to the poor Guillaume when he returns."

But Gwennola did not reply; perhaps her voice was too choked with tears just then to make answer to her father's words, but, if so, she quickly dashed the bright drops from her eyes as she met the curious gaze of a youth who sat perched on a stool by the side of the empty hearth: a narrow-faced, undersized lad clad in a fool's motley, his quick beady eyes roving restlessly from his young mistress to watch the gambols of a small ape, which, dressed in quaint imitation of his master, chattered and clambered about, first over the rush-strewn floor, then up the dark tapestries, finally alighting between the outstretched forms of two wolf-hounds, which lay dreaming doubtless of the chase, for, as the impudent little jester sprang to their side, they raised their heads with an ominous growl, and might in sleepy anger have terminated a mischievous career, had not the little creature with an agile bound sprung over their bodies on to the knee of his master, where he sat gibbering and chattering like some mocking imp of darkness, whilst the fool rocked himself backwards and forwards on his stool, chuckling shrilly.

"Silence, Pierre!" commanded Gwennola, the more sharply because she had with difficulty regained her composure; "and go quickly, bid Marie and Job Alloadec come hither; tell them that I would have them accompany me to Mereac to see old Mère Fanchonic. And bid Marie bring the warm wrap I promised the old woman."

Pierre obeyed sullenly enough, for it displeased him to have his sport thus interrupted, but Gwennola paid no heed to his frowns, but stood awaiting her attendants with a little smile hovering around her lips, though why she smiled she could not have told,