the bed in which she died; here are her little trinkets, and there opposite she lies."

The old man said all this quite cheerfully; but it was impressive, for this hospice is an abode for the suffering and for the dead, and the next inhabitant of that quiet churchyard will most likely be that venerable man.

The hospice garden looks now still and beautiful; there is a balmy ripeness in the atmosphere. Some malades are walking up and down; a very old man is hobbling about, leaning and tottering on a pair of crutches; a sœur is watering some flower beds, another is plucking salad and parsley, a priest is pacing to and fro, breviary in hand. A wounded young soldier with his arm in a sling is sitting on a wooden bench, playing with a kitten. The whole place looks poetical in this calm evening light. Mr. Thornycroft is in unison with the place. I bid him good-night, for it is getting dark. I go down the long corridor, reach the staircase, meet a sœur holding a candle, who smiles and shows me the way out. I pass with a shudder the old women's room, and in the dim light perceive a frightful hag making grimaces at me, and gesticulating for me to go away; so I rush quickly through the courtyard and out into a street which skirts the forest. The sun is set, a few bright stars are twinkling; the pine trees look like gaunt spirits on guard. The grasshoppers are chirping, and in the distance I hear an Ave Maria, for it is vesper time at

the hospice.

My days are now busily filled up. Every fine morning I start early and go into the forest to sketch. I am generally accompanied by Mr. Harcourt and the dwarf, who is quite an ally of mine-a sort of pigmy champion. He carries my sketch book and sits by my side, watching with interest the progress of my sketches. In the afternoons I generally go to the hospital and bring flowers and heather from the forest to that poor French girl with the sweet eyes and sad heart. Also I go and have a chat with Mr. Thornycroft, and potter about his quaint room, watch the spider's web, and look out into the garden and look at the sick people inhaling the pure air. My time allotted for my stay is coming to a close; the Joulains insist on my coming with them some Thursday afternoon to the Park, so I consent, and the last Thursday before my departure I array myself in my most fashionable clothes, and we all go together to the Park on that afternoon. The Park is the great rendezvous for the inhabitants and visitors of Ruisseau les Bois. The band is playing when we approach; a crowd of ladies are sitting on wooden chairs, talking, gossiping, and watching everybody. It is a pretty and lively scene-numbers of officers of all ranks and sizes are promenading up and down in full uniform; elegantly dressed women are dotted and grouped about, some are doing

fancy work; bonnes and nurses, with strong detachments of children and babies, are running about; women are selling gingerbread, lollipops, and plaisir-a fragile cake that breaks into a thousand morsels at the slightest touch.

The famille Byse are all sitting under a great tree; the young ladies are all in white and lilac, with elegant Watteau hats perched upon the top of their very high chignons. They are watching everybody from their corner, smiling, laughing, talking and joking; Mr. Byse is the only silent one. I bow to them from a distance, for the Joulains are with me, and I hear them exclaim, "Voilà Monsieur and Madame and Mademoiselle Faquin." They approach, and I have to be introduced. Madame seems a cold conventional little Parisienne, irreproachably dressed; Monsieur is short, sallow, and bilious-looking, with big feet; Mademoiselle, who is about sixteen, is a nice, ladylike, quiet girl, very simply dressed. Madame Faquin invites us all to come and take tea the following evening: we accept, and they retire to a quiet corner a long way off from the Byses. We all sit on chairs, for which we each pay two sous. The band is playing an air out of Gounod's Faust' the garden scene. I look about. How pretty the Park is! On all sides delightful flower-beds-such bright patches of colour! The sky is burning; deep shadows are trembling and shimmering in the ponds; the white swans are gliding gracefully and proudly by, and the carp are busy in the water, snapping up bits of bread that are constantly thrown to them. The leaves on the trees are golden brown, and the music lends an enchantment to the scene. I fancy that I discern a Mephistopheles in the crowd; and there are no doubt a Faust and some Marguerites in this motley throng. Marie's hero is here walking up and down in front of our chairs, casting ardent looks at Marie, who gets red and white. Madame is unconscious of this, and is knitting away at her brown woollen stocking. Marie looks excited and whispers to me that he is getting too intrepid, and she fears that he will do something rash, and so compromise her.

The English widow is pacing up and down, but this time she is not walking with Monsieur Henri Byse, but with a tall distinguished Englishman. I look round at the Byse group and see that he is looking ferocious and scowling, and that his sisters are smiling and evidently teasing him.

The music ceases, and everybody gets up and goes home to dinner. Marie is silent and absorbed. I advise her to confide in her mother, but she refuses. "Mama looks upon me still quite as a child, and if she thought that there was anything of the kind going on I would be very closely guarded, and this innocent happiness put a stop to at

once.

The next evening we start immediately after dinner to go to Madame Faquin's. They live a few streets off. The house is smaller

than Monsieur Byse's; it is a very white, proper, stiff-looking little house. There is a railing round it, and the doorstep and the handles are spotlessly clean; in the front is a trim bed of geraniums, and all round it a gravel walk. The door is opened by a grim-looking servant in black. We are ushered into a very neat bedroom, where we take off our hats and cloaks; then we follow the melancholy bonne and the salon door is opened and we walk in. Madame comes forward to greet us with a cold shake hand, or rather, shake finger; Monsieur seems very absent and addresses all as Messieurs. The floor of the salon is so highly waxed and polished that we have to walk carefully in order not to slip. The chairs are very straight, and all placed in a row close to the wall. The sofa is so stiff, no springs anywhere-impossible to lounge or feel comfortable in this room. The fat Englishman saunters in, and sits by my side. Though only eighteen, he is over six feet high and fat in proportion. I ask him how he likes Ruisseau les Bois. "Not at all," he whispers. "I am awfully bored, and find this terribly slow. I am nearly dying of ennui. I sleep thirteen hours, eat, drink, and talk a little French; that is the way I kill the time. I return home in a fortnight. I do not care for scenery; and they are fearfully slow people don't understand amusement. I go to bed at nine o'clock, and am always asleep or sleepy."

He is certainly not an interesting specimen of humanity. A loud ring at the door, and to my surprise in struts Mr. O'Gorman. I say "to my surprise," for as he was constantly at Byseland I did not think he would favour Pasteur Faquin with his society.

"How is it that you can serve two masters?" I ask him in a whisper.

"Well," says he, "the fact is I am keenly alive to beauty and I always go where I am likely to find it. I admire Mademoiselle Faquin-not as much as I do the Demoiselles Byse. I do not mix in the pasteurs' quarrels and jealousies, so as long as I am at Ruisseau les Bois I shall go to those two houses-not for the sake of the pasteurs, they know that well enough bedad-but for the young ladies. Mademoiselle Faquin is pretty, but I cannot get her to say a wordnever anything but monosyllables, Oui monsieur,' or 'Non,' or 'Ask mamma.' Surely I cannot frighten the girl! I do my best to make her like me, but it is no use. There is one comfort, she has the same reserved cold manner to all. That fat boy over there does his best to flirt, but he fails egregiously."

Tea is served. Madame and Mademoiselle pour out the contentsI cannot call it tea; it is certainly hot water bewitched, with slices of lemon floating on the surface. After le thé we have a little music; Mademoiselle plays a piece of Beethoven, O'Gorman rushes to the piano, turns the leaves, tries to look into her eyes, but no use-Mademoiselle is very reserved and looks steadily down. Madame watches

him with anxiety, evidently she cannot make out this wild Hibernian. Monsieur is in a deep reverie, eyes turned up to the ceiling. The fat boy is lisping a little French to Marie, who is laughing at him. The evening is certainly fearfully dull, there is no conversation possible in this leaden atmosphere; there seems to be a pall over every one. Even Mr. O'Gorman looks at his watch, and it is with a sigh of relief that we all rise to depart.

"What a stupid evening!" I exclaim, the moment we are in the street and out of hearing. "I do not wonder that people generally prefer going to Byseland; there, at all events, dullness does not find its way as it does here."

"Monsieur and Madame Faquin are most worthy people," answers Madame Joulain, "just what a pasteur's family should be quiet, good, without any pretension; not like the Demoiselles Byse, with their tremendous chignons,, big paniers, small hats, and high-heeled shoes."

"You must not say anything against those young ladies," shouts out O'Gorman, wielding his big stick, "I love them all, and I love Mademoiselle Faquin; and in fact all young ladies, you and all. When away from the lips that I love, I make love to the lips that are near."

It is a beautiful idea. We all bid him good-night amidst a general exclamation of "For shame!"

The next day, Monsieur Joulain returns. He is in high spirits, for his tour in Spain has been delightful. He has done a large number of sketches, which he intends to enlarge and work out into fine pictures. He has brought back presents for his wife and children, so everybody is in high good humour. On hearing that I am going to leave Ruisseau les Bois in a couple of days, he says that he will take me the the following day to see some artist friends of his, who live in a small village in the heart of the forest; a small colony of Bohemians. You must see this village before you return to England and all its proprieties and conventionalities.

I gladly consent.

So the next day Monsieur Joulain, Marie, and I start for our expedition to B, accompanied by the faithful dog Ralph. Our walk is delightful. The forest is now quite tinged with brown, red, and golden hues. There is a lovely autumn haze, like a thin silvery veil over the landscape, the air is full of perfumed scents. we approach the village we meet detachments of artists. In front of us struts a tall powerful man, all in velveteen and grey wide-awake hat; he carries on his back a large canvas, on which is begun a sketch of trees and rocks; a little behind him, is an old peasant carrying his easel, box and stool. He nods to Monsieur Joulain, and rapidly disappears amongst the trees.

"Who is this man ?" I ask.

"He is a landscape

"Monsieur Lefevre," he answers, laughing. artist of repute; but he is an original. He is not married, and has such a horror and even terror of women that he will never go near them, and will never visit any place where he is likely to meet your sex."

"What a bear!" exclaim Marie and I.

"I expect that in his youth he has been jilted, and is afraid of falling in love again; that must be the reason," says M. Joulain. Three extraordinary looking men now approach us. One is attired in a sort of sackcloth garment with sandals on his feet, and on his head he wears a large round hat made of dried leaves and herbs. The other is in a suit of brown canvas, and wears a pointed hat, and is smoking a long clay pipe. The third is in short sleeves, blue cotton knickerbockers, scarlet stockings, and on his shaggy pate is a gaudy crimson and gold smoking cap.

"Here are Les trois Mousquetaires,"" exclaims Monsieur Joulain. "They are inseparable.

"So glad to see you!" they shout, as we come near; and the three wild men kiss Monsieur Joulain on both cheeks. They shake hands very cordially with Marie and myself, and insist on our coming to the inn where they are staying, and having dinner. We gladly consent, and we enter the inn of the Golden Palette, the great resort of artists. It is a picturesque yellow house with green blinds, and covered with creepers, and in the midst of a large wild garden. Roses, wallflowers, vegetables and fruit grow up in wild luxuriance. We go upstairs and visit the studios of our three Bohemian friends.

We first go to see the pictures of the man in sackcloth, for he is a celebrated artist. Lying about, everywhere, are a number of delicious landscapes—all twilight effects-grey, misty, ethereal; nothing definite, still full of poetry and feeling.

"No one believed in me till two years ago," he says; "some people laughed at me, but the Emperor, who is a man of taste, bought a large picture of mine at the salon, and I am now the fashion and can get any price I like for my works. My first productions, which no one would ever look at-because I had no name-are now considered first-rate. There is so much humbug in the world. A name, that is the thing!"

The man in knickerbockers now ushers us into his den. It is a large room, filled with bottles, pipes, stuffed birds, skins of animals, lay figures, busts, crockery, photographs, and quaint bits of furniture, and all covered with dust. He brings us at once to his best picture-just sold for a good round sum. "So let us have a first-rate dinner," he shouts out to the landlady, "I can pay for it this evening, which is rarely the case, as you know, Madame Rousseau." Madame R.,