The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. "But calm yourself, dear sister, or the interview will be too much for you. Say I’m out, away, anything!” “I am sorry, sir,” the man answered, “but she had sent away her hansom before I answered the bell. ’ She grasped the girl’s arm. ‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed. Arrived in the plantation she sat down with her back against a tree trunk. "She has flown up stairs," replied the widow. Lucy savored the normalcy of the scene. Melusine sighed with relief at being alone at last and free to resume her search among the portraits. Monsieur Charvill, he is also my cousin. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. But you——” Something seemed to catch his breath.
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