, but he seemed out of place there; a fine lad of eighteen; very
intelligent, wonderfully good-humoured, and his poor mother had no
peace, night or day, for the thought of what would become of him after
her death; he had no male kinsfolk, and certainly would not stick to a
dull little trade. My father thought, and after thinking, spoke.
'Madame, will you let me take your son to England, and find something
for him to do?' She screamed with delight. 'But will Thibaut consent?'
Thibaut had his patriotic scruples; but when he saw and heard his poor
mother, he consented. Madame Rossignol had a sister near by, with whom
she could live. And so on the spot it was settled."

Piers hung on the speaker's lips; no tale had ever so engrossed him.
Indeed, it was charmingly told; with so much girlish sincerity, so much
womanly feeling.

"No, that's not all. My father went to his inn for the night. Early in
the morning he was hastily summoned; he must come at once to the house
of the Rossignols; something was wrong. He went, and there, in her bed,
lay the little woman, just as if asleep, and a smile on her face--but
she was dead."

Piers had a lump in his throat; he straightened himself, and tried to
command his features. Irene, smiling, looked steadily at him.

"From that day," she added, "Thibaut has been my father's servant. He
wouldn't be anything else. This, he always says, would best have
pleased his mother. He will never leave Dr. Derwent. The good Thibaut!"

All were silent for a minute; then Piers pushed back his chair.

"Work?" said Mrs. Hannaford, with a little note of allusion to last
evening.

"Work!" Piers replied grimly, his eyes down.

"Well, now," exclaimed Irene, turning to her cousin, "what shall we do
this splendid morning? Where can we go?"

Piers left the room as the words were spoken. He went upstairs with
slower step than usual, head bent. On entering his room (it was always
made ready for him while he was at breakfast), he walked to the window,
and stared out at the fleecy clouds in the summer blue, at the trees
and the lawn. He was thinking of the story of Thibaut. What a fine
fellow Dr. Derwent must be! He would like to know him.

To work! He meant to give an hour or two to his Russian, with which he
had already made fair progress. By the bye, he must tell his father
that; the old man would be pleased.

An hour later, he again stood at his window, staring at the clouds and
the blue. Russian was a