ged that he would show her the way to the
garden, he ventured a look and smile at Helene. A sudden brightness came
into her face, and she laughed softly. "Henriette might be your little
sister," she said. "You are all alike, I think--at least monsieur your
uncle, and madame your mother, and Henriette, and you--"

"Yes--I've often thought Uncle Joseph ought to be my mother's brother,
not my father's," said Angelot.

He dared not trust himself to look very hard at Helene. He kept his
lightness of tone and manner, the friendly ease which was natural to
him, though his pulses were beating hard from her nearness, and though
her gentle air of intimacy gave him almost a pang of passionate joy. How
sweet she was, how simple, when for a moment she forgot the mysterious
sadness which seemed sometimes to veil her whole nature! Angelot knew
that she liked and trusted him, the strange young country cousin who
looked younger than he was. She thought him a friendly boy, perhaps. Her
eyes, when she looked at him, seemed to smile divinely; they were no
longer doubtful and questioning, as at first. He longed to kneel down on
the pine-needles and kiss the hem of her gown; he longed, he, the
careless sportsman, the philosopher's son, to lay his life at her feet,
to do what she pleased with. But Mademoiselle Moineau was there.

They walked on in the vast old precincts of Lancilly, following the
children. It was all deep shade, with occasional patches of sunshine;
great forest trees, wide-spreading, stretched their arms across sandy
tracks, once roads, that wandered away at the back of the chateau:
through the leaves they could see mountains of grey moss-stained roof
and the peaked top of the old _colombier_. All the yards and buildings
were now between them and the house itself. Along by a crumbling wall,
once white, and roofed with tiles, they came to the broken-down gate of
the garden. It was not much better than a wilderness; yet there were
loaded fruit-trees, peaches, plums, figs, vines weighed down with masses
of small sweet grapes, against the ancient trellis of the wall.
Everywhere a forest of weeds; the once regular paths covered with burnt
grass and stones and rubbish; the fountain choked and dry.

Mademoiselle Moineau groaned many times as she hobbled along; the
walking was rough, the way seemed endless, and the garden, when they
reached it, a sun-baked desert. Angelot guided them to the very middle,
where the old sundial was,