travellers in Europe if there wasn't so many monuments to smaht
people. Who must I remembah in Tours?"

"Balzac," said her father, laughing. "The great French novelist. But that
will not be hard. There is a statue of him on one of the principal
streets, and after you have passed him every day for a week, you will
think of him as an old acquaintance. Then this is the scene of one of
Scott's novels--'Quentin Durward.' And the good St. Martin lived here.
There is a church to his memory. He is the patron saint of the place. At
the chateaux you will get into a tangle of history, for their chief
interest is their associations with the old court life."

"Where is Hero?" asked Mrs. Sherman, suddenly changing the conversation.

"He's in the pahlah, stretched out on a rug," answered Lloyd. "It's cool
and quiet in there with the blinds down. The landlady's daughtah said no
one went in there often, in the middle of the day, so nobody would disturb
him, and he'd not disturb anybody. He's all tiahed out, comin' so far on
the cars. May I go walkin' with him aftah awhile, mothah?"

Mrs. Sherman looked at her husband, questioningly. "Oh, it's perfectly
safe," he answered. "She could go alone here as well as in Lloydsboro
Valley, and with Hero she could have nothing to fear."

"I want you to rest awhile first," said Mrs. Sherman. "At four o'clock you
may go."

Leaving Hero comfortably stretched out asleep in the parlour, Lloyd went
back to her room. She lay down for a few minutes across the bed and closed
her eyes. But she could not sleep with so many interesting sights in the
street below. Presently she tiptoed to the window, and sat looking out
until she heard her mother moving around in the next room. She knew then
that she had had her nap and was unpacking the trunks.

"Mothah," called Lloyd, "I want to put on my prettiest white embroidered
dress and my rosebud sash, because I'll meet Cousin Carl and the girls
to-night."

"That is just what I have unpacked for you," said her mother. "Come in and
I'll help you dress."

Half an hour later it was a very fresh and dainty picture that smiled back
at Lloyd from the mirror of her dressing-table. She shook out her crisp
white skirts, gave the rosebud sash an admiring pat, and turned her head
for another view of the big leghorn hat with its stylish rosettes of white
chiffon. Then she started down the hall toward the spiral stairway. It was
a narrow hall with several cross passages, a