ask madame to ask Brossard to let
you come over sometime."

Jules watched her as she hurried away, running lightly down the road,
her fair hair flying over her shoulders and her short blue skirt
fluttering. Once she looked back to wave her hand. Long after she was
out of sight he still stood looking after her, as one might gaze
longingly after some visitant from another world. Nothing like her had
ever dropped into his life before, and he wondered if he should ever see
her again.

CHAPTER V.

A THANKSGIVING BARBECUE.

"This doesn't seem a bit like Thanksgiving Day, Marie," said Joyce,
plaintively, as she sat up in bed to take the early breakfast that her
maid brought in,--a cup of chocolate and a roll.

"In our country the very minute you wake up you can _feel_ that it is a
holiday. Outdoors it's nearly always cold and gray, with everything
covered with snow. Inside you can smell turkey and pies and all sorts of
good spicy things. Here it is so warm that the windows are open and
flowers blooming in the garden, and there isn't a thing to make it seem
different from any other old day."

Here her grumbling was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Madame
Greville's maid, Berthe, came in with a message.

"Madame and monsieur intend spending the day in Tours, and since
Mademoiselle Ware has written that Mademoiselle Joyce is to have no
lessons on this American holiday, they will be pleased to have her
accompany them in the carriage. She can spend the morning with them
there or return immediately with Gabriel."

"Of course I want to go," cried Joyce. "I love to drive. But I'd rather
come back here to lunch and have it by myself in the garden. Berthe, ask
madame if I can't have it served in the little kiosk at the end of
the arbor."

As soon as she had received a most gracious permission, Joyce began to
make a little plan. It troubled her conscience somewhat, for she felt
that she ought to mention it to madame, but she was almost certain that
madame would object, and she had set her heart on carrying it out.

"I won't speak about it now," she said to herself, "because I am not
_sure_ that I am going to do it. Mamma would think it was all right,
but foreigners are so queer about some things."

Uncertain as Joyce may have been about her future actions, as they drove
towards town, no sooner had madame and monsieur stepped from the
carriage, on the Rue Nationale, than she was perfectly sure.

"Stop at the b