odded, hoping in a formal and quite ungirlish manner that
she would be happy with them. Rose sat down beside her, and looked at
the lace. There were pins stuck in a cushion and Therese threw her
thread over this one and that one. How queer it looked.

"But if you should go wrong?" she inquired.

"Here is the pattern. This is quite simple. I have one very intricate,
but handsome, like they make at home, Maman says. And one with beads. I
took the idea from an Indian woman. I have some finished work, too."

"I have done a little of that. Miladi, that is Madame Destournier, used
to do embroidery. At first she had such a store of pretty things. But
now they cost so much. Only there are always packs of furs to exchange."

M. Hebert came in, with a pleasant word for his guest. They were
extremely sorry that Madame was ill, but it gave them the pleasure of a
visit from Rose. M. Destournier said she was fond of reading; he had
some poets, and books on gardening, out of which he made poetry, smiling
with French gayety.

On the whole, Rose liked the exchange. For a few days it seemed rather
stiff, but there were so many new things, and M. Hebert liked a good
listener. She walked about the garden with him. There were some rare
flowers, of which he was very proud, and several he had found in the
woods. Then there was a bed of herbs, and he distilled remedies, as well
as some delightful perfumes. He soon grew quite fond of the pretty girl
who was so interested in his pursuits, and fond of hearing him read
aloud, and though his wife and children listened amiably, their thoughts
were more on their work. Industry was Madame Hebert's cardinal virtue,
and her daughter was a girl after her own heart.

But this fresh young creature to whom a marvellous world was being
opened, who watched with eager eyes, who smiled or was saddened, who was
sympathetic or indignant, who flushed or paled with the pain of tragedy,
how charming she was!

She often ran up to the old home for a word with Wanamee, who was glad
to see her. Miladi was neither better nor worse, some days so irritable
that nothing could please her.

"She would keep M. Destournier beside her all the time," said Wanamee,
"but a man has business. He is not meant for a nurse, and to yield to
every whim. She is not a happy woman, miladi, and one hardly knows how
much of her illness is imaginary. If she would only brighten up and go
out a little, I think she would be better."

Ros