re not with the dead, they were with
the living.

All at once, it flashed upon him, he remembered that person. That
form, that face, belonged to Adele Rougeant.

He hastily left the graveyard and almost ran down the walk.

One of the two persons who were standing near the gate said: "That
man has seen a ghost."

Frank smiled as he overheard the remark, and, thinking that the
young lady had proceeded past the gate, he went in that direction.

He walked for a quarter of an hour, but neither saw her nor anyone
resembling her. At last, he gave up the chase in despair. "I must
have construed wrongly," he said to himself, "perhaps the person who
was standing near the entrance to the cemetery was right, it was her
ghost." He mournfully retraced his steps.

It was really Adele Rougeant that he had seen. She was returning
from town, when, instead of going straight home by St. Martin's
mill, she went up the Grange, took a peep at her former home, then
proceeded by the Rocquettes down the Rohais. Why; the lady readers
will easily guess.

She espied Frank, just as he was turning down Foulon Vale.

He was so intent on his mission that he did not notice her.

As soon as she saw his eager look and the bunch of flowers which he
carried in his hands, a feeling of exasperating jealousy seized her.
Where was he going with those flowers? "Alas!" she thought bitterly,
"he has a rendezvous with some pretty lass. I will follow him and
ascertain, if possible, the truth."

She walked after him, and when he turned round to look at her, she
hastily looked the other way. Fearing lest he might recognise her,
she retraced her steps and continued her journey homewards down the
Rohais, muttering: "A fine place for a rendezvous."

Something within her tried to reason: "He is nothing to you, you
have no claims upon him." But what of her future, what of her
projected plans, her ideas, her sweet dreams; they were mown down in
this huge and single sweep. Life seemed very dark. Up to this, hope
had kept her radiant and cheerful, and now, hope was gone, and in
its stead, there was a blank.

Arrived home, she fetched her violin and poured forth all her
feelings.

She commenced in a plaintive tone, then this changed to reproach,
and the conclusion was a wail of despair.

Again she tried to rouse herself; again she tried to reason. "Why am
I so concerned about him?" she asked herself. "I must put these
foolish thoughts aside."

But love den