ir, but sat wrapped in her
crimson mantle.

She was gravely studying the inscription on the statue of Petrarch.

"Life flies apace and tarries not an hour," she said, translating to
me. "Monsieur Gaston Cheverny was mistaken in saying the next line is
here--about Death following Life with huge strides. I am glad it is
not here--it would be too sad."

"Whoever placed the inscription here had looked into the serious face
of Life which always confronts us," I said.

Francezka turned on me two laughing eyes.

"Life turns a face all smiles to me now," she said. "I am glad I am
not complete mistress of myself and my possessions yet. One should sip
and taste of pleasure before drinking a full draft. My father, you
must know, did not have the French idea of marrying me out of hand;
and I mean not to marry until I find a man I can not live without. It
will be time enough then. And as for being timid--only look at my Aunt
Peggy! She does as she likes and has done so all her life; and instead
of being herself afraid, everybody is afraid of her--and she is very
much esteemed by all who know her."

I had seen, for long, that Madame Riano's example was not wasted on
her niece, but Francezka, like most young spirits--or rather, all
young spirits--knew not how to weigh and compare. Madame Riano had
never enjoyed the beauty or the fortune of this young girl, and her
youth was safe from the dangers that lie in the path of beauty and
riches.

"But one thing I am resolved upon," said Francezka. "However happy I
may be--and I am at this moment so happy I can scarcely forbear to
sing--I danced this morning in my bedroom for very joy--I say no
matter how happy I may be, I shall try to do some good in the world.
At least I can make gifts."

"Yes," I answered, "that is the cheapest form of goodness. You give
away what would else be in your way." An ungallant speech, but made
with a purpose.

Francezka looked at me angrily for a moment, then smiled and took my
hand in her two velvet palms.

"Babache, you are like a chestnut bur, sometimes--but I love you--and
I shall always heed what you tell me. Can I do more?"

She then rose and we walked about the garden, and looked down at the
lake, still darkly shaded by the cedars on the brink, although the sun
was now blazing in the east. We spoke not much. Francezka's joy seemed
to have grown quieter, if more intense. In the pauses of our talk, I
found the lake had a voice--a voice like it