sent me
here by mistake to wait. Miss Vance is out, he said."

"Yes, I suppose so. But I--I am here." Lucy threw her arms around her
again, laying her head down on her shoulder. She felt as if something
that she had waited for a long time was coming to her. "Sit by the
stove. Your hands are like ice," she said.

"Yes, I am usually cold now; I don't know why."

Lucy then saw a curious change in her face. The fine meanings were not
in it now. It was fatter--coarser; the hair was dead, the eyes moved
sluggishly, like the glass eyes of a doll.

"You are always cold? Your blood is thin, perhaps. You are overtired,
dear. Have you travelled much?"

"Oh, yes! all of the time. I have seen whole tracts of pictures, and
no end of palaces and hotels--hotels--hotels!" Frances said, awakening
to the necessity of being talkative and vivacious with the young girl.
She threw off her cloak. There was a rip in the fur, and the dirty
lining hung out. Lucy shuddered. Mrs. Waldeaux's blood must have
turned to water, or she would never have permitted that!

"You must rest now. I will take care of you," she said, with a little
nod of authority. Frances looked at her perplexed. Why should this
pretty creature mother her with such tenderness?

Oh! It was the girl that George should have married!

She glanced at the white room with its dainty bibelots, the Bible, the
Madonnas, watching, benign. Poor little nun, waiting for the love that
never could come to her!

"I am glad you are here, my child. You can tell me what I want to
know. I have not an hour to spare. I am going to my son--to George.
Do you know where he is?"

"At Vannes, in Brittany."

"Brittany--that is a long way." Frances rose uncertainly. "I hoped he
was near. I was in a Russian village, and Clara's letter was long in
finding me. When I got it, I travelled night and day. I somehow
thought I should meet him on the way. I fancied he would come to meet
me."

Lucy's blue eyes watched her keenly a moment. Then she rang the bell.

"You must eat, first of all," she said.

"No, I am not hungry. Vannes, you said? I must go now. I haven't an
hour."

"You have two, exactly. You'll take the express at eight. Oh, I'm
never mistaken about a train. Here is the coffee. Now, I'll make you
a nice sandwich."

Frances was faint with hunger. As she ate, she watched the pretty
matter-of-fact little girl, and laughed with delight. When had she