ster," said Monsieur, "we forget our
little friends here."

"It is true," said Mademoiselle wiping her eyes with her
pocket-handkerchief, and glancing at the children's upturned astonished
faces, "I am too much exalted. I will restrain myself. Voyons petites
amies," she continued, sitting down between them, "it is this which has
so much moved us. It is that a magnificent, yes, a magnificent fortune
comes to my brother by the death of his cousin. It is a little sudden
at first, but," drawing herself up with dignity, "he will adorn the
position, and we shall now resume the `De' in our name, for our family
is an ancient one."

"Shall you go away?" asked Sophia Jane.

"Assuredly. My brother," looking with much admiration at Adolphe, "will
now have large and important affairs to conduct in Paris."

"I am sorry," said Sophia Jane dejectedly.

Mademoiselle kissed her and Susan with much affection.

"If the sky is cold and grey here in England, we have also found good
and warm hearts," she said, "which we shall never forget. It is
Gambetta with his little tinkling bell who will remind us of some of
them."

But Sophia Jane still looked grave. It was difficult to be glad that
Monsieur and his sister were going away, and Susan's spirits were also
more sober, though it was a relief to find that the letter had contained
good news. A quietness had indeed fallen upon the whole party, for
Adolphe, now that the first excitement was over, sat silently musing
with his gaze fixed dreamily on the distance. Even for Mademoiselle it
was almost impossible to keep on talking all alone, and her remarks
gradually became fewer until the start homewards was made. Then the
movement and the chill evening air seemed to restore her usual
briskness, and she proceeded to describe to the children the exact
situation of the "appartement" which she and Adolphe would occupy on
their return to Paris, and make many brilliant plans for the future. As
they entered the town, observing that her brother still remained silent
and thoughtful, she touched him gently on the knee.

"A quoi pense tu, mon frere?" she asked.

"Of many things, my sister," he replied in French; "and amongst them, of
how we shall best recompense the brave Madame Jones."

Buskin was waiting to take the little girls home, and looked on with
severity at Monsieur's parting bows and graceful wavings of the sailor
hat.

"Make my compliments to Madame, your aunt," said Delph