nore, her
parents being a count and countess of some old regime.

This supposition, retained from her earliest years, had affected her
appearance and her manner. She was a very neat, very trim, even a very
attractive little person, with dark brown, roguish eyes, blue-black
hair, a fairy-like figure, and the prettiest hands and feet imaginable.
She had first attracted Mrs. Greyne's attention by her devotion to St.
Paul's Cathedral, and this devotion she still kept up. Whenever she had
an hour or two free she always--so she herself said--spent it in "_ce
charmant_ St. Paul."

As she entered the oracle's retreat she cast down her eyes, and trembled
visibly.

"What is it, Miss Verbena?" inquired Mrs. Greyne, with a kindly English
accent, calculated to set any poor French creature quite at ease.

Mademoiselle Verbena trembled more.

"I have received bad news, madame."

"I grieve to hear it. Of what nature?"

"Mamma has _une bronchite tres grave_."

"A what, Miss Verbena?"

"Pardon, madame. A very grave bronchitis. She cries for me."

"Indeed!"

"The doctors say she will die."

"This is very sad."

The Levantine wept. Even Suez Canal folk are not proof against all human
sympathy. Mr. Greyne blew his nose beside the fire, and Mrs. Greyne said
again:

"I repeat that this is very sad."

"Madame, if I do not go to mamma tomorrow I shall not see her more."

Mrs. Greyne looked very grave.

"Oh!" she remarked. She thought profoundly for a moment, and then added:
"Indeed!"

"It is true, madame."

Suddenly Mademoiselle Verbena flung herself down on the Persian carpet
at Mrs. Greyne's large but well-proportioned feet, and, bathing them
with her tears, cried in a heartrending manner:

"Madame will let me go! madame will permit me to fly to poor mamma--to
close her dying eyes--to kiss once again----"

Mr. Greyne was visibly affected, and even Mrs. Greyne seemed somewhat
put about, for she moved her feet rather hastily out of reach of the
dependant's emotion, and made her scramble up.

"Where is your poor mother?"

"In Paris, madame. In the Rue St. Honore, where I was born. Oh, if she
should die there! If she should----"

Mrs. Greyne raised her hand, commanding silence.

"You wish to go there?"

"If madame permits."

"When?"

"To-morrow, madame."

"To-morrow? This is decidedly abrupt."

"_Mais la bronchite, madame_, she is abrupt, and death, she may be
abrupt."

"True. One moment!"

There was