of English girls for investigating churches and public monuments, and I should probably find her sketching some old portal, or perhaps in the cool interior, listening in a kind of day-dream to the subdued clamor of the Gregorian plain-song. The bell had just ceased ringing for vespers as I entered the church, and a small assemblage of worshippers was scattered about among the chairs: a few elaborate ly dressed women, the wives, no doubt, of local magnates; some market-women in highly colored shawls and short petticoats; and one or two aged peasants in threadbare and carefully patched blouses these last the most fervent and devout of the whole assemblage, even including the officiating priest, who required an occasional pinch of snuff to help him on with his breviary. But more to my purpose, I espied, leaning against a column that cut off further view, the grey, time worn head of the old squire. Hilda must be there too, beyond the pillar, but I could not get near enough to see without disturbing the whole congregation, and so I waited patiently till the service a very short one was finished. that perhaps she could come to any actual harm, but that the count might lead her into some embarrassing or compromising position, the heroine of some story that would be told of her during all the rest of her life. Heaven only knew what trick he might play her; misinterpreting perhaps, the free and independent bearing of an English girl, and taking advantage of the purity and unsuspicion of her. nature. By this time the old squire had come to a more lively sense of the situation; he began to grumble out that it was getting late, and that it was too bad of Hilda to keep him waiting so long. When we got back to the inn we found no tidings of Hilda. And now madame la directrice was becoming uneasy. When should we rejoin the yacht and her dear Alphonse? And that charming Monsieur Tom, where was he, and why was not everything ready for departure? But Justine drew me aside with a mysterious air. She had news of mademoiselle. She had driven. off with M. de St. Pol; he had hired fresh horses, and had taken her away -away to the forest. Yes, she had found that out from the people of the inn. There was some old abbey to be visited. What could mademoiselle see in those old ab. beys that were no longer fit for human habitation? But this was at Cérisy, in the very middle of the forest. Ah, why did mademoiselle leave her faithful ser vant behind, who would have protected her from all these dangers ? Most of the people had left the church, but a few were still left, kneeling about here and there, and the squire still kept his seat. I edged round the church towards the pillar. The squire had surely fallen asleep, leaning his withered, tiredlooking face against the cold stone-work. But he was alone, no Hilda was there, and the knowledge of this gave me a certain thrill of undefinable misgiving. I touched After all, Justine seemed to have hit the squire on the arm. He roused him- upon the truth, for the squire, when again self, and turned to me with an air of bland interrogated, seemed to recognize the inquiry. No, he had not been asleep, name Cérisy as that which his daughter but had closed his eyes for a few minutes had told him. The place, too, might be in reflection. He walked with me towards called on the road to Bayeux, although it the door, looking a little dazed and be was a long way out of the direct line. Our wildered after his nap. His memory trusty aide, Tom, having failed us at this seemed to have failed him for the moment. pinch-not exactly from his own fault, He hardly knew where he was, or to whom for how could he have anticipated any unhe was speaking. "Hilda," he replied pleasant result from the pleasant advenvaguely, in answer to my inquiry; "Iture of the turkeys?—and I being left to don't quite know where she is in the my own resources, I persuaded madame garden, or perhaps down in the village," la directrice to accept the escort of the old just as if we had been at Combe Chud squire, and packed them off-Justine leigh. And then he seemed to gather his very unwillingly making one of the party faculties together, sitting down in the - by the next train to Bayeux. And then porch and holding his forehead in his I got Contango harnessed and put in the hands. 'Yes, I think she's gone out," dog-cart, and started off at a slapping he repeated;" gone out with that young pace for Cérisy. Frenchman to see some abbey, but I don't know where." Through pleasant, English-looking country, flat and fertile, with many streams, bridges, and turnings, evening shadows coming on and the setting sun gleaming in the waters, now bank-high from the rising tide through all this I drove, not thinking much about the scenery or surroundings, but engrossed by the one thought, how to reach Hilda and take her away from that recreant count. Hap. pily the trail was clear enough. At each stopping-place where I paused to give Contango a rest and wash out his mouth with cider-and-water, I heard of the phaeton with its pair of horses and the young man with the beard, and the tall young lady. But no one had seen them returning. The way seemed interminable, with cross-roads constantly baffling me, and more than once I missed the way and had to drive back. All the world seemed sunk into repose the birds had retired to rest with immense twitterings, and were silent, but for a nightingale which now and then piped melodiously from a thicket. And then the little village came upon me almost by surprise, calm and tranquil as if life no longer moved there, in a green valley, while standing grey and clear in majestic solitude rose the old abbey church, solid and stern of the true Norman build, the handiwork of the old Norman dukes-standing there like some veteran who has outlived his world, solitary and sad. Something seemed to have kept the village awake, for several people were about. At the door of the little café stood a servant in a strange hat. That was enough. I knew that the count was not far off, although the man very respectfully but insincerely assured me that he did not know where his master had gone. The church, too, where I first went, was empty, a faint light glowing about its massive columns, and not a soul anywhere to be seen. The people, too, whom I asked seemed strangely constrained and silent. It was possible that M. de St. Pol might have been there; he had property in the neighborhood. Indeed, he had a house in the wood close by. And soon I was thundering at the door of this little house in the wood. But there was no one there but a deaf old woman, who to satisfy me showed me into every nook and corner. All was ready for the count, for nobody knew whether he might not come at any moment. But not as yet - no, he had not come as yet, croaked the old woman. And then, at my wits' end, going back to the village I saw a little group gathered in the street about a couple of men in picturesque rags, two sheep with curling horns, and a little girl with a tambourine slung behind her. The little performance was soon over the countrywomen about here were not afraid of sheep, and handled and examined them quite familiarly. And when the performance was over, the little brown girl crept quietly up to me and whispered: "You are looking for the tall mademoiselle; come after me, and I will show you where she is gone.' And so I followed the child, leading Contango by the bridle. "We must be quick, for she walks fast," cried the girl, and as soon as we passed out of the village I lifted the child into the cart, and drove on under her guidance. At the next turn of the road I saw a figure which brought my heart into my mouth. It was Hilda, rising tall against the evening sky, walking resolutely along, while a little behind her a masculine figure seemed to have dif ficulty in keeping up with her, while he addressed all kinds of remonstrances, tender and indignant, without eliciting a reply. At the sound of wheels behind her, Hilda turned and looked eagerly and intently towards me. Next moment I had reached her and leaped down to her side, throwing the reins to the gipsy girl. Hilda gave one long look. "Oh, Frank," she cried, "you have come at last!" and she began to tremble violently while I supported her in my arms. "There, I am all right now," she said, releasing herself from my embrace. "And now, Frank, send that man away,' with a look of scorn and aversion in the direction of M. de St. Pol. A gesture was sufficient, the count turned to depart, when, overcome by anger, I slashed him across the shoulders with the whip. He turned upon us, white with suppressed passion. "You will answer for that blow with your life, monsieur," he cried. "Don't fear him," cried the little gipsy; "I will be your friend, monsieur," and she slipped down from the cart, and disappeared in the forest. "Of course I knew you, Frank," said Hilda, as we travelled swiftly along the road towards Bayeux, having left Cérisy and the vengeful Count de St. Pol far behind. "I knew you at once," she continued; "but as you thought proper to hide yourself behind an alias, it was not for me to break down the barrier you bad raised between us.' That was all very well, I urged, but who had raised the barrier in the first instance the most formidable barrier possiblein the person of Mr. Chancellor, the accepted suitor? Not that I blamed her, 1 indeed. I knew the pressure under which had spent together, culminating in that sorrowful parting before Miss Chudleigh's house at Weymouth. Was it possible, Hilda asked, to have your heart broken more than once? But it was useless, she said, to dwell any more on what had passed away. Mr. Chancellor had behaved splendidly. He was a man of action, full of energy and resource, and he had taken up the Chudleigh family, and brought them out of the pit into which they were falling. He too was an old friend; his father had been a poor curate in a parish near Combe Chudleigh. But John Chancellor had left home when a boy, to seek his fortune among the manufacturing people of Lancashire, and had found it. He had fought his own way to the front, and might be trusted to maintain himself there; but he had re kind to his father; and he had sought out Hilda, although he might well have looked for a more brilliant match. "Can I desert such a man?" asked Hilda. Hilda had been anxious to see this old abbey church of Cérisy; and then there had been a misconception as to the dismembered the Chudleighs, who had been tance. Some country people who had been asked had given the distance as six kilomètres, she understood, or not quite four miles, while in reality six leagues were intended, or at least fifteen miles. The country people cling to their leagues as measures of distance, as they do to their sous in monetary matters, just as if the Revolution had never happened. But the count must have known that Hilda was under a delusion when she informed her father that she would be back in an hour or two. And then there had been delay after delay, wilfully contrived, Hilda believed, by the count, who seemed to enjoy her perplexity and discomfiture. In the end, Hilda had declared her intention of making her way on foot to Bayeux, and had started with that intention, the count urging her with unpleasant persistence to remain, when I appeared upon the scene. For some distance we had travelled along a narrow country road bordering the forest, very quiet and almost gloomy in its shaded stillness; and then we struck into a broad, well-frequented highway, which turned out to be the highroad between Bayeux and St. Lô. This road followed pretty closely the course of the little river Drôme through a fertile pleasant valley in the midst of a gently undulating country, and before long the spires of Bayeux appeared in the distance outlined against the evening sky. There is a strange, yet homelike appearance about these spires of Bayeux, homelike in the twin spires that might belong to some English minster, and strange in the cuAll's well that ends well, and the inci-rious dome that crowns the whole-if dent might have been soon forgotten, but for the unfortunate blow which I had given the count, and which, if he deserved it ever so much, he could hardly be expected to forgive. He would hardly remain beaten and content; but anyhow, it rested with him to take the next step; and why should we mar the sweetness of the hour by any thought of him? Contango seemed to feel that no great speed was required of him for the moment; he fell into a walk which became more and more leisurely as he looked about for something to startle him a cow crop ping the hedge, or the distant whinny of some brother or sister quadruped. We had a hundred things to talk about, dome it can be called, which is neither tower, nor spire, nor dome, but a curious mixture of all three; as if some old Crusader had brought home a cupola from an eastern mosque and stuck it on the top of the grim, solid old cathedral. Presently we pass the little octroi hut, where a sleepy old fellow looks out, but does not take the trouble to ask if we have anything to declare, and so into the precincts of quiet old Bayeux, passing the railway-station, where a little knot of omnibuses are waiting for the train from Paris, and then across a rich, lush valley, where the quiet river Aure winds among willows and elms, and is almost lost in the thick grass and luxuriant foliage. And here on the broad highway the young people of the town are at drill-boys and young men who have not yet reached the age for candidates for the conscription. The boys are restless and fidgety, and inclined to level their chassepots at every passing object; but the youths march smartly enough, and look thoroughly in earnest. A new departure this for France, and likely to develop the love of soldiering, which in most parts of the country had for long almost ceased to exist. Across the road, as you enter Bayeux, still hang the old-fashioned street lamps suspended by a cord as in the days of the Revolution, when it was the fashion to use them for hanging any unhappy aristocrat who might have incurred popular displeasure. Then there is the washing-place, where the old women are still at work beating their clothes and rubbing them in the running stream, chattering all the while and seeming to enjoy their evening toil. One old lady amuses Hilda especially, as she stands in her tub half way in the stream, as if on an island, while she works vigorously away at her lessive. And then a glimpse at the pond, where horses and cattle may drink-a solemn, shady nook, overhung with trees, with fragments of ancient stonework to be seen here and there. After this, into the High Street, for such it must surely be, although it bears the unfamiliar in scription, Rue St. Martin. This is quite an English High Street, like that of Guildford, for example, steep, and up-anddown, with smart little shops all lighted up, where the shopkeepers stand at their doors discussing the affairs of the day and staring at the new arrivals with curious eyes. And then we drive into the courtyard of the Hôtel de Luxembourg, where a pleasant, comely hostess comes out to welcome us. Oh yes, our friends have arrived, and are about to sit down to dinner; but there is no hurry; dinner can be served as much later as we wish. But immediately dinner was over Hilda disappeared for the night. She was quite too tired, she said, to sit up any longer. Justine had everything ready for her mistress, and made great eyes of curiosity, but did not venture to ask any questions. And then the little diligence came in from Port en Bessin - a nondescript vehicle in which only the coupé in front and a bench at the top, still called la banquette, remain as survivals of the ancient, roomy, lumbering diligence. The diligence brought news of the "Sea-Mew," which was lying at anchor outside the harbor, and Wyvern had sent word that the whole party would sleep on board that night and come to Bayeux next day. In the middle of the night there was a great bustle in the hotel. Guests had arrived. Bells rang violently, waiters and chambermaids ran to and fro. Presently there was a knock at my door, and Tom Courtney came in like a whirlwind, eager to tell his adventures. Redmond had driven him to his cottage in the country, not far from Caen. Tom described the place with enthusiasm. Surely Redmond might have been very happy there, with his orchard and his cider-press, with the pretty little paysanne who lived in the cottage close by. He might have married the pretty paysanne, and have set on foot. a new Norman family to grow and flourish when the one in old England should have died out. Perhaps Redmond had had some such ideas in his head before we met him. And then at the sight of people from the world he had left, the current of his ideas was at once changed. If his creditors could be appeased, if his posi tion could be regained, why should he hide himself any longer under a peasant's blue blouse? And as for the pretty paysanne, it was adieu forevermore, my love! Or rather he did not trouble himself to say adieu at all. Redmond would have left all things to take their chance, "Which of our friends have arrived?" his pony, his poultry, and all his little is now the question asked a little anx-pigs; but Tom persuaded him to sell the iously. But the suspense is soon over as whole for a lump sum- - the lump not we appear at the table d'hôte a pro- being of any great size to the stout, longed table d'hôte that is kept up till red-faced Norman who kept the auberge almost any hour at night. There are the of the village. Redmond would not stop old squire and madame la directrice, who to give one shake of the hand, or say one have become excellent friends, it seems, word of adieu, to people who, on his own under the stress of circumstances. No showing, had been very kind and hospitaone else is there, not even Tom, about ble. He was a man thoroughly reckless whom we are getting a little anxious. and selfish, Tom said, who would sacrifice And we slide into our places without re- everybody and everything to the whim of mark from the others, except that Sté the moment. Tom felt, he declared, like phanie sweetly inquires "if mademoiselle the fisherman in the "Arabian Nights' has enjoyed her abbey?" who had let the genius out of the bottle. Then Tom had to listen to my story, and like the captain of the "Thunder Bomb," he very much approved of what I had done, especially the horsewhip business, but he agreed that it was certain we should hear more of the matter in the future. And we must take care that Hilda's name was not brought into the affair. Tom shook his head when he heard of Contango's performance. So much work on a heavy road might put out his chance for the trotting-race. Contango must rest all the following day, and if people wanted to drive anywhere they must go by diligence. Next morning the sun was shining brightly through the green rush-matting of the sun-blinds, and pushing them aside, a pleasant scene presented itself below, where in the garden among flowers and shrubs a table was laid with snow-white cloth and serviettes, where Hilda and her father with madame la directrice were sipping their early morning café au lait. Above them rose the grey roofs of old Bayeux, roofs which owe their pleasant tone and their air of antiquity to the use of a slaty kind of limestone, or stony kind of slate, geologists must decide which; a slaty product, at all events, which is found in the neighborhood, but which is unhappily being replaced by the staring blue slate of commerce. And above the roofs rose the still more hoary towers of the cathedral, and the singular kiosk-like dome. crumbled up a roll as if it were a comfit. And then he vouchsafes a remark in an injured tone, "I suppose we must go and see the tapestry?" Hilda replies with decision: "Of course we must go and see the tapestry." Madame la directrice, with a languid air, exclaims, "Ah, that tapestry, it is something very nice. I think I must get some for my little salon." Tom was inclined to laugh, and madame la directrice saw in a moment that she had made some little mistake, and laughed herself good-humoredly. Never "Have I committed a bétise? mind, since my husband is not here to scold me." When I came down Hilda and the rest were just starting for the Bibliothèque to see the tapestry. It reminded one of go. ing to morning service, there was just that gentle stream of people in one direction. Most of the people were English. There were a couple of fresh-looking English youths, who were going about the country on bicycles; a family of tall girls, who had the air of being in possession of exclusive information on every possible subject; and a married couple, who quarrelled a little in a subdued manner. And besides these, our compatriots, there were a pair of French provincials, who may have the complacent feeling that they were about to assist at the humiliation of perfidious Albion. With all these roofs and towers, the view is not crowded. There is plenty of Hilda confesses to something like a room in old Bayeux; there are big gaps feeling of awe, as we enter the room among the roofs filled up with clumps of where the tapestry is shown. An old foliage; open places with formally clipped lady sitting in the entrance-hall, tranquilly avenues; old mansions with their grassy knitting and keeping an eye upon the viscourts and big gardens, once the hotelsitors, might be a guardian of the dead, of the royal officials no doubt, where now the notary and the huissier mount their brazen emblems of the majesty of the law. Altogether there is an air about the place as if giants had lived there once and pigmies had taken their place. Here are gardens, too, full of roses still, with fat strawberry-beds, and pears ripening on the walls, all fresh and glittering with dewdrops, while Hilda, fresh as a rose as to her cheeks, and dewy as to her lips, sits there and drinks her café au lait, all unconscious of being observed. Madame la directrice is a little yellow in the morning light, and has an air of fatigue, as if she would say with the sluggard, "You have woke me too soon, let me slumber again." Tom has joined the party by this time, bas disposed of his bowl of coffee, and has she ushers us in with such a grave, subdued air. But here it is, the handiwork of those noble dames of old — the mothers, wives, and daughters of those mighty men who hammered out the iron framework of England's greatness. The tapestry is stretched upon a screen and covered with glass, and is still wonderfully fresh and vivid less faded, indeed, than many of the samplers our greatgrandmothers have left behind them and worked in a stitch very much like the modern crewel-work upon hand-made linen that suggests the work of Indian looms. But what we are not quite prepared for is the admirable spirit and life of the work, of which the photographic reproductions give no idea. These an cient dames must have worked with the |