"No, not intended, madame," said the young Frenchwoman, sorrowfully. "Well, what was it? Perhaps you misunderstood; perhaps I can explain what
I said," replied Mrs. Marston, affectionately. "Ah, madame, you think--you think I am unlucky," answered the young
lady, slowly and faintly. "Unlucky! Dear mademoiselle, you surprise me," rejoined her companion. "I mean--what I mean is this, madame; you date unhappiness--if not its
beginning, at least its great aggravation and increase," she answered,
dejectedly, "from the time of my coming here, madame; and though I know
you are too good to dislike me on that account, yet I must, in your eyes,
be ever connected with calamity, and look like an ominous thing." "Dear mademoiselle, allow no such thought to enter your mind. You do me
great wrong, indeed you do," said Mrs. Marston, laying her hand upon the
young lady's, kindly. There was a silence for a little time, and the elder lady resumed:--"I
remember now what you allude to, dear mademoiselle--the increased
estrangement, the widening separation which severs me from one
unutterably dear to me--the first and bitter disappointment of my life,
which seems to grow more hopelessly incurable day by day." Mrs. Marston paused, and, after a brief silence, the governess said:--

"I am very superstitious myself, dear madame, and I thought I must have
seemed to you an inauspicious inmate--in short, unlucky--as I have said;
and the thought made me very unhappy--so unhappy, that I was going to
leave you, madame--I may now tell you frankly--going away; but you have
set my doubts at rest, and I am quite happy again." "Dear mademoiselle," cried the lady, tenderly, and rising, as she spake,
to kiss the cheek of her humble friend; "never--never speak of this
again. God knows I have too few friends on earth, to spare the kindest
and tenderest among them all. No, no. You little think what comfort I
have found in your warm-hearted and ready sympathy, and how dearly I
prize your affection, my poor mademoiselle." The young Frenchwoman rose, with downcast eyes, and a dimpling, happy
smile; and, as Mrs. Marston drew her affectionately toward her, and
kissed her, she timidly returned the embrace of her kind patroness. For a
moment her graceful arms encircled her, and she whispered to her, "Dear
madame, how happy--how very happy you make me." Had Ithuriel touched with his spear the beautiful young woman, thus for a
moment, as it seemed, lost in a trance of gratitude and love, would that
angelic form have stood the test unscathed? A spectator, marking the
scene, might have observed a strange gleam in her eyes--a strange
expression in her face--an influence for a moment not angelic, like a
shadow of some passing spirit, cross her visibly, as she leaned over the
gentle lady's neck, and murmured, "Dear madame, how happy--how very happy
you make me." Such a spectator, as he looked at that gentle lady, might
have seen, for one dreamy moment, a lithe and painted serpent, coiled
round and round, and hissing in her ear. A few minutes more, and mademoiselle was in the solitude of her own
apartment. She shut and bolted the door, and taking from her desk the
letter which she had that morning received, threw herself into an
armchair, and studied the document profoundly. Her actual revision and
scrutiny of the letter itself was interrupted by long intervals of
profound abstraction; and, after a full hour thus spent, she locked it
carefully up again, and with a clear brow, and a gay smile, rejoined her
pretty pupil for a walk. We must now pass over an interval of a few days, and come at once to the
arrival of Sir Wynston Berkley, which duly occurred upon the evening of
the day appointed. The baronet descended from his chaise but a short
time before the hour at which the little party, which formed the family
at Gray Forest were wont to assemble for the social meal of supper. A few
minutes devoted to the mysteries of the toilet, with the aid of an
accomplished valet, enabled him to appear, as he conceived, without
disadvantage at this domestic reunion. Sir Wynston Berkley was a particularly gentleman-like person. He was
rather tall, and elegantly made, with gay, easy manners, and something
indefinably aristocratic in his face, which, however, was a little more
worn than his years would have strictly accounted for. But Sir Wynston
had been a roué, and, spite of the cleverest possible making up, the
ravages of excess were very traceable in the lively beau of fifty. Perfectly well dressed, and with a manner that was ease and gaiety
itself, he was at home from the moment he entered the room. Of course,
anything like genuine cordiality was out of the question; but Mr. Marston
embraced his relative with perfect good breeding, and the baronet
appeared determined to like everybody, and be pleased with everything. He
had not been five minutes in the parlor, chatting gaily with Mr. and Mrs.
Marston and their pretty daughter, when Mademoiselle de Barras entered
the room. As she moved towards Mrs. Marston, Sir Wynston rose, and,
observing her with evident admiration, said in an undertone, inquiringly,
to Marston, who was beside him--

"And this?" "That is Mademoiselle de Barras, my daughter's governess, and Mrs.
Marston's companion," said Marston, drily. "Ha!" said Sir Wynston; "I thought you were but three at home just now,
and I was right. Your son is at Cambridge; I heard so from our old
friend, Jack Manbury. Jack has his boy there too. Egad, Dick, it seems
but last week that you and I were there together." "Yes," said Marston, looking gloomily into the fire, as if he saw, in its
smoke and flicker, the phantoms of murdered time and opportunity; "but I
hate looking back, Wynston. The past is to me but a medley of ill-luck
and worse management." "Why what an ungrateful dog you are!" returned Sir Wynston, gaily,
turning his back upon the fire, and glancing round the spacious and
handsome, though somewhat faded apartment. "I was on the point of
congratulating you on the possession of the finest park and noblest
demesne in Cheshire, when you begin to grumble. Egad, Dick, all I can say
to your complaint is, that I don't pity you, and there are dozens who may
honestly envy you--that is all." In spite of this cheering assurance, Marston remained sullenly silent. Supper, however, had now been served, and the little party assumed their
places at the table. "I am sorry, Wynston, I have no sport of any kind to offer you here,"
said Marston, "except, indeed, some good trout-fishing, if you like it. I
have three miles of excellent fishing at your command." "My dear fellow, I am a mere cockney," rejoined Sir Wynston; "I am not a
sportsman; I never tried it, and should not like to begin now. No, Dick,
what I much prefer is, abundance of your fresh air, and the enjoyment of
your scenery. When I was at Rouen three years ago--"

"Ha!--Rouen?