“My poor, pale darling!” she said, kissing the cold cheeks.  “You must stay with us until your lost roses come back.”

But Harriet shook her head.

“I will go to France at once, please,” she said, mournfully.  “Madame Beaufort was always good to me, and it was his last wish.”

Her voice choked.  She turned away her head.

“It shall be as you say, my dear.  But who is to take you?”

“Mrs. Hilliard, and—­I think—­Sir Everard Kingsland.”

Mrs. Hilliard had been housekeeper at Hunsden Hall, and was a distant relative of the family.  Under the new dynasty she was leaving, and had proffered her services to escort her young mistress to Paris.

The Reverend Cyrus, who hated crossing the channel, had closed with the offer at once, and Sir Everard was to play protector.

One week Miss Hunsden remained at the rectory, fortunately so busied by her preparations for departure that no time was left for brooding over her bereavement.

And then, in spite of that great trouble, there was a sweet, new-born bliss flooding her heart.

How good he was to her—­her handsome young lover—­how solicitous, how tender, how devoted!  She could lay her hand shyly on his shoulder, in these calm twilights, and nestle down in his arms, and feel that life held something unutterably sweet and blissful for her still.

As for Everard, he lived at the rectory.  He rode home every night, and he mostly breakfasted at the Court; but to all intents and purposes he dwelt at the parsonage.

“Where the treasure is, there will the heart be also”; and my lady, now that things were settled, and the journey to Constantinople postponed indefinitely, had sunk into a state of sulky displeasure, and was satirical, and scornful, and contemptuous, and stately, and altogether exquisitely disagreeable.

Lady Louise had left Devonshire, and gone back to shine brilliantly in London society once more.

Miss Hunsden went to France with the portly old house-keeper and the devoted young baronet.  Mme. Beaufort received her ex-pupil with very French effusion.

“Ah, my angel! so pale, so sad, so beautiful!  I am distracted at the appearance!  But we will restore you.  The change, the associations—­all will be well in time.”

The lonely young creature clung to her lover with passionate abandon.

“Don’t go back just yet, Everard,” she implored.  “Let me get used to being alone.  When you are with me I am content, but when you go, and I am all alone among these strangers—­”

But he needed no pleading—­he loved her entirely, devotedly.  He promised anything—­everything!  He would remain in Paris the whole year of probation, if she wished, that he might see her at least every week.

She let him go at last, and stole away in the dusky gloaming to her allotted little room.  She locked the door, sat down by the table, laid her face on her folded arms, and wet them with her raining tears.