Part 20 (1/2)

The chicken, which came next, was cooked very well, only it had been stuffed with sage and onions, and Monsieur said, with pride, that they had thought it would be nice to give Mademoiselle Britton and her niece _one_ English dish, in case they did not like the other things! It was during this course that Barbara's gravity was a little tried, not so much because of the idea of chicken with sage and onions, as because of the stolidity of her aunt's expression--the girl knowing that if there was one thing that lady was particular about, it was the correct cooking of poultry.

There were various other items on the menu, and it was so evident that their host and his eldest son had taken a great deal of trouble over the preparation of the meal, that the visitors were really touched, and did their best to show their appreciation of the attentions paid them.

In that they were successful, and when they left the house the widower and his sons were wreathed in smiles. But when they had got to a safe distance Aunt Anne exclaimed, ”What a silly man not to keep a servant!”

”Oh, but aunt,” Barbara explained, ”he thinks he could not manage a servant, and he is really most devoted to his children.”

”It's all nonsense about the servant,” Miss Britton retorted. ”How can a man keep house?”

Nevertheless, when Mademoiselle Loire began to question her rather curiously as to the dinner, she said they had been entertained very nicely, and that monsieur must be an extremely clever man to manage things so well.

One other visit Barbara made before leaving St. Servan, and that was to say good-bye to the bath-boy. It had needed some persuasion on her part to gain her aunt's permission for this visit.

”But, aunt, dear,” Barbara said persuasively, ”he helped me with Alice, and lost his place because of it. It would be so _very_ unkind to go away without seeing how they are getting on.”

”Well, I suppose you must go, but if I had known what a capacity you had for getting entangled in such plots, Barbara, really I should have been afraid to trust you alone here. It was time I came out to put matters right.”

”Yes, aunt,” Barbara agreed sedately, but with a twinkle in her eyes, ”I really think it was,” and she went to get ready for her visit to the bath-boy.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE END OF THE STORY.

When the day for parting came Barbara found that it cost her many pangs to leave them all--Mademoiselle Vire first and foremost, and the others in less degree, for she had grown fond even of Mademoiselle Therese.

The latter lady declared she and her household were inconsolable and ”unhappy enough to wear mourning,” which remark Barbara took with a grain of salt, as she did most things that lady said.

But the two sisters and Marie all went to the station to say good-bye, and each of them kissed her on both cheeks, weeping the while. Barbara was not very fond of kisses from outsiders in any case, but ”weeping kisses,” as she called them, were certainly a trial! What finally dried Mademoiselle Therese's tears was to see the widower and his two sons entering the station, each carrying a bouquet of flowers.

”So pus.h.i.+ng of them,” she murmured in Barbara's ear, and turned coldly upon them; but the girl and her aunt were touched by the kindness, and the former felt horribly ashamed when she remembered that more than once in private she had laughed at the quaint little man and his ways.

Barbara heard her aunt muttering something about a ”dreadful humbug”

once or twice, but she was very gracious to every one, and smiled upon them all until the train left the station, when she sank back with an air of relief and exclaimed, ”Thank goodness! That's over--though, of course, they meant it kindly.”

”They are very kind,” Barbara said, looking down at the three bouquets on the seat. ”I really don't deserve that they should be so kind.”

”Probably not,” Miss Britton returned calmly. ”We sometimes get more than our deserts, sometimes less, so perhaps things adjust themselves in the end. I was really rather astonished not to see the bath-boy at the station too--your acquaintance seems so varied.”

”Yes, I have learned a great deal since I went there,” Barbara said thoughtfully; ”and just at the end I felt I didn't want to come away at all.”

”I have no such feelings,” her aunt remarked, though, perhaps, a little thoughtfully also. But when they arrived at Rouen, the remembrance of their pleasant time in Paris returned to them, and they both felt ready for the delights of seeing a new town.

Apart from the information given by the Mortons Barbara felt already familiar with the great churches and quaint streets, and for her Rouen never quite lost the halo of romance that Mademoiselle Vire had endowed it with.

It was to be connected with yet another story of the past, however, before they left it, one which, for romance, was fully equal to Mademoiselle Vire's, though its conclusion was so much happier.

It was the second day of their stay, and after a morning of wandering about the town, both Barbara and her aunt were resting, the former on the balcony in front of her room, the latter on the terrace in the garden. Although a book was in her lap, Barbara was not reading, but, with hands clasped behind her head, was idly watching the pa.s.sers-by, when suddenly laziness vanished from her att.i.tude, and her gaze became intent on the figure of some one who had just turned into the portico of the hotel. She rose from the low chair, her eyes s.h.i.+ning with excitement.