I carried the parcel eagerly to the light, and took off its manifold wrappings, when it disclosed an exquisitely-moulded Venetian vase of the most costly workmanship, and far superior to anything which we had seen at the Château des Roses that day. At first I could not believe that it was intended for me instead of Tessie; but a little card that fell out of the bowl reassured me. On it, beneath the printed words, ‘Armand de Nesselrode,’ was written, ‘_Pour les fleurs de Mademoiselle Hilda_.’ I felt very much pleased. As an acquisition alone, the Venetian vase would have delighted me; because I possessed a cultivated taste, and took keen interest in all specimens of art, ancient and modern. It would stand on my mantelshelf, and be ‘a joy for ever,’ with its fragile loveliness and perfect grace of form. But far above the value of his little gift, I hailed the evident goodwill of the giver. He had not taken my frank remarks in bad part. My vase was a proof that he was not offended with me. What opportunities, then, might I not hope to gain in the future, to warn him from pursuing the path which my own eyes had told me he still trod! Before Madame had delivered my parcel, I was afraid lest the illegal means by which I had gained my knowledge might for ever prevent my making use of it. Now I felt no fear about it. The Baron de Nesselrode had paved the way for me. He could not complain if I took advantage of his kindness to return it. He had given me a present, and he should receive one in return. If ever I were on the brink of offending him by my good advice, I would plead my little vase as an excuse for trying to return the kindness he had shown me in the only coin I possessed. [Illustration: [Fleuron]] CHAPTER II. ARTHUR THRALE. The sun was streaming down the narrow rocky street of St. Pucelle, in one long, unbroken line of light. I could hear the shrill voice of Madame Marmoret screaming to frighten away the pigeons, as they alighted on the line she had erected in the courtyard to hang her spotless caps and aprons on; and Tessie disturbed me in the midst of writing a long letter home—somehow, I found it difficult to get out of the habit of calling Mrs. Sandiland’s place of residence ‘home’—to ask if I would take my work and go with her to sit on the brow of the hill that overlooked the valley of Artois. ‘It is “pig-killing day” in St. Pucelle, Hilda, and you will find it so much pleasanter to be out of the town than in it.’ ‘_Pig-killing day!_’ I repeated. ‘Tessie, what _do_ you mean?’ ‘Only that each family here keeps a pig, and they kill them all on the same day. Also that they have an unpleasant custom of sacrificing the animals in front of their houses, and the poor things _do_ squeak so.’ I threw all my writing materials to one side in a moment. ‘Mercy on us! When do they begin? Let us get out of this as soon as possible, Tessie.’