Oh! could it—could it be our little Ange? All my knowledge of her childish manner, her shyness and her modesty, seemed to refute the suspicion as an impossibility; but it was still more impossible to believe that Mr. Charteris had seriously addressed those lover-like speeches to old Sophy Markham. My mind became distracted in its ignorance what to think, and how to act. If he were making love to Ange, I felt as if, at all risk, I ought to fly to her rescue; but if he were only making fun of Miss Markham’s undisguised _penchant_ for himself, why my interference would appear very ridiculous, and bring not only discredit on me as a busybody and meddler, but perhaps lay me open to a false inference of jealousy. It was evening—nine or ten o’clock—and I was sitting in my own room, leaning my elbows on the open window-sill, and gazing up into the starless sky. The night was very dark—I remember thinking _how_ dark, as I sat and mused there, sadly. I had seen Madame Marmoret, arrayed in her best gown, with her scarlet shawl across her shoulders, her gold earrings dangling from her ears, and the broad strings of her snow-white cap pinned carefully together at the back of her neck, leave the courtyard some time ago, on a visit of ceremony, I presumed, to some of her friends. I knew that Mr. Lovett was busily engaged in the _salle_ playing _écarté_ with Monsieur Condé, who had looked in to hear if we had enjoyed our visit to his immortal grotto: and I had left Tessie and Ange ironing their father’s shirts in the kitchen. Mr. Charteris I was unable to account for, as he had left the house immediately after dinner, and was probably smoking the calumet of peace with his friend Monsieur de Nesselrode, or perhaps repeating the words which so much troubled me for the benefit of Miss Sophy Markham. Whose then was the figure, decidedly a man’s, which had just entered the courtyard by way of the stables and cow-house, and leant up against the wall outside the kitchen-door? He was smoking a cigar, for I could distinguish the red light as he blew the thin wreaths of smoke into the air; but that was no guide to his personality, since every man in St. Pucelle enjoyed the same privilege. The kitchen window was full in view from where I sat, but the shutters were closed, so I could not see if the girls were still at work within or no. But why did not the stranger, whoever he might be, knock for admittance? Could he have entered the yard with any nefarious intentions? In another moment I am sure I should have spoken to him, had not the kitchen-door opened suddenly, and a second figure stepped out into the darkness. ‘Don’t stay here!’ said a tender voice, which I recognised at once; ‘I cannot come to you. Tessie wants me in the little _salle_!’ ‘Cannot my angel spare me _one_ minute?’ asked Cave Charteris.