With eyes again dreamily gazing upward, Hélène remained plunged in reverie. She was the Lady Rowena; she loved with the serenity and intensity of a noble mind. That spring morning, that great, gentle city, those early wall-flowers shedding their perfume on her lap, had little by little filled her heart with tenderness. CHAPTER VI. One morning Hélène was arranging her little library, the various books of which had got out of order during the past few days, when Jeanne skipped into the room, clapping her hands. “A soldier, mamma! a soldier!” she cried. “What? a soldier?” exclaimed her mother. “What do you want, you and your soldier?” But the child was in one of her paroxysms of extravagant delight; she only jumped about the more, repeating: “A soldier! a soldier!” without deigning to give any further explanation. She had left the door wide open behind her, and so, as Hélène rose, she was astonished to see a soldier—a very little soldier too—in the ante-room. Rosalie had gone out, and Jeanne must have been playing on the landing, though strictly forbidden to do so by her mother. “What do you want, my lad?” asked Hélène. The little soldier was very much confused on seeing this lady, so lovely and fair, in her dressing-gown trimmed with lace; he shuffled one foot to and fro over the floor, bowed, and at last precipitately stammered: “I beg pardon—excuse—” But he could get no further, and retreated to the wall, still shuffling his feet. His retreat was thus cut off, and seeing the lady awaited his reply with an involuntary smile, he dived into his right-hand pocket, from which he dragged a blue handkerchief, a knife, and a hunk of bread. He gazed on each in turn, and thrust them all back again. Then he turned his attention to the left-hand pocket, from which were produced a twist of cord, two rusty nails, and some pictures wrapped in part of a newspaper. All these he pushed back to their resting-place, and began tapping his thighs with an anxious air. And again he stammered in bewilderment: “I beg pardon—excuse—” But all at once he raised his finger to his nose, and exclaimed with a loud laugh: “What a fool I am! I remember now!” He then undid two buttons of his greatcoat, and rummaged in his breast, into which he plunged his arm up to the elbow. After a time he drew forth a letter, which he rustled violently before handing to Hélène, as though to shake some dust from it. “A letter for me! Are you sure?” said she.