"I should tell Cousin Guy the whole thing," advised Adrienne. "He is a strong man. Leave him to deal with this lawyer of yours." "No, no, I could not. He must never know it. He does not know things are so serious. He would blame me for it." Adrienne sighed. It seemed hopeless to comfort her aunt. And she could not understand her. At one moment she would talk as if ruin were close to her; at another, of all the gaieties and amusements she hoped to enjoy, when she returned to Orleans for the winter. "You must stay on with me, and come with me to Orleans. There will be young people there and plenty of gaiety. I stay here in the summer for my health; I get patched up for my festivities in the winter." When Adrienne eventually got to bed, she felt as if this day had been the longest in her life. Her aunt's confidences had depressed and tired her. But sleep came to her, and with it refreshment and rest. When the morning dawned, she faced life once more with courage and cheerfulness. She had her coffee early, and at seven was down on the terrace in her riding habit which she fortunately had brought with her. Guy was there with the two horses. He mounted her, and then they rode off in the fresh morning air. He took her through the village, up a steep lane, under flowering limes, and then they came to some green turf beside the pine woods upon which they had a good canter. Adrienne's pink colour and sparkling eyes showed how much she enjoyed it. And presently they began to talk about her aunt. "Have you won her confidence yet?" he asked her. "Not entirely," said Adrienne; "I cannot understand many things. She seems to have plenty of money and yet is always in difficulties." "I want you to help her," said Guy earnestly; "you are young and happy, get her to be interested in the simple things of life. As regards money, she has a way of letting it filter through her fingers; her flat in Orleans costs her more for six months than a year's sojourn here. And Bouverie is quietly, determinedly and systematically robbing her. I have come to her rescue more than once, but I'm going on another tack now. I'm allowing him enough rope to hang himself." "I wonder how much you know," said Adrienne, looking at him thoughtfully. "More than you do," he retorted pleasantly. Adrienne was silent. "Broaden her outlook. Get her interested in others. What did your song say: "'Give as the fresh air, and sunshine are given, Lavishly, utterly, carelessly give.' "You can give her so much and she has so little." "But you are quite mistaken in me," said Adrienne. "I have nothing worth passing on." "You must make little Agatha's acquaintance," he said; "she will show you what can be done. All of us who come in contact with Agatha are strengthened, and bucked up to do, and to give. You're meant to be one of the givers in life; you show it in your face." Adrienne laughed. "What do I show?" she asked. "Sunshine," he replied tersely.