"He isn't an animal," said Miss Gastonguay, abruptly, "he is a fairy prince. One day when I was a witch he offended me, and I changed him from a beautiful young man into this shape. Then I forgot the charm and couldn't effect the transformation, so I keep him about, hoping I may some day remember it. Here, prince, help me off with my coat," and slipping the bit from the animal's mouth, she extended an arm. To Derrice's amusement the small animal daintily nodded his head, then deliberately drawing off the man's coat from Miss Gastonguay's shoulders, held it in his teeth, and politely extended it to her. "Now run away to the stable," she said, and lightly turning the cart on one wheel, he trotted down the drive. CHAPTER VIII. OF MIXED BLOOD. Upon crossing the threshold of the house, Derrice found herself in an interior evidently copied from the French. The floors were of hard wood, a few handsome rugs lay about them; there was an abundance of carving and gilding in the drawing-room that they entered, two gilt clocks, two mirrors, and a trio of high-backed yellow silk sofas. A number of white and gold spindle-legged chairs stood in various graceful attitudes about the room; there were but few hangings and draperies, and scarcely a cushion to be seen. "I hate dust," said Miss Gastonguay, in an explanatory way, "and upholstered furniture and gewgaws all over parlour walls make me ill. The Japanese are the only people who know how to furnish a house. You like this room, don't you?" "Very much," said Derrice, going up to an aromatic fire of small sticks, burning on a white-tiled hearth. "These spring winds nip like pincers," said Miss Gastonguay, stretching out her own hands to the blaze, and stifling a yawn. "Dear me, I wish five o'clock would come." Derrice slightly raised her eyebrows. "That is only the second question you have asked," said Miss Gastonguay. "Yes, I always have tea at five,--a fashion I picked up in England. Whether I am here, or not, the tray comes in. If I don't get it, the twins have it." "Ah,--you have children in the house." "Yes, a pair, sixty-two and sixty-five,--brothers, former small and well-to-do storekeepers in the town--ruined by drink--housed in the asylum for the poor--rescued by me--faithful, but tiresome servants ever since. There's one of them." An old serving-man came tiptoeing into the room. He pretended not to see Miss Gastonguay for an instant, then he started affectedly, made her a little bow, and, going to a distant corner, brought from it a tiny white table, and set it before her. Then lifting the top of a white silk ottoman, he drew from a box inside an exquisitely embroidered cloth, that he spread over the table.