"I am getting anxious about our villa," he said, when only a few miles lay between them and their destination. "I had a general notion of what they are like, but I never saw this one. Mathieu is a capital man of business, however; and I think, if it be ever safe to do a thing of the kind through an agent, we are safe in this instance." "I am certain to like it, George; you need not fear that; and I shall soon get over the strangeness of having to look after my own affairs. Only fancy the happiness of settling down in my first home with you! The servants will be a difficulty; they won't understand _my_ French, I'm afraid." "What would you say, Annette, if you found a most competent housekeeper there already--a lady whom my father has known for many years, and has selected and sent out in advance, to have everything ready for you--what would you say?" "That it is like the wisdom and kindness of your father. But you seem to imply that this lady came from London. Why did I not see her there? Would it not have been better that we should have been acquainted in the first instance?" "No, my darling; my father thought not. He had good reason. We are rapidly approaching our home, my own wife" (George encircled her with his arms as he spoke), "and I have something to tell you which you could not have borne until now. It is joyful news, Annette. Can you bear to hear it from me?" She looked at him fearlessly, with a candid trusting gaze, which touched him keenly. "I can bear any news, good or ill, which is told me by you; which I am to hear held in your arms, George." "You remember my telling you about my dear old friend, Madame Vaughan--_Maman_, as she loved that I should call her?--and how you wanted to be taken to see her, and my father said No?" "I remember," said Annette. "Is she the lady, George? Is she quite well? I shall be so glad if it is so--if this is the delightful surprise you have had in store for me." "She is the lady, darling; but there is more than this to tell you. Do you remember that _Maman_ had a delusion, as we thought it; was always wearying and pining for a child, complaining that she had been robbed of her, but patiently declaring her belief that she should see her again in this world?" "I remember," said Annette, still keeping her fixed earnest gaze upon her husband. "Has it turned out that this was no delusion? Has she really a child? has the child been found?" "The child is living; her child has been found, and I am taking her home to her." George Wainwright pressed his wife closely to his breast, and spoke the remainder of the sentence in a whisper: "You are that child, my Annette. Oh, be calm and strong, for the sake of the husband's love which brings you to a mother's." * * * * *