In truth, the company but late so merry was imperceptibly losing its cheerfulness. Titterings and laughter gave way to silence. They went to the windows and looked at the sky, which remained dark and cloudy. All hopes of a walk were now put an end to. They seated themselves as well as they could on the old furniture—they tried to revive the conversation, but there are thoughts which, like flowers, need a little sun, and droop when the sky is dark. Those young heads seemed bent by the storm, like the garden poplars which we see wave before the wind. An hour passed tediously away. Their hostess, a little discouraged by the failure of her pleasure party, leaned languidly against the balcony of a window, and gazed on the country before her, “There,” said she, “down there on the top of the hill is a small white house which I shall have pulled down, it obstructs the view.” “The white house!” exclaimed the doctor. For more than an hour Doctor Barnabé had remained motionless in his seat. Joy, listlessness, the sun and the rain had followed each other without exciting one word from him. His presence had been entirely forgotten; so that when he pronounced those three words, “the white house!” all eyes were immediately turned upon him. “What interest have you in this house, doctor?” the countess asked. “_Mon dieu!_ madame, do not mind what I said. It will be torn down, doubtless, since such is your wish.” “But why do you regret this decayed old building?” “Because—alas! because it was inhabited by those I loved, and—” “And do they intend to return to it, doctor?” “They are dead—long since, madame—they died when I was young.” And the old man gazed sadly at the white house, which rose from the woods on the hill like a daisy springing mid the grass. There were some moments of silence. “Madame,” said one of the party, aside to Madame de Moncar, “there is a mystery in this: see how sad our Esculapius has grown; some pathetic drama has taken place down there; a youthful love perhaps. Let us ask the doctor to tell us the story.” “Yes, yes,” was whispered on all sides, “let us have the narrative. A tale, a tale, and if there is no interest in it, we shall have the eloquence of the orator to amuse us.” “Not so, gentlemen,” Madame de Moncar answered, in a low tone, “if I ask Dr. Barnabé to tell the story of the white house, it is on condition that no one shall laugh.” Each having promised to be polite and attentive, Madame de Moncar drew near Doctor Barnabé. “Doctor,” said she, seating herself near him, “I perceive some remembrance of former times is connected with this house, which is dear to you. Will you tell it to us? I should be very sorry, indeed, to cause you a grief that it lay in my power to spare you. I will allow the house to remain if you will tell me why you cherish it.” Doctor Barnabé appeared astonished, and was silent. The countess drew still nearer to him, and said—