I treated it as wholly thrilling, and indeed I quite found it so. “Where should you go?” “To America.” “Straight away?” “Somehow or other. I’d go to the American consul. I’d beg him to give me money—to help me.” I received this assertion without a smile; I was not in a smiling humour. On the contrary I felt singularly excited and kept my hand on the lock of the gate. I believed, or I thought I believed, what my companion said, and I had—absurd as it may appear—an irritated vision of her throwing herself on consular tenderness. It struck me for a moment that to pass out of that gate with this yearning straining young creature would be to pass to some mysterious felicity. If I were only a hero of romance I would myself offer to take her to America. In a moment more perhaps I should have persuaded myself that I was one, but at this juncture I heard a sound hostile to the romantic note. It was nothing less than the substantial tread of Célestine, the cook, who stood grinning at us as we turned about from our colloquy. “I ask bien pardon,” said Célestine. “The mother of mademoiselle desires that mademoiselle should come in immediately. M. le Pasteur Galopin has come to make his adieux to ces dames.” Aurora gave me but one glance, the memory of which I treasure. Then she surrendered to Célestine, with whom she returned to the house. The next morning, on coming into the garden, I learned that Mrs. Church and her daughter had effectively quitted us. I was informed of this fact by old M. Pigeonneau, who sat there under a tree drinking his café-au-lait at a little green table. “I’ve nothing to envy you,” he said; “I had the last glimpse of that charming Mees Aurore.” “I had a very late glimpse,” I answered, “and it was all I could possibly desire.”