“I might be her twin sister, might I not, if I am not Fleta herself? Ah! no, Fleta’s fate is to live in a court—mine to live in a forest Live!—no, it is not life!” What was it in that voice that made his heart grow hot with passion? Fiercely he exclaimed to himself that it _was_, it _must_, be Fleta’s voice. No other woman could speak in such tones—no other woman’s words give him such a sense of maddening joy. “Oh! yes,” he said, “it is life—when one loves, one lives anywhere.” “Yes, perhaps, when one loves!” was the answer. “You told me this morning that you loved me, Fleta!” cried Hilary in despair. “Ah! but I am not Fleta,” was the mocking answer. It sounded like mockery indeed as she spoke. And yet the voice was Fleta’s. There was no doubt of that. He looked, he listened, he watched. The voice, the face, the glorious eyes, were Fleta’s. It was Fleta who was beside him, say she what she might. They had been following the others all this while, and had now reached a clearing in the wood, where was a garden full of sweet flowers, as Hilary could tell at once by the rich scents that came to him on the night air. “I am glad we have reached the house,” said his companion, “for I am very tired and hungry. Are not you? I wonder what we shall have for supper. You know this is an enchanted place which we call the palace of surprises. We never know what will happen next. That is why one can enjoy a holiday here as one can enjoy it no where else. At home there is a frightful monotony about the eating and drinking Everything is perfect, of course, but it is always the same. Now here one is fed like a Russian one day, and a Hungarian the next. There is a perpetual novelty about the menus, and yet they are always good. Is not that extraordinary. And oh! the wines, great heavens! what a cellar our sainted father keeps. I can only bless, with all my heart, the long dead founders of his order, who instituted such a system.” Hilary had regarded his companion with increasing amazement during this speech. Certainly it was unlike Fleta. Was she acting for his benefit? But at the words “sainted father” another idea thrust that one out of his head. What had become of Father Amyot? He had not seen him leave the carriage, or approach the house. “Oh, your holy companion has gone to his brethren,” said the girl, with a laugh. “They have a place of their own where they torture themselves and mortify the flesh. But they entertain us well, and that is what I care for. We will have a dance to-night. Oh! Hilary, the music here! It is better than that of any band in the world!” “If you are not, Fleta, how do you know my name?”