"A bad family," said Aunt Marguerite. "I'm quite sure that girl stole my piece of muslin lace, and gave it to that wretched woman your Uncle Luke encourages." "No, no, aunt, you lost that piece of lace one day when you were out." "Nonsense, child! your memory is not good. Who is that with you? Oh, I see; Miss Van Heldre." Aunt Marguerite, after suddenly becoming aware of the presence of Madelaine, made a most ceremonious curtsy, and then sailed out of the room. "Louise must be forced to give up the companionship of that wretched Dutch girl," she said as she reached her own door, at which she paused to listen to Liza sobbing. "I wonder what Miss Vine would have been like," thought Madelaine, "if she had married some good sensible man, and had a large family to well employ her mind?" Then she asked herself what kind of man she would have selected as possessing the necessary qualifications, and concluded that he should have been such a man as Duncan Leslie, and wondered whether he would marry her friend. "Why, Madelaine," said Louise, breaking her chain of thought, "what are you thinking about?" "Thinking about?" said the girl, starting, and colouring slightly. "Oh, I was thinking about Mr Leslie just then." Volume 1, Chapter XII. UNCLE LUKE'S SPARE CASH. "Late again," said old Crampton, as Harry Vine entered the office. "How I do hate the sight of that man's nose!" said the young man; and he stared hard, as if forced by some attraction. The old clerk frowned, and felt annoyed. "I beg pardon," he said. "Granted," said Harry, coolly. "I said I beg pardon, Mr Harry Vine." "I heard you." "But I thought you spoke." "No," grumbled Harry; "I didn't speak." "Then I will," said old Crampton merrily. "Good morning, Mr Harry Vine," and he rattled the big ruler by his desk. "Eh? oh, yes, I see. Didn't say it as I came in. Good morning, Mr Crampton." "Lesson for the proud young upstart in good behaviour," grumbled old Crampton. "Bother him!" muttered Harry, as he took his place at his desk, opened a big account book Crampton placed before him, with some amounts to transfer from one that was smaller, and began writing. But as he wrote, the figures seemed to join hands and dance before him; then his pen ceased to form others, and an imaginary picture painted itself on the delicately tinted blue paper with its red lines--a pleasant landscape in fair France with sunny hill-sides on which ranged in rows were carefully cultured vines. To the north and east were softened bosky woods, and dominating all, one of those antique castellated chateaus, with pepper-box towers and gilded vanes, such as he had seen in pictures or read of in some books. "If I only had the money," thought Harry, as he entered a sum similar to that which Pradelle had named. "He knows all these things. He has good advice from friends, and if we won--Hah!"