“You would have been as lovely as your Great-aunt Hortense when she was belle of Versailles,” put in Cécile from her seat by the fire. “You mean she will be. You speak as though all this were going on forever, Cécile,” said Hortense, fastening back a long curl with her tortoise-shell comb. “Let’s dance, Spitfire,” suggested Bertran, sliding across the room to her. Marie Josephine nodded. “Yes, I would like to dance. Will you play for us, Cécile?” Cécile stood up and went over to the spinnet. “I’d love to play. See if you can do a gavotte to the shepherd song I was trying yesterday. Do open the jalousie, Bertran, the moon is trying to shine in,” she said, seating herself at the old spinnet which had helped them all to while away the long evenings during the winter. Cécile needed all her courage these days, for the governess talked more freely to her than to the others, and she knew that things were coming to a serious pass at Les Vignes. The men on the place were leaving for the army. Most of them had already gone. There would be no one to till the ground. There was no one on whom they could rely, now that Dian had gone, except Neville, and his only idea of helping was to go again to Paris. Dian had gone and they had had no word. Neville must not leave them. Marie Josephine enjoyed her dance with Bertran. She wore the soft white silk brocade gown that had been made for her thirteenth birthday, and, like Hortense, she had fastened her curls with a comb, a large gilt one of her mother’s which she had borrowed. When they finished, Marie Josephine made Bertran a deep curtsy. She waited until the others were talking and then slipped out of the room. She drew the thick red silk shawl closely about her as she stepped out on to the terrace. The moon was almost full, and its light seemed to bring out each leaf and twig of the great oak at the foot of the terrace steps with startling distinctness. As she stood there in the radiance of the moon, she thought she saw something move under the tree. Some one shrank back into the shadow and moved quickly into the deep underbrush. Marie Josephine waited. She knew that, if it really were any one, after he had gone through the shrubbery, she would see him cross the clearing that led to the forest. In a few moments she saw a woman pass rapidly through the clearing, making for the wood and going in the direction of the gates. The moonlight had fallen full upon her and there was something vaguely familiar about her figure. Marie Josephine stood looking after her. Why was that figure so familiar? Who could it be? Why had she been hiding there in the shadow as though she were spying?