The Comte de Flavigny produced a handkerchief, not too clean. "I think," he said falteringly, "that I want Papa to-night." "My poor lamb!" murmured the old man. "I wish to God that I could give him to you. See now, my bairn, if you were to bring your bowl here and sit on Grandpapa's knee?" He held out his arms, and the small boy slipped from his chair, went to him, and, climbing to his lap, wept a little silently, while his bread-and-milk steamed neglected on the table, and the deep frilled muslin collar round his neck was crumpled, unregarded, against Mr. Elphinstone's breast. "I wish I could go to France and see Papa!" said Anne-Hilarion presently. "My lamb!" repeated Mr. Elphinstone, his cheek pressed against his grandson's head. He did not think it necessary to combat this aspiration. "If M. le Chevalier were here he could find him, Grandpapa. M. le Chevalier is so clever at finding people, is he not?" "Yes, indeed," assented the old man. "But you know, Anne, that M. le Chevalier too is fighting for the King over there." And he did not explain that, so far as he knew, it was hardly a question of 'finding' the Marquis de Flavigny. Anne-Hilarion gave a great sigh. "Perhaps M. le Chevalier will come back with Papa," he suggested. "And I can show him my new goldfish." "And your memoirs, my bairn, with all the pictures you have made of him!" "Yes," agreed the artist. "But, Grandpapa, when _will_ they come back?" _They!_ Mr. Elphinstone seemed to see a tall figure standing by the door, with a face full of grief--alone. Of the two men who shared, in different degrees, this child's heart, one might return, but it would not be the better loved. Why had he this conviction about René, if not to prepare him for the reality? He made a great effort over himself, and said, "They will come back when it pleases God to send them, my child. Now eat up your bread-and-milk." Anne raised a doubtful face. "Perhaps," he objected, "it will not please God for a very long time." "If He sends Papa back in the end, we should not mind waiting even a very long time, should we?" "No-o-o," said the little boy, still dubiously. He got down from his grandfather's knee, and went slowly back to the table. Yet, as he gained his chair, by a means peculiar to himself, he murmured again, "But I _should_ like to see Papa soon." And, with his eyes fixed on some vision of his own, he resumed operations on the contents of his bowl, now somewhat cooled by time and tears. (2)