"I am too hot to look at paintings," querulously returned Madame de Castella. "You may go to the painting-room, but I shall seek Madame Baret, and get a draught of milk. I never was so hot in my life." She went on to the house as she spoke. Adeline and Mary passed through the little gate of the secluded garden, and sat down in the painting-room. Oh, how delightful it was there! how delightful! They had come in from the broad glare, the sultry midday heat, to that shady place; the eye, fatigued with the dazzling light, had found a rest, the fields looked burnt up and brown, but here the grass was fresh and green; the cool, sparkling waters of the fountain were playing, and those lovely flower-beds emitted the sweetest perfume. It was grateful as is the calm, silvery moonlight after a day of blazing heat. Never had Mary Carr seen a place that so forcibly spoke to her mind of rest and peace. Adeline was the first to rise from her seat: something in another part of the room attracted her attention. "Mary! look at this! a painting on the easel! and in progress! Grandmamma said M. d'Estival was away!" Miss Carr turned her head, and in that glance, the first she had really bestowed on the apartment, thought its contents the most heterogeneous mass she had ever beheld. Adeline continued to look at the easel. "There are touches here of a master's hand. It must be M. d'Estival. He paints beautifully. Many of these copies are by him. Or can it be an artist he has here?" "Adeline, you have dropped your handkerchief," said Miss Carr, rising, and picking up one from the floor. She turned to its four corners. In the first three there was no name; in the last, not "A. L. de C.," as she expected, but, worked in hair, and surmounted by a crest, "Frederick St. John." A presentiment of the truth flashed across her brain. A confused remembrance of a young man of noble presence, a French marigold, and Rose Darling's superstitious fears that he would exercise some blighting influence over _her_ future life. She called to Adeline with breathless interest, and the latter came to her immediately, aroused by the tone. "See this, Adeline!" pointing to the name. "It is neither yours nor mine." Adeline read it quite indifferently. "_Don't_ you remember--on your ball-night--he with the French marigold?" "Frederick St. John," said Adeline, carelessly, taking the handkerchief in her hand. "Yes, it is the same name. Probably the same person." How calmly she spoke; how indifferently! An utter stranger, a name she had never heard, could not have excited in her less interest. There was no shadow on her spirit of what was to come.