“Come along, Robert, and mind what your mother tells you!” said the Herr Baron with his guttural German accent, as the extraordinary trio pursued their way down the Digue, the Baroness making audible remarks on everybody she met, as they went. Margaret Pullen sat where they had left her, moving about the perambulator, whilst her eyes, like Elinor’s, were fixed upon the tranquil water. The August sun had now quite disappeared, and the indescribably faint and unpleasant odour, which is associated with the dunes of Heyst, had begun to make itself apparent. A still languor had crept over everything, and there were indications of a thunderstorm in the air. She was thinking of her husband, Colonel Arthur Pullen, the elder brother of Miss Leyton’s _fiancé_, who was toiling out in India for baby and herself. It had been a terrible blow to Margaret, to let him go out alone after only one year of happy wedded life, but the expected advent of her little daughter at the time, had prohibited her undertaking so long a journey and she had been compelled to remain behind. And now baby was six months old, and Colonel Pullen hoped to be home by Christmas, so had advised her to wait for his return. But her thoughts were sad sometimes, notwithstanding. Events happen so unexpectedly in this world--who could say for certain that she and her husband would ever meet again--that Arthur would ever see his little girl, or that she should live to place her in her father’s arms? But such a state of feeling was morbid, she knew, and she generally made an effort to shake it off. The nurse, returning with the information she had sent her to acquire, roused her from her reverie. “If you please, Ma’am, the young lady’s name is Brandt, and Philippe says she came from London!” “English! I should never have guessed it!” observed Mrs. Pullen, “She speaks French so well.” “Shall I take the baby now, Ma’am?” “Yes! Wheel her along the Digue. I shall come and meet you by and by!” As the servant obeyed her orders, she called to Miss Leyton. “Elinor! come here!” “What is it?” asked Miss Leyton, seating herself beside her. “The new girl’s name is Brandt and she comes from England! Would you have believed it?” “I did not take sufficient interest in her to make any speculations on the subject. I only observed that she had a mouth from ear to ear, and ate like a pig! What does it concern us, where she comes from?” At that moment, a Mrs. Montague, who, with her husband, was conveying a family of nine children over to Brussels, under the mistaken impression, that they would be able to live cheaper there than in England, came down the Hotel steps with half a dozen of them, clinging to her skirts, and went straight up to Margaret Pullen.