“We do not say Mistress in England,” said Helen. “Is he in the law, or in the Church, or a merchant, or only a gentleman? Papa was a very great, great merchant,” she continued, her cheeks colouring warmly. Though she was very quiet and gentle, yet in some things Helen had her pride too. “And what is it to be only a djentleman?” Thérèse said. “That is when you _quite_ belong to the county,” said Helen--“when you have been always there, when the estate goes from father to son. There was a gentleman near Fareham, where we lived, a gentleman called Rashleigh----” “I have heard those names,” said Cécile with a little cry. “John has talked to me--I am sure I have heard them.” A mischievous light glanced over Thérèse’s face. She made a sign to her sister. “All the names in England resemble each other. _Tu te trompes_, Cécile. And here is mamma.” The entrance of Madame la Comtesse put a stop to all the chatter. She herself talked steadily without intermission. She was a handsome, middle-aged woman, threatened, as she told everybody, with a _bronchite_. “I who never had so much as a cold in my life!” The talk of the girls was extinguished, as tapers are extinguished in the light of the day, by the conversation of their mother. She spoke a little English badly, but a great deal of French very well. “So monsieur your father is ill, mademoiselle. I am grieved to hear it. Where there is but one parent, it is then that life becomes precious; though even _sans cela_---- Do not send for the doctor here; it is a good-for-nothing; in medicine _bien entendu_, not in life. For his life, _mon Dieu!_ I know nothing of it,” the Comtesse said, shrugging her shoulders. “He is not of our _monde_. But monsieur your father, mademoiselle, you can do the most for him yourself. You can keep him from emotion; that is the great thing--from emotion. To do that, one must take a great deal of trouble, one must be always watchful; but for so dear a father one does not think of trouble. Were I allowed to go out I should see him; you should have the benefit of my experience; and indeed, when he does me the honour to come here I shall spare no trouble; I shall observe him closely. It is my duty. I should be barbarous, I should not be Christian, did I not endeavour to be of use to you, so young, and a stranger.” “But indeed, madame!” cried Helen in despair, “my father----”