"We saw such a lot of ruined houses on our way to Paris, called _chateaux_. They used to be so pretty, Den says, and people lived in them, ladies and gentlemen, just as they do in country houses in England. And then they had their heads cut off in the Revolution, and the chateaux were left to go to wrack and ruin. I heard a lady say so yesterday. She is English, and she said it was very horrid, such a lot of people being killed, only just because they belonged to the nobility. Some of the chateaux that we saw had only poor people in them, and the windows were broken and the roofs were gone from the summer-houses, and the gardens were all wild and untidy. It is thirteen or fourteen years since the Revolution began, and when I get home I mean to read about it all with you. "I do wish you were here too, for there are heaps of things that I want to tell you. Everything is so different from England. It is nice to see, but I don't want to live in France. I like old England much much the best. "I have not been out to-day yet. Mamma thinks I have caught a bad cold. I wish people didn't take colds; they are such stupid silly things. Perhaps I shall be all right to-morrow, and then Den will take me all about everywhere. O dear me, I don't think I can write any more; I feel so sea-sick and funny. And Papa says----" There was no ending to the letter, and Molly read it through a second time. Then she hugged and kissed it tenderly, and at length carried it across to the others. "Roy has forgot to sign his name," she said. "I suppose he went out to see the sights, and did not remember. My mamma thinks he has caught a cold." "Roy is far from well, my dear," Mrs. Fairbank observed solemnly. "He was taken ill with a most unexpected disorder while writing to you, and could not conclude. It is truly unfortunate." "Roy--ill!" "'Tis not good manners to repeat other people's words, Molly. Yes; Roy has the small-pox. Doubtless he took it into his constitution before ever he left England. He must have caught the infection from one of his school-fellows." Polly wound her kind arms round the image of childish woe. "But numbers and numbers of people have the small-pox, Molly," she said. "'Tis truly but a few who altogether escape, you know. And many get over the complaint. Doubtless Roy will soon be well again--in a few weeks." This was lame comfort, but what better could Polly say, in those days of the awful unchecked scourge. "Will his face be all marked?" sadly asked Molly, thinking of the innumerable seamed and disfigured faces which she knew. "Will he become like to Mr. Bryce?"