Stooping gently, the lady kissed Jane Peartree on the forehead, and then, with a bright good-night to the others, left the room, closing the door behind her. Jane lay still, and looked at her companions, who were slowly undressing by the light of a small lamp. The eldest was about eight-and-twenty, the youngest not much over eighteen; and, with one exception, they showed no refinement either of appearance or of manner, and clearly belonged to that portion of the lower orders from which society recruits its domestic servants. The exception was a pale, slender girl, obviously in delicate health, who exchanged but few remarks with her companions, and spoke, when she did speak, with a strong French accent. She sat on the side of the bed, slowly removing her outer garments, and breathing heavily, while the others chattered in low tones to each other and occasionally gave vent to a vacant giggling laugh. Presently her eyes met those of Jane Peartree, and after a moment’s hesitation she walked across the room and stood by the bedside. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle,’ she said gently, ‘but you are not well, and you are a stranger. Can I get you anything?’ Jane shook her head; then, seeing the other hesitate, and being attracted by her foreign grace, she asked, in her own tongue-- ‘Are you French?’ The girl’s face brightened strangely at the sound of her native language. ‘No, mademoiselle; I am Belgian. I came from near Brussels.’ ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Adèle, mademoiselle.’ ‘Have you been long here--in this house, I mean?’ ‘Not long--a few weeks. I was sick, and in need of country air, and a kind friend (ah, the kindest in the world) had me sent down here. It is very pleasant all around, and reminds me of my home, and Sister Ursula is so good, but there are many here whom you would detest. You, mademoiselle, are different; I saw that at a glance; for abroad we can tell a lady always from one of these _canaille!_’ The girl spoke rapidly in her own language, while her companions, attracted by the foreign speech, listened without understanding a word, whispered, and made signs to each other. ‘You mistake----, I am no lady,’ cried Jane Peartree, eagerly. Without contradicting her in speech, the French girl smiled sceptically and shook her head. She then began to prattle on, with the fluency of her race, until the new comer, sometimes listening and sometimes questioning, was furnished at last with a tolerably complete account of the house into which she had accidentally been brought, and of the individuals by whom she was surrounded.