The white dress he had seen was Ethel's. It was an Indian sprigged muslin, set off with black ribbons. Her rich brown hair, so bright in the flicker of sunshine, had nothing to adorn it: her delicate face wore one of its sweetest blushes as he approached. She sat in a kind of grotto formed by the trees, a book resting in her lap while she talked to Flora. That young lady, unmindful of her holiday attire--a costly and very pretty frock of grey silken gauze--for Mrs. Castlemaine had said she might dine at table--was astride on one of the branches. Ethel had in vain told her not to get up there. She jumped down at the sight of Mr. North: the frock was caught, and the result was a woful rent. "There!" exclaimed Ethel in an undertone, for Mr. North had not quite reached them. "Your beautiful new frock! What a pity! If I were mamma I should never buy you anything but stuff and cotton." Flora, even, looked down ruefully at the damage: the frock was new, as Ethel said, costly, and beautiful. "Pin it up, Ethel." "I have no pins here. Besides, pinning would not hold it. It can only be mended. You had better show it to Eliza." The spoilt child ran past Mr. North on her way indoors. He came up to Ethel, bowed, and then held his hand out. With another bright and deeper blush she put hers into it. "I shall get quite the English manners soon," he said, "We do not shake hands much in my country: especially with young ladies. They do not let us." "Do you call France your country?" "Well, I am apt to do so, having lived there so much. I have been making great haste here, Miss Reene, not knowing the hour for dinner." "We dine at six," replied Ethel. "Mamma has but just returned from her drive, and is dressing," she added, as if in apology for being the only one to receive him. "Papa has been out all the afternoon." "Is Madame Guise well to-day?" "Not very. She has one of her bad headaches, I am sorry to say, and is in her room. She will be here shortly." He sat down by Ethel, and took up the book she had been reading; a very old and attractive book indeed--the "Vicar of Wakefield." "What an excellent story it is!" he exclaimed. "Have you read it?" asked Ethel, rising to proceed to the house. "Indeed I have. Twenty times, I should think. My mother had a small store of these old English works, and and my brother revelled in them." "You have brothers and sisters?" "Only one sister now. She is married and lives in France." "Ah, then I can understand why you like to go thither so much," said Ethel, all unconscious that it was his native land; that he had never before been in England. "Is her husband French?" "Yes," replied Mr. North. "Oh, what a lovely rose!" he cried, halting at a tree they were passing, perhaps to change the conversation.