“Now, don’t you worry about the judge, child,” Cousin Emily replied soothingly; “it will all come out right and, anyway, the best families haven’t money now-a-days!” she added with ineffable disdain, “it’s very vulgar.” “I think I’d risk having it, though!” Rose said, with a sigh. She was really in a dream. The softness of spring was in the atmosphere as they drove through the gay streets, and all the trees in the garden of the Tuileries were delicately fringed with green; the voices of children, the sounds of laughter, now and then a snatch of song, reminded them that it was a holiday. Rose thought of home; the Persian lilac must be budding, the tulip trees, of course, were in flower; a pang of homesickness seized her, a longing to see the old house again--ah, there was the sorrow of it, could they keep the old house much longer? With these thoughts came others, deeply perturbed, which she tried to thrust away. She knew of Margaret’s sudden death, but she had heard but little of it, of Fox nothing. Her father’s letters excluded the whole matter; Mrs. Allestree’s were chary in mention of it, and from Robert there was no word on the subject. Gerty English, strangely enough, had not written since Margaret’s death, and Rose could only piece together the dim outlines of a tragedy which touched her to the soul. There had been moments when she had been bitter against poor Margaret, had held her responsible, now she thought of her with pity. As these things floated before her, in a confused dream of sorrow and regret, she was scarcely conscious of Cousin Emily’s chatter, or of the streets through which they passed, but presently they were set down at their own door and she paid the cabman; Cousin Emily’s French was excellent but it belonged exclusively to the classroom and the phrase-book, and no one in Paris understood it, a fact which bewildered her more than any of her other experiences. They found the _pension_ disturbed by a fire in an adjoining house, and Aunt Hannah was sitting on top of Rose’s trunk with her bonnet on, waiting to be assured that the flames could not reach her. “It’s all out, Aunt Hannah,” Rose assured her, laughing; “the concierge says it was out half an hour ago.” “He don’ know nuthin’ about it, Miss Rose; he ain’t sure dat he’s a liar, an’ I knows he is, bekase I’se caught him at it,” the old woman replied firmly; “de place might be afire sure nuff. It was one ob dem ’lection wires dat set de odder house off, an’ dis place is full ob dem; I don’ tole him ter cut ’em loose, an’ he keep on jabberin’ like a monkey; I ain’t got no manner ob use fo’ dese French people no-ways!” “Nor has Cousin Emily!” laughed Rose, taking off her hat and tossing it to Aunt Hannah, while she passed her hand over her bright hair with a light, deft touch which seemed to bring every ripple into a lovelier disorder; “the poor concierge is a good soul, and he does make us comfortable here.”