“How is this, my dear?” said Mrs. Montreville, with unruffled front, to Menie, as she entered; “are you not gone out for two or three days, as I tell this gentleman?--_mais c'est egal_--it is all one thing. You will say, How d'ye do, and good-bye, to Monsieur, who is so polite as to come to ask after our healths, and as he sees us both very well, he will go away home again.” “I believe, madam,” said Miss Gray, with appearance of effort, “that I must speak with this gentleman for a few minutes in private, if you will permit me.” “That is to say, get you gone? but I do not allow that--I do not like private conversation between young man and pretty young woman; _cela n'est pas honnete_. It cannot be in my house.” “It may be out of it, then, madam,” answered Miss Gray, not pettishly nor pertly, but with the utmost simplicity.--“Mr. Hartley, will you step into that garden?--and, you, madam, may observe us from the window, if it be the fashion of the country to watch so closely.” As she spoke this she stepped through a lattice-door into the garden, and with an air so simple, that she seemed as if she wished to comply with her patroness's ideas of decorum, though they appeared strange to her. The Queen of Sheba, notwithstanding her natural assurance, was disconcerted by the composure of Miss Gray's manner, and left the room, apparently in displeasure. Menie turned back to the door which opened into the garden, and said in the same manner as before, but with less nonchalance,-- “I am sure I would not willingly break through the rules of a foreign country; but I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of speaking to so old a friend,--if indeed,” she added, pausing and looking at Hartley, who was much embarrassed, “it be as much pleasure to Mr. Hartley as it is to me.” “It would have been,” said Hartley, scarce knowing what he said--“it must be a pleasure to me in every circumstance--But this extraordinary meeting--But your father”-- Menie Gray's handkerchief was at her eyes.--“He is gone, Mr. Hartley. After he was left unassisted, his toilsome business became too much for him--he caught a cold which hung about him, as you know he was the last to attend to his own complaints, till it assumed a dangerous, and, finally, a fatal character. I distress you, Mr. Hartley, but it becomes you well to be affected. My father loved you dearly.” “Oh, Miss Gray!” said Hartley, “it should not have been thus with my excellent friend at the close of his useful and virtuous life--Alas, wherefore--the question bursts from me involuntarily--wherefore could you not have complied with his wishes?--wherefore”--