That evening, when the nurse did not succeed in quieting Dilette, who was for some reason out of sorts, Raymonde insisted on putting the baby to sleep herself, a privilege which she had always enjoyed at the chateau. As a lullaby she sang in a low voice, to the tune of “Malbrough,” a romance of Chérubin. When she came to the stanza: There, by a fountain green, O, my heart, my heart, it grieves! There had my lover been, And my tears were full, I ween. And my grief believes. whether it was because of the contagious sadness of the verses, the memory of our own Green Fountain, or a presentiment of the dangers that threw their shadows across our love, I do not know, but she stopped. I was in the next room and the curtains between us were drawn back. I heard what sounded like a stifled sigh. Awakened by the silence, Dilette began to cry again, and my wife slowly continued her song. * * * The occasion I had chosen for presenting her to society was a reception given one evening by Madame de Saunois, at whose house in the old days I was a frequent guest. Mme. de Saunois is a lady who has attained the summit of that social elegance which springs from exquisite dressing, novel entertainment, clever conversation and the careful cultivation of every natural and artificial charm. Though her age may be subject to some debate, her name and fortune admit of no discussion. Her visiting list is restricted and select, and her invitations are proportionately sought for. Outwardly manners and taste are the same at her house as anywhere else but she would regard herself as old-fashioned if she were thought for one moment to set any limit to liberty of conduct or opinion. She accepts every irregularity of mind or heart if only it is perpetrated by one of the socially elect. According to my ideas at that time her drawing-room was just the one in which I could count upon a gratifying reception for Raymonde. Promptly upon our arrival in Paris I besought my wife to put herself in the hands of one of the big dressmakers. As she seemed almost averse to this idea I myself looked over her wardrobe with her before we started out to order anything new. “What’s this?” I asked, picking up a cheap looking woollen skirt. I did not recognise the little wedding dress that had produced such a sweet and simple effect in the Sleeping Woods. Alas, effects change with place and mood: in Paris the little dress was not the same at all. Guessing my thoughts she said with a blush, “I shall never wear it again, you may be sure.” “Why not give it away to some poor girl to whom it would be of some use?” I said, with the best intentions in the world. Raymonde’s flush, which I did not yet understand, faded suddenly. I saw her cheek whiten. “I was a poor girl once,” she said. “Oh, but you must forget that.” “No, let me have my memories. If ever I am tempted to become proud some day, they will keep me humble.”