"Ah, I'm not always in the sunshine," said the old man; "not always, not always in the sunshine." She was not sure that he recognised her, yet he kept hold of her hand and would not let it go. "No; you are not always in de sunshine, because de sunshine is not always here," observed Mrs. Tourtel in a reasonable voice, and with a side glance for the visitor. "And I am not always here either," he murmured, half to himself. He took a firmer hold of his cousin's hand, and seemed to gain courage from the comfortable touch, for his thin voice changed from complaint to command. "You can go, Mrs. Tourtel," he said; "we don't require you here. We want to talk. You can go and set the tea-things in the next room. My cousin will stay and drink tea with me." "Why, my cert'nly! of course Mrs. Pedvinn will stay tea. P'r'aps you'd like to put your bonnet off in the bedroom, first, ma'am?" "No, no," he interposed testily, "she can lay it off here. No need for you to take her upstairs." Servant and master exchanged a mute look; for the moment his old eyes were lighted up with the unforeseeing, unveiled triumph of a child; then they fell before hers. She turned, leaving the room with noiseless tread; although a large-built, ponderous woman, she walked with the softness of a cat. "Sit down here close beside me," said Louis Renouf to his cousin, "I've something to tell you, something very important to tell you." He lowered his voice mysteriously, and glanced with apprehension at window and door, squeezing tight her hand. "I'm being robbed, my dear, robbed of everything I possess." Mrs. Poidevin, already prepared for such a statement, answered complacently, "Oh, it must be your fancy, Cousin Louis. Mrs. Tourtel takes too good care of you for that." "My dear," he whispered, "silver, linen, everything is going; even my fine white shirts from the shelves of the wardrobe. Yet everything belongs to poor John, who is in Australia, and who never writes to his father now. His last letter is ten years old--ten years old, my dear, and I don't need to read it over, for I know it by heart." Tears of weakness gathered in his eyes, and began to trickle over on to his check. "Oh, Cousin John will write soon, I'm sure," said Mrs. Poidevin, with easy optimism; "I shouldn't wonder if he has made a fortune, and is on his way home to you at this moment."