“You are a stranger,” said Augustine; “you want to find some one? I will help you if I can. Where is it you want to go?” The woman looked at her searchingly, which was but a trick of her imperfect English, to make out by study of her face and lips, as well as by hearing, what she said. Her child began to cry, and she hushed it impatiently, speaking roughly to the curiously-dressed creature, which had a little cap of black stuff closely tied down under its chin. Then she said once more, employing the name evidently as a talisman to secure attention, “Ma sœur! I want Viteladies; can you tell me where it is?” “Whiteladies!” “That is the name. I am very fatigued, and a stranger, ma sœur.” “If you are very fatigued and a stranger, you shall come to Whiteladies, whatever you want there,” said Augustine. “I am going to the house now; come with me--by this way.” She turned into Priory Lane, the old avenue, where they were soon ankle-deep in fallen leaves. The child wailed on the woman’s shoulder, and she shook it, lightly indeed, but harshly. “Tais-toi donc, petit sot!” she said sharply; then turning with the ingratiating tone she had used before. “We are very fatigued, ma sœur. We have come over the sea. I know little English. What I have learn, I learn all by myself, that no one know. I come to London, and then to Viteladies. It is a long way.” “And why do you want to come to Whiteladies?” said Augustine. “It was a strange place to think of--though I will never send a stranger and a tired person away without food and rest, at least. But what has brought you here?” “Ah! I must not tell it, my story; it is a strange story. I come to see one old lady, who other times did come to see me. She will not know me, perhaps; but she will know my name. My name is like her own. It is Austin, ma sœur.” “Osteng?” said Augustine, struck with surprise; “that is not my name. Ah, you are French, to be sure. You mean Austin? You have the same name as we have; who are you, then? I have never seen you before.” “You, ma sœur! but it was not you. It was a lady more stout, more large, not religious. Ah, no, not you; but another. There are, perhaps, many lady in the house?” “It may be my sister you mean,” said Augustine; and she opened the gate and led up to the porch, where on this wet and chilly day there was no token of the warm inhabited look it bore in Summer. There was scarcely any curiosity roused in her mind, but a certain pity for the tired creature whom she took in, opening the door, as Christabel took in the mysterious lady. “There is a step, take care,” said Augustine holding out her hand to the stranger, who grasped at it to keep herself from stumbling. It was almost dark, and the glimmer from the casement of the long, many-cornered passage, with its red floor, scarcely gave light enough to make the way visible. “Ah, merci, ma sœur!” said the stranger, “I shall not forget that you have brought me in, when I was fatigued and nearly dead.”