CHAPTER XVI.

How delightful it was to be in the bright south again, to feel that there was a real sun in the heavens above and here and there a real friend or two on the earth below! What a relief it was to have done with squalor and ignoble penury, to be delivered from an engagement which ought never to have been entered into, to come and go at will-in a word, to be as free as air!

This was the sort of thing that Chris kept ejaculating to herself from morning to night after her arrival at Cannes; and perhaps she would not have indulged in such ejaculations quite so often if she had been sure of being as happy as by rights she ought to have been. The Lavergnes were kindness itself. They received her and treated her like a daughter of their own, showing her, indeed, more consideration than the the generality of parents are accustomed to show to their children, in that they asked no questions at all and allowed her to tell them as much or as little as she pleased about the events of the past summer and autumn. Other old friends, too, turned up, and were loud and hearty in their welcome. José, back from a pedestrian circuit among Pyrenean watering-places; the man who sold roasted chestnuts; the shabby sergent de ville; the Italian musicians No. 343.-VOL. LVIII.

and the good-humoured lazy beggars -with all of these it was a joy and a wonder to chat just as of yore; because not one of them was a bit changed, and none of them seemed to realize what an immense period of time had elapsed since the "last season," of which they spoke as though it had ended the day before yesterday. Yet beneath all these pleasant renewals of old associations there lurked an amari aliquid of which Chris was increasingly conscious. "Rien n'est changé; il n'y a qu'un Français de plus," said the king of France, when he returned to a country in which everything was changed except himself. Chris was in the opposite predicament; for although Cannes and its inhabitants remained unaltered, she was no longer the girl who had once been happy there; and what was unfortunate and inexplicable was that the things which had formerly sufficed to make her happy had now lost that power. Well, to be sure, her father was dead, which was a good and respectable reason for sadness; only, when she examined herself, she found that that was not the real reason or at any rate, not the sole one. Then poor dear Peter was no more, and she missed him at every turn; yet somehow or other the loss of Peter did not seem altogether to account for the listlessness and weariness which oppressed her. "I don't know what is the matter with

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me," Chris said to herself with a sigh; "but everything seems very unsatisfactory."

It was Dr. Lavergne who at length enlightened her as to the true nature of her malady. The Doctor had heard from his wife, who had heard from Chris herself, all that could be safely told about Val Richardson, and he knew that the girl was well rid of a bad bargain. Also he was acquainted with the episodes attendant upon her flight to Paris; for of these she made no secret. Now, with such facts before him, and with certain wellknown and unmistakable symptoms staring him in the face, Dr. Lavergne had made a diagnosis of her case which he flattered himself was substantially accurate. Only he could not prescribe a remedy, because, for one thing, he did not believe in prescriptions of any kind, and for another, he needed some further information before he could even suggest a possible cure.

Therefore, while she was helping him to tie up his roses one afternoon, he said abruptly: "Mademoiselle, you are worrying yourself, and that is an extremely foolish thing to do. People who worry themselves become prematurely wrinkled."

"I don't think I am worrying myself," Chris answered. "What have I to worry me?"

"Ah, that is what you should know better than I; but if you really do not know, I might try to guess. Meanwhile, let me assure you that when you are thirty years of age you will bitterly regret having drawn lines in your face which can never be rubbed out, and which in all probability will have no justification for their existence. What are the genuine troubles of life? Disease, sin, want, and the death of those whom we have loved. From the first three of these you are as free as any one can be; from the last I admit that you have suffered; but unless I am very much mistaken, it is not from that that you are suffering now. I conclude, then, that your trouble is of the imaginary class, and since you will

not name it, I will, with your permission, hazard a little conjecture. Your mind is disturbed because you cannot forget that two men once saw you in an equivocal situation in Paris, and because you are afraid that one or other of them will reveal what he saw and what he thought. It would be impossible to conceive of a more groundless apprehension. You will not accuse me of thinking too well of my fellow-creatures; but I venture to assure you that no man of honour (I do not speak of women, they are different) would dream of saying a word about such an encounter.'

"Perhaps not," said Chris. She added after a moment, "It is not their talking about what they saw that I am afraid of."

"Then," said Doctor Lavergne, lifting his head quickly and looking straight at her through his spectacles, "it must be that you attach particular importance to the personal opinion of one of these gentlemen."

There was some indiscretion, not to say brutality, in this speech; but Doctor Lavergne, who was neither indiscreet nor brutal, had his reasons for uttering it. He wanted to befriend the girl, and he could not do that without extorting an admission, tacit or other, from her; so that he was completely baffled and surprised when Chris, without a shade of embarrassment, replied:

"I do attach a good deal of importance to Mr. Severne's opinion. He and I were friends at Brentstow, and I could see by his face, when we parted in Paris, that he despised me. As for Mr. Ellacombe, he may think what he pleases."

"When you next meet Mr. Severne you had better tell him the whole truth," said the Doctor; "but in the meantime, you may be sure that if his good opinion is worth having at all, you will not have lost it. He will have blamed Mr. Richardson, not you. They generally do; and it is nothing to the point that they are generally wrong. Come! if you have no worse