taking up his tankard tossed it off at a draught. "Tastes like it, too,
by Jove!" he said. "Old man, out of what fruits in this bleak country
dost thou conjure such a drink?"

Victor smiled. Praise of the cider of the Golden Pear went to his heart
of hearts. "Monsieur has been in Calvados," he said. "It is kind of him
then to praise this poor drink of mine, which would be but scorned
there. There is not a warm enough sunshine to ripen our pears here to
their best, and the variety is not the same; but such as they are, I
have an orchard of twenty trees, and it is by reason of them that the
inn has its name."

Willan was not listening to this conversation. He held his fork, with a
bit of untasted pigeon on it, uplifted in one hand; with the other he
drummed nervously on the table. His eyes were riveted on Victorine, who
stood behind the old man's chair, her soft black eyes glancing quietly
from one thing to another on the table to see if all were right.
Willan's gaze did not escape the keen eyes of Victorine's grandfather.
Chuckling inwardly, he assumed an expression of great anxiety, and
coming closer to Willan's chair said in a deprecating tone,--

"Are not the pigeons done to your liking, sir? You do not eat."

Willan started, dropped his fork, then hastily took it up again.

"Yes, yes," he said, "that they are; done to a turn." And he fell to
eating again. But do what he would, he could not keep his eyes off the
face of the girl. If she moved, his gaze followed her about the room, as
straight as a steel follows on after a magnet; and when she stood still,
he cast furtive glances that way each minute. In very truth, he might