The damsel replied by a pretty grimace.

"Marguerite!" said Mme. de Maufant, with a little frown, "_on ne badine
pas avec l'amour_. Or do you love another perhaps? Ah! _malheureuse_;
art thou still thinking of _ce beau guilliard_, how did they call him?
M. Elliot, I think, the King's page? I hear that he is returned with the
King; and--oh, Marguerite!----"

"I swear to you Rose, I know nothing of M. Elliot--"

As she spoke a low whistle was heard without.

"It is Alain's signal," cried Rose, all in a flutter. "He brings me news
from Michael."

So saying Mme. de Maufant moved with a quick step towards the door
opening on the back yard, whence the signal-whistle evidently came.
Marguerite site still on her _tabouret_, her head hidden in her shapely
white hands.

On reaching the back-door Rose threw a wimple over her head, and
carefully undoing the-chain and bar, admitted le Gallais, weary and
travel-stained. Taking both her hands the young man gazed in her face
with the honest gaze of a loving brother. Then searching in the lining
of his doublet he drew out a letter, or rather a packet tied with
string, and gave it to her.

"He is well," he said, "but his heart suffers."