of blood and birth; but believe me, it isn't easy. You, with your
nature, could never do it. The call of the land is strong, and the
time will come when you will long to go home, long to go back to the
land where your father led his soldiers, and where your mother was
admired and loved."

Madame Reynier paused and watched her niece, who, with eyes cast down,
was toying with her spoon. Suddenly a crimson flush rose and spread
over Mélanie's cheeks and forehead and neck, and when she looked up
into Madame Reynier's face, she was gazing through unshed tears. She
rose quickly, came round to the older woman's chair and kissed her
cheek affectionately.

"Dear Auntie, you are very good to me, and patient, too. It's all
true, I suppose; but the prospect of home and Count Lorenzo
together--ah, well!" she smiled reassuringly and again caressed Madame
Reynier's gaunt old face. "I'll think it all over, Auntie dear."

Madame Reynier followed Mélanie into her sitting-room, bringing the
precious orchids in her two hands, fearful lest the fragile vase should
fall. Mélanie regarded them a moment, and then said she thought they
would do better in the drawing-room.

"I sometimes think the little garden pink quite as pretty as an orchid."

"They aren't so much in Mr. Lloyd-Jones' style as these," replied
Madame Reynier. She had a faculty of commenting pleasantly without the
least hint of criticism. This remark delighted Mélanie.

"No; I should never picture Mr. Lloyd-Jones as a garden pink. But