She sprang to her feet and exclaimed, with a certain glad ring in her
voice:

"Oh! Noël, is that you? I am so pleased you are back."

"Yes, Marie, it is I, not my ghost, though you look as if you had seen
one. And are you pleased to see me?"

"Of course I am. I think you need scarcely ask that question."

"And what have you been doing, my dear one, since I have been away?"

"Oh! Noël, the time has seemed so long, so wearisome. There has been no
one here to speak to, except for a week or two when Eugène Lacroix came
home for his holidays. I used to watch him paint, and he talked to me
about his work at Laval."

"Marie, I don't like Eugène Lacroix. He is stupid, conceited,
impractical."

"Indeed, I think you are mistaken. M. Bois-le-Duc calls him a genius.
Eugène, too, is a most interesting companion, and he has told me many
tales of countries far beyond here."

"Well, he may be a genius, though I for my part cannot see it. And you,
my dear one, do you long to see those countries beyond the sea? I know
I do. I am tired of this life, this continual struggle for a bare
existence. The same thing day after day, year after year; nothing new
happens. Why did M. Bois-le-Duc teach me of an outer world beyond the