little traits came out,--a way he has of always putting you in the wrong
even when it's a matter of no consequence any way, and there needn't be
any right or wrong about it. I remembered the place because Mrs. March,
you know, showed us a rose that one of the nuns in the hospital gave
her, and I tried to tell Mr. Arbuton about it, and he graciously took it
as if poor Mrs. March had made an advance towards his acquaintance. I do
wish you could see what a lovely place that court-yard is, Fanny. It's
so strange that such a thing should be right there, in the heart of this
crowded city; but there it was, with its peasant cottage on one side,
and its long, low barns on the other, and those wide-horned Canadian
cows munching at the racks of hay outside, and pigeons and chickens all
about among their feet--"

"Yes, yes; never mind all that, Kitty. You know I hate nature. Go on
about Mr. Arbuton," said Mrs. Ellison, who did not mean a sarcasm.

"It looked like a farmyard in a picture, far out in the country
somewhere," resumed Kitty; "and Mr. Arbuton did it the honor to say it
was just like Normandy."

"Kitty!"

"He did, indeed, Fanny; and the cows didn't go down on their knees out
of gratitude, either. Well, off on the right were the hospital buildings
climbing up, you know, with their stone walls and steep roofs, and
windows dropped about over them, like our convent here; and there was an
artist there, sketching it all; he had such a brown, pleasant face, with
a little black mustache and imperial, and such gay black eyes that
nobody could help falling in love with him; and he was talking in such a
free-and-easy way with the lazy workmen and women overlooking him. He