pleasure on the little group encircling her in the Manor Cartier.

"Did you like it so much?" she asked in a general way, and not looking
at any particular person. A particular person, however, replied, and she
had addressed the question to him, although not looking at him. He was
the Man from Outside, and he sat near the bright wood-fire; for though it
was almost June the night was cool and he was delicate.

"Ah, but splendid, but splendid--it got into every corner of every one of
us," the Man from Outside responded, speaking his fluent French with a
slight English accent, which had a pleasant piquancy--at least to the
ears of the pretty singer, Mdlle. Zoe Barbille. He was a man of about
thirty-three, clean-shaven, dark-haired, with an expression of
cleverness; yet with an irresponsible something about him which M. Fille
had reflected upon with concern. For this slim, eager, talkative, half-
invalid visitor to St. Saviour's had of late shown a marked liking for
the presence and person of Zoe Barbille; and Zoe was as dear to M. Fille
as though she were his own daughter. He it was who, in sarcasm, had
spoken of this young stranger as "The Man from Outside."

Ever since Zoe's mother had vanished--alone--seven years before from the
Manor Cartier, or rather from his office at Vilray, M. Fille had been as
much like a maiden aunt or a very elder brother to the Spanische's
daughter as a man could be. Of M. Fille's influence over his daughter
and her love of his companionship, Jean Jacques had no jealousy whatever.
Very often indeed, when he felt incompetent to do for his child all that
he wished--philosophers are often stupid in human affairs--he thought it
was a blessing Zoe had a friend like M. Fille. Since the terrible day
when he found that his wife had gone from him--not with the master-
carpenter who only made his exit from Laplatte some years afterwards--he