among the hills. Pretty Rosalie was without money. She had neither
fortune nor education. She sprang from a lower class than her
husband; but her young and childish face possessed so rare an order
of beauty that it would be impossible for any man to ask her where
she came from, or what she did. Maurice D'Albert loved her at once.
He married her when she was little more than a child; and for four
years the young couple lived happily among their native mountains;
for Rosalie's home had been only as far away as the Spanish side of
the Pyrenees.

But at the end of four years clouds came. The vine did not bear; a
blight seemed to rest on all vegetation of the prosperous little
farm. D'Albert, for the first time in his life, was short of money
for his simple needs. This was an anxiety; but worse troubles were to
follow. Pretty Rosalie bore him a son; and then, when no one even
apprehended danger, suddenly died. This death completely broke down
the poor man. He had loved Rosalie so well that when she left him the
sun seemed absolutely withdrawn from his life. He lived for many more
years, but he never really held up his head again. Rosalie was gone!
Even his children now could scarcely make him care for life. He began
to hate the place where he had been so happy with his young wife. And
when a distant cousin, who had long desired the little property, came
and offered to buy it, D'Albert sold the home of his ancestors. The
cousin gave him a small sum of money down for the pretty chateau and
vineyard, and agreed to pay the rest in yearly instalments, extending
over twelve years.

With money in his purse, and secure in a small yearly property for
at least some years to come, D'Albert came to England. He had been in
London once for a fortnight, when quite a little lad; and it came