She said this with a simplicity which made the elder lady smile, and while mademoiselle re-adjusted the tiny flowers which formed the bouquet she had just presented to her, Mrs. Marston good-naturedly recounted to her all she knew of Sir Wynston Berkley, which, in substance, amounted to no more than we have already stated.  When she concluded, the young Frenchwoman continued for some time silent, still busy with her flowers.  But, suddenly, she heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head.

“You seem disquieted, mademoiselle,” said Mrs. Marston, in a tone of kindness.

“I am thinking, madame,” she said, still looking upon the flowers which she was adjusting, and again sighing profoundly, “I am thinking of what you said to me a week ago; alas!”

“I do not remember what it was, my good mademoiselle—­nothing, I am sure, that ought to grieve you—­at least nothing that was intended to have that effect,” replied the lady, in a tone of gentle encouragement.

“No, not intended, madame,” said the young Frenchwoman, sorrowfully.

“Well, what was it?  Perhaps you misunderstood; perhaps I can explain what I said,” replied Mrs. Marston, affectionately.

“Ah, madame, you think—­you think I am unlucky,” answered the young lady, slowly and faintly.

“Unlucky!  Dear mademoiselle, you surprise me,” rejoined her companion.

“I mean—­what I mean is this, madame; you date unhappiness—­if not its beginning, at least its great aggravation and increase,” she answered, dejectedly, “from the time of my coming here, madame; and though I know you are too good to dislike me on that account, yet I must, in your eyes, be ever connected with calamity, and look like an ominous thing.”

“Dear mademoiselle, allow no such thought to enter your mind.  You do me great wrong, indeed you do,” said Mrs. Marston, laying her hand upon the young lady’s, kindly.

There was a silence for a little time, and the elder lady resumed:—­“I remember now what you allude to, dear mademoiselle—­the increased estrangement, the widening separation which severs me from one unutterably dear to me—­the first and bitter disappointment of my life, which seems to grow more hopelessly incurable day by day.”

Mrs. Marston paused, and, after a brief silence, the governess said:—­

“I am very superstitious myself, dear madame, and I thought I must have seemed to you an inauspicious inmate—­in short, unlucky—­as I have said; and the thought made me very unhappy—­so unhappy, that I was going to leave you, madame—­I may now tell you frankly—­going away; but you have set my doubts at rest, and I am quite happy again.”

“Dear mademoiselle,” cried the lady, tenderly, and rising, as she spake, to kiss the cheek of her humble friend; “never—­never speak of this again.  God knows I have too few friends on earth, to spare the kindest and tenderest among them all.  No, no.  You little think what comfort I have found in your warm-hearted and ready sympathy, and how dearly I prize your affection, my poor mademoiselle.”