“Anne!  Anne!  We have found you!”

“Mr. Archfield!  You!”

And as Charles Archfield, in true English fashion, kissed her cheek, Anne fairly choked with tears of joy, and she ever after remembered that moment as the most joyful of her life, though the joy was almost agony.

“This is Mistress Anne Woodford, sir,” said Charles, the next moment.  “Allow me, madam, to present Mr. Fellowes, of Magdalen College.”

Anne held out her hand, and courtesied in response to the bow and wave of the shovel hat.

“How did you know that I was here?” she said.

“Doctor Woodford thought it likely, and begged us to come and see whether we could do anything for you,” said Charles; “and you may believe that we were only too happy to do so.  A lady to whom we had letters, who is half English, the Vicomtesse de Bellaise, was so good as to go to the convent at Poissy and discover for us from some of the suite where you were.”

“My uncle—­my dear uncle—­is he well?”

“Quite well, when last we heard,” said Charles.  “That was at Florence, nearly a month ago.”

“And all at Fareham, are they well?”

“All just as usual,” said Charles, “at the last hearing, which was at the same time.  I hoped to have met letters at Paris, but no doubt the war prevents the mails from running.”

“Ah!  I have never had a single letter,” said Anne.  “Did my uncle know anything of me?  Has he never had one of mine?”

“Up to the time when he wrote, last March, that is to say, he had received nothing.  He had gone to London to make inquiries—­”

“Ah! my dear good uncle!”

“And had ascertained that you had been chosen to accompany the Queen and Prince in their escape from Whitehall.  You have played the heroine, Miss Anne.”

“Oh! if you knew—­”

“And,” said Mr. Fellowes, “both he and Sir Philip Archfield requested us, if we could make our way home through Paris, to come and offer our services to Mistress Woodford, in case she should wish to send intelligence to England, or if she should wish to make use of our escort to return home.”

“Oh sir! oh sir! how can I thank you enough!  You cannot guess the happiness you have brought me,” cried Anne with clasped hands, tears welling up again.

“You will come with us then,” cried Charles.  “I am sure you ought.  They have not used you well, Anne; how pale and thin you have grown.”

“That is only pining!  I am quite well, only home-sick,” she said with a smile.  “I am sure the Queen will let me go.  I am nothing but a burthen now.  She has plenty of her own people, and they do not like a Protestant about the Prince.”

“There is Madame de Bellaise,” said Mr. Fellowes, “advancing along the walk with Lady Powys.  Let me present you to her.”

“You have succeeded, I see,” a kind voice said, as Anne found herself making her courtesy to a tall and stately old lady, with a mass of hair of the peculiar silvered tint of flaxen mixed with white.