“No, no, cousin Ned, you are wrong!” she returned.  “Life without pain is not worth living.  I have heard that the Arabs have a saying, ’All sunshine makes the desert.’  God is good to us when he darkens the sun now and then and gives us the sunshine afterwards.”

“Perhaps you are right, Frances,” I returned.  “But you and I are in the cloud now, and a little sunshine would be most welcome.”

“Not enough sunshine to make a desert,” she answered.

“Ay!  But enough to make a garden,” I returned, as we climbed the narrow flight of steps leading to the private entrance to the Old Swan.

When we paused at the door, Frances said, “Your garden is at hand.”  And when she opened the door, there stood Betty, and I was in Eden.  The moist glow of her eyes, the faint blush of her cheeks, the nervous fluttering of her voice, spoke more eloquently than all the tongues of Babel could have spoken, and I could not help comparing her welcome with that which Maxy Hamilton had given me at the queen’s ball.

Bettina led us to the parlor, and while we were drinking a cup of tea, we had the great pleasure of asking and answering questions of which we always had a large supply in reserve.

When it was time to go, Bettina walked down to the Bridge with us.  As it was growing dark, Frances suggested that I walk back to the Old Swan with Betty, which I did, she taking my arm of her own accord, and both of us very happy, though we spoke not a word, for fear of saying too much, save “good night” at the door.

“Good night at the door!” God gave its sweetness to youth right out of the core of His infinite love.

CHAPTER XII

A PERILOUS EMBASSY

Four or five days after our visit to Bettina, I met De Grammont at Charing Cross, and he surprised me with an invitation to his house that night to meet Monsieur l’Abbe du Boise at supper.

“The king and a dozen other gentlemen will be present,” he said, “but there will be no ladies.  Monsieur l’Abbe, being of the church, is not a ladies’ man, and besides, ladies have sharper eyes than men, and might see much that is intended to remain unseen.”

The count’s remark seemed to settle the question of the Abbe’s identity, and I hastened to Frances with the news.  She assured me that she was ready to die of fright, but showed no outward sign of dissolution, and when I complimented her on her power of self-control, said:—­

“Fortunately, I am part hypocrite, and can easily act a part.”

“You have a hard one ahead of you,” I returned, “and will need all your strength before it is played to the end.”

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