She ran eagerly to a side-table, on which lay a book or two, one of which she opened, and reached out a photograph, which had been laid there for security.  When she brought it to me, she stood leaning lightly against me as we both looked at the same picture.  It was a clear, sharply-defined photograph, with shadows so dark yet distinct as to show the clearness of the atmosphere in which it had been taken.  At the left hand stood a handsome house, with windows covered with lace curtains, and provided with outer Venetian shutters.  In the centre stood a large square garden, with fountains, and arbors, and statues, in the French style of gardening, evidently well kept; and behind this stood a long building of two stories, and a steep roof with dormer windows, every casement of which was provided, like the house in the front, with rich lace curtains and Venetian shutters.  The whole place was clearly in good order and good taste, and looked like a very pleasant home.  It would probably be my home for a time, and I scrutinized it the more closely.  Which of those sunny casements would be mine?  What nook in that garden would become my favorite?  If I could only get there undetected, how secure and happy I might be!

Above the photograph was written in ornamental characters, “Pensionnat de Demoiselles, a Noireau, Calvados.”  Underneath it were the words, “Fonde par M. Emile Perrier, avocat, et par son epouse.”  Though I knew very little of French, I could make out the meaning of these sentences.  Monsieur Perrier was an avocat.  Tardif had happened to speak to me about the notaries in Guernsey, who appeared to me to be of the same rank as our solicitors, while the avocats were on a par with our barristers.  A barrister founding a boarding-school for young ladies might be somewhat opposed to English customs, but it was clear that he must be a man of education and position; a gentleman, in fact.

“Isn’t it a lovely place?” asked the child beside me, with a deep sigh of longing.

“Yes,” I said; “I should like to go.”

I had had time to make all these observations before the owner of the foreign voice, which I had heard at the door, came in.  At the first glance I knew her to be a Frenchwoman, with the peculiar yellow tone in her skin which seems inevitable in middle-aged Frenchwomen.  Her black eyes were steady and cold, and her general expression one of watchfulness.  She had wrapped tightly about her a China crape shawl, which had once been white, but had now the same yellow tint as her complexion.  The light was low, but she turned it a little higher, and scrutinized me with a keen and steady gaze.

“I have not the honor of knowing you,” she said politely.

“I come from Ridley’s agency-office,” I answered, “about a situation as English teacher in a school in France.”

“Be seated, miss,” she said, pointing me to a stiff, high-backed chair, whither the little girl followed me, stroking with her hand the soft seal-skin jacket I was wearing.