“I’ll see, madam,” returned the young man.

Why he used the term “madam,” which was undoubtedly misplaced, toward so youthful a person, is only to be explained by an idea he had of exaggerated respect, a kind of protection apparently to her loneliness and helplessness.

He darted headlong out again into the darkness.  “There is a boy here with an open wagon, madam,” returning almost as quickly as he went out.  “It is not an elegant conveyance, but—­” and he hesitated—­“it is the only one.”

“Oh, it will do, thank you:  anything will do which can carry me to the house.  Is there room for my trunk?”

Michael with strong, serviceable arms swung the trunk lightly into the wagon.  She was already seated, the boy, who was to drive, beside her.

“Oh, thank you.”  She drew a diminutive purse from her travelling-bag, and was evidently about to recompense him when something in his manner deterred her.  She thanked him again, for gracious words fell lightly and easily from her lips, and the little vehicle went rattling out upon the road.

Mrs. Pinckney’s house was four or five miles from the station:  the boy drove at a furious pace, and it was by good luck rather than by good guidance that no catastrophe occurred.  The beautiful day was succeeded by a cloudy evening:  neither moon nor stars were visible, and as they passed through the avenue leading to the house, under the branches of magnificent old trees, large drops of rain began to fall.  The light which shone through the open door revealed camp-chairs still standing on the lawn, and children’s toys were scattered over the veranda.  The boy’s rough feet as he carried in her trunk annihilated the face of a smart French doll, and Miss Featherstone’s dress caught on, and was torn by, a nail in a dilapidated rocking-horse.  The light came from a picturesque-looking lamp which hung from an arch in the centre of a broad, low hall.  She rang the bell:  the sound reverberated through the house, yet no one came.  The boy, who had stood the trunk on end, growing impatient, rang again:  they heard voices, hubbub and confusion, children’s cries, servants summoned, a man speaking very volubly in French.  Then very imperfect English sentences were shouted in a kind of despair.  The door was divided in the middle, with a large brass knocker as an appendage to the upper half.  Miss Featherstone, growing anxious and impatient, sounded this vigorously, which brought a maid, who had evidently quite lost her head, to the door.

“This is Mrs. Pinckney’s?” said the young girl in prompt, cheerful tones.  “I am Miss Featherstone, the governess, whom Mrs. Pinckney expects.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the servant in an absent, distracted manner.

“Marie!” shrieked the French voice in shrill tones of alarm and anger.

“Please, miss, I must go.  Do come in and sit down:  I’ll send somebody—­”

“Marie!  Marie!—­Where is that vilaine femme?"