“Yes, they have gone to Amboise.  They will be home before dark.  I am sorry you missed taking that trip with them, Lloyd.  It is one of the most interesting chateaux around here in my opinion.  Mary, Queen of Scots, went there a bride.  There she was forced to watch the Hugenots being thrown over into the river.  Leonardo da Vinci is buried there, and Charles VIII. was killed there by bumping his head against a low doorway.”

“Oh, deah!” sighed the Little Colonel, “my head is all in a tangle.  There’s so many spots to remembah.  Every time you turn around you bump into something you ought to remembah because some great man was bawn there, or died there, or did something wondahful there.  It would be lots easiah for travellers in Europe if there wasn’t so many monuments to smaht people.  Who must I remembah in Tours?”

“Balzac,” said her father, laughing.  “The great French novelist.  But that will not be hard.  There is a statue of him on one of the principal streets, and after you have passed him every day for a week, you will think of him as an old acquaintance.  Then this is the scene of one of Scott’s novels—­’Quentin Durward.’  And the good St. Martin lived here.  There is a church to his memory.  He is the patron saint of the place.  At the chateaux you will get into a tangle of history, for their chief interest is their associations with the old court life.”

“Where is Hero?” asked Mrs. Sherman, suddenly changing the conversation.

“He’s in the pahlah, stretched out on a rug,” answered Lloyd.  “It’s cool and quiet in there with the blinds down.  The landlady’s daughtah said no one went in there often, in the middle of the day, so nobody would disturb him, and he’d not disturb anybody.  He’s all tiahed out, comin’ so far on the cars.  May I go walkin’ with him aftah awhile, mothah?”

Mrs. Sherman looked at her husband, questioningly.  “Oh, it’s perfectly safe,” he answered.  “She could go alone here as well as in Lloydsboro Valley, and with Hero she could have nothing to fear.”

“I want you to rest awhile first,” said Mrs. Sherman.  “At four o’clock you may go.”

Leaving Hero comfortably stretched out asleep in the parlour, Lloyd went back to her room.  She lay down for a few minutes across the bed and closed her eyes.  But she could not sleep with so many interesting sights in the street below.  Presently she tiptoed to the window, and sat looking out until she heard her mother moving around in the next room.  She knew then that she had had her nap and was unpacking the trunks.

“Mothah,” called Lloyd, “I want to put on my prettiest white embroidered dress and my rosebud sash, because I’ll meet Cousin Carl and the girls to-night.”

“That is just what I have unpacked for you,” said her mother.  “Come in and I’ll help you dress.”

Half an hour later it was a very fresh and dainty picture that smiled back at Lloyd from the mirror of her dressing-table.  She shook out her crisp white skirts, gave the rosebud sash an admiring pat, and turned her head for another view of the big leghorn hat with its stylish rosettes of white chiffon.  Then she started down the hall toward the spiral stairway.  It was a narrow hall with several cross passages, and at one of them she paused, wondering if it did not lead to Eugenia’s and Betty’s rooms.