and a mist on my spirit which have never since entirely cleared away; however that may be, I never remember so bright and beautiful a summer as the one I am telling you of.  And little Charlotte’s merry laugh was often heard on the terrace walk, as she ran races with Mademoiselle Eliane’s dog, or made daisy wreaths for Mademoiselle Jeanne’s dark hair.  Kindness and companionship were all she required to make her a bright and happy child.  But the pleasant summer faded, and with the first autumn days came a fresh sorrow for the little girl.  One morning, before the usual time for meeting in the garden, I caught sight of her on the balcony, her face looking again like the little pale Charlotte I had first known her, her eyes red with weeping.  And as by good chance the young ladies came out soon the reason was soon explained.

“‘I am going away, my dear young ladies,’ cried Charlotte, as she threw herself into their arms.  ’My aunt has just told me.  We return to England in a few days.  To England, where I have no friends, where I shall be again all alone.  O Mademoiselle Eliane!  O Mademoiselle Jeanne! what shall I do without you, and your pretty garden, and your kindness, and poor old Dudu, and the flowers, and everything?’

“They consoled her as well as they could, my kind young ladies, whose hearts were always full of sympathy.  But the tears came to their own eyes when they saw how real and acute was the little girl’s grief.

“‘You will come back to see us again, little Charlotte, perhaps,’ they said.  ’Your aunt has travelled so much, very likely she will not wish to remain always in England.  And you would always find us here—­in the winter at any rate; generally in the summer we spend some months at our chateau, though this summer our father had business which obliged him to stay here.  But for that we should not have seen you so much.’

“But Charlotte was not to be consoled.  Her aunt, she was sure, would never travel any more.  She had said only that very morning, that once she got back to England she would stay there for the rest of her life, she was too old to move about any more.

“‘And I,’ added Charlotte, with a fresh burst of weeping, ’I am to be sent to an English school as soon as aunt can settle about it.’

“‘But you will be happier at school, dear,’ said Mademoiselle Eliane.  ‘You will have friends of your own age.’

“’I don’t want friends of my own age.  I shall never love any friends as much as my dear Mademoiselle Jeanne and my dear Mademoiselle Eliane,’ sobbed Charlotte; and the only thing that consoled her at all was when the two young ladies found for her among their little treasures a very prettily painted ‘bonbonniere,’ and a quaint little workcase, fitted with thimble, scissors, and all such things, which she promised them she would always keep, always, as souvenirs of their kindness.

“And in return, the poor little thing went out with her aunt’s maid the next morning and bought two little keepsakes—­a scent-bottle for Mademoiselle Jeanne, and a fan for Mademoiselle Eliane.  She spent on them all the money she had; and at this very moment,” added Dudu, “the scent-bottle is downstairs in your mother’s large old dressing-case, the dressing-case she got from her grandfather.  What became of the fan I cannot say.