own body-servant that I have been, as was fitting for his own foster-brother, till now, when not one of the servants, barring myself and Maitre Hebert, the steward, will follow Madame la Comtesse beyond the four walls of Paris.  “Will you desert us too, Laurent?” says the lady.  “And is it me you mane, Madame,” says I, “Sorrah a Callaghan ever deserted a Burke!” “Then,” says she, “if you will go with us to Sweden, you shall have two lackey’s suits, and a couple of louis d’or to cross your pocket with by the year, forbye the fee and bounty of all the visitors to M. le Comte.”  “Is it M. l’Abbe goes with Madame?” says I.  “And why not,” says she.  “Then,” says I, “’tis myself that is mightily obliged to your ladyship, and am ready to put on her colours and do all in reason in her service, so as I am free to attend to Master Phelim, that is M. l’Abbe, whenever he needs me, that am in duty bound as his own foster-brother.”  “Ah, Laurent,” says she, “’tis you that are the faithful domestic.  We shall all stand in need of such good offices as we can do to one another, for we shall have a long and troublesome, if not dangerous journey, both before and after we have met M. le Comte."’

Estelle here nodded her head with a certain satisfaction, while the nurse replied —

’And what other answer could the son of your father make—­Heavens be his bed—­that was shot through the head by the masther’s side in the weary wars in Spain? and whom could ye be bound to serve barring Master Phelim, that’s lain in the same cradle with yees—­’

‘Is not Victorine here, mother?’ still restlessly demanded Lanty.

‘Never you heed Victorine,’ replied she.  ’Sure she may have a little arrand of her own, and ye might have a word for the old mother that never parted with you before.’

‘You not going, mother!’ he exclaimed.

’’Tis my heart that will go with you and Masther Phelim, my jewel; but Madame la Comtesse will have it that this weeny little darlint’—­ caressing the child in her lap—­’could never bear the cold of that bare and dissolute place in the north you are bound for, and old Madame la Marquise, her mother, would be mad entirely if all the children left her; but our own lady can’t quit the little one without leaving his own nurse Honor with him!’

‘That’s news to me intirely, mother,’ said Lanty; ‘bad luck to it!’

Honor laughed that half-proud, half-sad laugh of mothers when their sons outgrow them.  ’Fine talking!  Much he cares for the old mother if he can see the young girl go with him.’

For Lanty’s eyes had brightened at sight of a slight little figure, trim to the last degree, with a jaunty little cap on her dark hair, gay trimmings to the black apron, dainty shoes and stockings that came tripping down the path.  His tongue instantly changed to French from what he called English, as in pathetic insinuating modulations he demanded how she could be making him weary his very heart out.