’How go the poems, old fellow?  I hope they’re nearly ready to bring out.’

’No, they’re not; and if it were not for the money, I shouldn’t care if they were never published.  What’s the use of fame, if one mayn’t reap the fruits of it?’

’Come, now, we’ll have no more of that; let’s talk about the money.  I shall be going up for my fellowship examination next week, and then we’ll have a purse in common, for they’ll never think of not giving me a fellowship now I’m senior wrangler.  I’m short enough myself at present, and I don’t like to bother my father; but when I’m Fellow, you shall take me down to Winchester, and introduce me to the little wife.’

‘It will be a month next Monday since I left her,’ said Osborne, laying down his papers and gazing into the fire, as if by so doing he could call up her image.  ’In her letter this morning she bids me give you such a pretty message.  It won’t bear translating into English; you must read it for yourself,’ continued he, pointing out a line or two in a letter he drew out of his pocket.

Roger suspected that one or two of the words were wrongly spelt; but their purport was so gentle and loving, and had such a touch of simple, respectful gratitude in them, that he could not help being drawn afresh to the little unseen sister-in-law, whose acquaintance Osborne had made by helping her to look for some missing article of the children’s, whom she was taking for their daily walk in Hyde Park.  For Mrs. Osborne Hamley had been nothing more than a French bonne, very pretty, very graceful, and very much tyrannized over by the rough little boys and girls she had in charge.  She was a little orphan-girl, who had charmed the heads of a travelling English family, as she had brought madame some articles of lingerie at an hotel; and she had been hastily engaged by them as bonne to their children, partly as a pet and plaything herself, partly because it would be so good for the children to learn French from a native (of Alsace!).  By and by her mistress ceased to take any particular notice of Aimee in the bustle of London and London gaiety; but though feeling more and more forlorn in a strange land every day, the French girl strove hard to do her duty.  One touch of kindness, however, was enough to set the fountain gushing; and she and Osborne naturally fell into an ideal state of love, to be rudely disturbed by the indignation of the mother, when accident discovered to her the attachment existing between her children’s bonne and a young man of an entirely different class.  Aimee answered truly to all her mistress’s questions; but no worldly wisdom, nor any lesson to be learnt from another’s experience, could in the least disturb her entire faith in her lover.  Perhaps Mrs Townshend did no more than her duty in immediately sending Aimee back to Metz, where she had first met with her, and where such relations as remained to the girl might be supposed to be residing.