“When—­when Miss Bernard comes back again,” asked Juliet, wistfully, “shall I have to go?”

“No, dear—­indeed no!  This is your home until the right man comes a-wooing, and takes you to a little house of your own.”

Scarlet signals flamed in Juliet’s cheeks as she earnestly devoted herself to her sewing, and Madame smiled.  Already, in quiet moments, she had planned a pretty wedding gown for Juliet, and a still prettier wedding.

Allison came frequently, sometimes alone and sometimes with his father or Doctor Jack.  He had remarked once that when he desired to consult his physician, he always knew where to find him.  Madame affected not to notice that a strange young man had become a veritable part of her family, for she liked Doctor Jack and made him very welcome, morning, noon, and night.

On Wednesdays, the men of the other household dined with her.  Saturdays, she and Juliet were honoured guests at the Colonel’s, though he deprecated his own hospitality.  “A house needs a woman at the head of it,” he said.  “It was different when Miss Rose was here.”

“Indeed it was,” thought Allison, though he did not put it into words.

At the end of the month, when it was cool enough to make an open fire seem the most cheerful of companions, Madame had them all at her own table.  Juliet was surpassingly lovely in her first long gown, of ivory-tinted chiffon, ornamented only by hand embroidery and a bit of deep-toned lace.  Her wavy hair was gathered into a loose knot, from which tiny tendrils escaped to cling about her face.  Madame had put a pink rose into her hair, slipped another into her belt, and had been well pleased with the work of her own hands.

After dinner, while Juliet played piquet with the Colonel, and Doctor Jack sat quietly in the shadow, where he could watch every play of light and shade upon the girl’s lovely changing face, Allison drew Madame into the library and quietly closed the door.

“Aunt Francesca,” he said, without preliminary, “I’ve been more kinds of a fool in a few months than most men can manage to be in a lifetime.”

“Yes,” Madame agreed, with a cool little smile.

“Where is Rose?” he demanded.

“Rose,” replied Madame, lightly, “has gone away.”

“I know that,” he flashed back.  “I realise it every day and every hour of my life.  I asked where she was.”

“And I,” answered Madame, imperturbably, “have told you.  She is simply ‘away.’”

“Is she well?”

“Yes.”

“Is she happy?’

“Of course.  Why not?  Beauty, health, talent, sufficient income, love—­ what more can a woman desire?”

“Aunt Francesca!  Tell me, please.  Where is Rose?”

“When I was married,” answered Madame, idly fingering an ivory paper knife, “I went to live in a little house in the woods.”

“Yes?  Where is Rose?”

“It was only a tiny place, but a brook sang in front of it, night and day.”