teeth and looked quite fierce at Rémy; and then she melted again, and said in her childish way, "You never told me you would come if I blew upon the whistle."

Do her harm-wound her-punish her parents by stabbing her tender little heart! Rémy said to himself that he had rather cut off his moustaches.

There was something loyal, honest, and tender in the little thing, that touched him inexpressibly. He suddenly began to tell himself that he agreed with his uncle that to try to marry Patty for money's sake had been a shame and a sin. He had been a fool and a madman, and blind and deaf. Rémy de la Louvière was only half a wolf after all—a sheep in wolf's clothing. He had worn the skin so long that he had begun to think it was his very own, and he was perfectly amazed and surprised to find such a soft, tender place beneath it.

It was with quite a different look and tone from the romantic, impassioned, corsair manner in which he had begun, that he said very gently, "Dear Patty, don't try too hard not to like me. I cannot help hoping that all will be well. You will hope too, will

you not?"

"Yes, indeed, I will," said Patty; "and now, Rémy, you must go I have talked to you long enough. See, this is the back gate and the way to the Rue de la Lampe." For they had been walking on all this time and following the course of the avenue.

One or two people passing by looked kindly at the handsome young couple strolling in the sunshine; a man in a blouse, wheeling a hand-truck, looked over his shoulder a second time as he turned down the turning to the Rue de la Lampe. Patty did not see him, she was absorbed in one great resolution. She must go now, and say good-by to her cousin.

"Come a little way farther with me," said Rémy, "just a little way under the trees. Patty, I have a confession to make to you. You will hate me, perhaps, and yet I cannot help telling you."

"Oh, indeed I must not come now," Patty said. "Good-by, good-by."

You won't listen to me, then?" said the young man; so sadly, that she had not the courage to leave him, and she turned at last, and walked a few steps.

"Will you let me carry your basket?" said her cousin. "Who are you taking this to?"

"It is for my grandmother," said the girl, resisting. Rémy, have you really anything to say?"

They had come to the end of the park, where its gates lead into the forest; one road led to the Rue de la Lampe, the other into the great waving world of trees. It was a lovely summer's afternoon. There was a host in the air, delighting and basking in the golden comfort; butterflies, midges, flights of birds from the forest were passing. It was pleasant to exist in such a place and hour, to walk by Rémy on the soft

springing turf, and to listen to the sound of his voice under the shade of the overarching boughs.

“Patty, do you know I did want to marry you for your money?" ?” Rémy said at last. “I love you truly ; but I have not loved you always as I ought to have done as I do now. You scorn me, you cannot forgive me?" he added, as the girl stopped short.

will never trust me again."

"You

Oh, Rémy, how could you . . . Oh, yes, indeed, indeed I do forgive you. I do trust you," she added quickly, saying anything to comfort and cheer him when he looked so unhappy. Every moment took them farther and farther on. The little person with the pretty red hood and bright eyes and the little basket had almost forgotten her commission, her conscience, her grandmother, and all the other duties of life. Rémy, too, had forgotten everything but the bright sweet little face, the red hood, and the little hand holding the basket, when they came to a dark, enclosed halting-place at the end of the avenue, from whence a few rocky steps led out upon a sudden hillside, which looked out into the open world. It was a lovely surprising sight, a burst of open country, a great purple amphitheatre of rocks shining and hills spreading to meet the skies, clefts and sudden gleams, and a wide distant horizon of waving forest fringing the valley. Clouds were drifting and tints changing, the heather springing between the rocks at their feet, and the thousands of tree-tops swaying like a ripple on a sea.

Something in the great wide freshness of the place brought Patty to herself again.

did

How lovely it is," she said.

"Oh, Rémy, why

you let me come? Oh, I oughtn't to have come.' Rémy tried to comfort her. "We have not been very long," he said. "We will take the short cut through the trees, and you shall tell your mother all about it. There's no more reason why we shouldn't walk together now than when we were at Littleton."

As he was speaking he was leading the way through the brushwood, and they got into a cross avenue leading back to the carriage-road.

"I shall come to Madame Capuchon's, too, since you are going," said Rémy, making a grand resolution. "I think perhaps she will help us. She is bound to, since she did all the mischief;" and then he went on a few steps, holding back the trees that grew in Patty's way. A little field-mouse peeped at them and ran away, a lightning sheet of light flashed through the green and changing leaves, little blue flowers were twinkling on the mosses under the trees, dried blossoms were falling, and cones and dead leaves and aromatic twigs and shoots.

"Is this the way?" said Patty, suddenly stopping short, and looking about her. "Rémy, look at those arrows cut in the trees; they are not pointing to the road we have come. Oh, Rémy, do not lose the way," cried Patty, in a sudden fright.

"Don't be afraid," Rémy answered, laughing, and

hurrying on before her; and then he stopped short, and began to pull at his moustache, looking first in one direction, and then in another. "Do you think they would be anxious if you were a little late?" he said. "Anxious," cried Patty. Mamma would die; she could not bear it. Oh, Rémy, Rémy, what shall I do?" She flushed up, and almost began to cry.

Oh, find the way, please. Do you see any more arrows? Here is one; come, come.'

The

Patty turned, and began to retrace her steps, hurrying along in a fever of terror and remorse. wood-pigeons cooed overhead, the long lines of distant trees were mingling and twisting in a sort of dance, as she flew along.

"Wait for me, Patty," cried Rémy. "Here is some one to ask." And as he spoke he pointed to an old woman coming along one of the narrow cross pathways, carrying a tray of sweetmeats and a great jar of lemonade.

"Fontainebleau, my little gentleman?" said the old woman. "You are turning your back upon it. The arrows point away from Fontainebleau, and not towards the town. Do you know the big cross near the gate? Well, it is just at the end of that long avenue. Wait, wait, my little gentleman. Won't you buy a sweet sugarstick for the pretty little lady in the red hood? Believe me, she is fond of sugarsticks. It is not the first time that she has bought some of mine."