eyes of the few who loved her she was beautiful as the dream of a poet.
"Henri," she said, in a gentle but decided voice—"Henri."
He looked up slowly, and said with a reluctant air, "Surely it is not time for breakfast."
"Mother has had her coffee, and yours is ready whenever you wish for it. It is not that—"
"I had rather wait," said Henri, ignoring her last words. "I want to see the end of Pizarro's expedition;" and he turned over a page of his book.
"What are you reading?" asked Clémence, suppressing something like a sigh.
"Les Incas de Marmontel—a beautiful book," he added, rousing himself. "Those old heathen monarchs, who lived for their people, tried to make others happy, placed their glory in being loved, not feared, ought to have had a better fate."
"I think you might find a better book," returned his sister, with a slight tinge of asperity. "Marmontel was a friend of the Revolution—a philosopher, a deist."
"Ah, sister mine, you would rather see me reading the Confessions of St. Augustine," said Henri with a good-humoured laugh. "But there is a time for all things; and I cannot think ill of books that make me love God, and his beautiful world, and the creatures he has made."
"True, brother," said Clémence earnestly and with a rising colour; "only take care that the God you love is the God of the Bible and the Church, not the God of the philosophers and the savants. But"—after a pause, and with a change of tone—"but, Henri, will you not run down to the village before our mother leaves her room, and see whether there is any placard on the Mairie?"
Henri closed his book and stood up, the anxiety in his sister's face reflecting itself, though faintly, upon his. "Why such haste?" he asked.
