will soothe his pillow, and just when he's dying she'll reveal herself and say: 'My own lost love!' and his face will light up with a wonderful joy and he'll expire with her beloved name on his parched lips."
Mademoiselle's was the silence of sheer astonishment. "You do the prophecy, it appears?" she said at last.
"Oh no," said Mabel; "I got that out of a book. I can tell you lots more fatal love stories any time you like."
The French governess gave a little jump, as though she had suddenly remembered something.
"It is nearly dinner-time," she said. "Your friend—Mabelle, yes—will be your convivial, and in her honour we will make a little feast. My beautiful flowers—put them to the water, Kathleen. I run to buy the cakes. Wash the hands, all, and be ready when I return."
Smiling and nodding to the children, she left them, and ran up the stairs.
"Just as if she was young," said Kathleen.
"She is young," said Mabel. "Heaps of ladies have offers of marriage when they're no younger than her. I've seen lots of weddings too, with much older brides. And why didn't you tell me she was so beautiful?"
"Is she?" asked Kathleen.
"Of course she is; and what a darling to think of cakes for me, and calling me a convivial!"
