wings in the hot sunshine. Hastings knew him for a friend and before his eyes there came a vision of tall mullins and scented milkweed alive with painted wings, a vision of a white house and woodbine-covered piazza,—a glimpse of a man reading and a woman leaning over the pansy bed,—and his heart was full. He was startled a moment later by Miss Byng.
“I believe you are homesick!” Hastings blushed. Miss Byng looked at him with a sympathetic sigh and continued: “Whenever I felt homesick at first I used to go with mamma and walk in the Luxembourg Gardens. I don’t know why it is but those old-fashioned gardens seem to bring me nearer home than anything in this artificial city.”
“But they are full of marble statues,” said Mrs. Byng mildly, “I don’t see the resemblance myself.”
“Where is the Luxembourg?” inquired Hastings after a silence.
“Come with me to the gate,” said Miss Byng. He rose and followed her, and she pointed out the rue Vavin at the foot of the street.
“You pass by the convent to the right,” she smiled; and Hastings went.
