fact remains that most trains do stop here, and that the P. L. M. has precedence. Thus, the slow train for Montpellier my own destination that day-waited without in the rain while the Paris express which had brought me from Arles discharged a crowd of passengers, received in return another crowd, and finally puffed away to its next stop-Avignon.

The platform was crowded, as it always seems to be at Tarascon, and it was with some difficulty that I found a porter and made my way through the bustle in the booking-office to the other platform where the Midi train had just drawn up. It is possible-but only just possible to travel third-class in France, if you are a solitary woman. I have done it, at a pinch, for the sake of economy, but I congratulated myself I was not doing it to-day as I watched the surging sea of heads below, struggling at the doors of the long third-class compartments. Wet umbrellas, wet marketbaskets-worst of all, wet marketers— and a heavy atmosphere of garlic, the "ail" beloved of Tarasconnais; to say nothing of the fumes of black "caporal," wafted from the smoking carriages.

Among the pushing, excited crowd I noticed a girl of about fifteen, fairhaired, slender, her pretty, delicate face rather pale and tear-stained, carrying what was evidently her entire baggage in a large bundle tied up in a big blue and white handkerchief. She seemed doubtful as to whether to enter the train or not, but every time she passed the door she looked wistfully into my face. She was not alone, however. Escorting her was a tall, slim, well-set-up boy of about nineteen, as dark as she was fair, his black hair curling crisply beneath his broad felt hat; his handsome brown face, of the true Roman type so frequently seen in the valley of the Rhone, bright and alert, though his eyes, as he bent them on his companion, were as respectful as they were tender.

I watched them, speculating lazily as to their probable relationship. They were certainly too young to be husband and wife. and wife. This girl, with her fair hair coiled in great plaits round her bare head, was a mere child. Their manner, too, was not that of a married couple. They seemed to treat each other with a curious sort of rather stiff politeness. Brother and sister? No that was equally impossible. In the peasant

class, to which both evidently belonged, brothers do not hang over their sisters as if they were some precious possession to be safely guarded from the jostling elbows of the crowd, nor do they show the intense respect, almost reverence, visible in every movement, every glance, of this Provençal boy. Lovers, then? No-that, too, was out of the question. They were far too ceremonious and distant with each other. I gave it up as they passed me the third time-the young man on this occasion having scrutinized my face as intently as the girl-and had just opened "Tartarin" again when the door was flung wide and the girl entered with her blue bundle, climbing carefully up the steep steps, followed by the young man.

She sat down opposite me, and I saw at a glance that though she was certainly not much more more than fifteen, though her blue eyes were heavy with sleep and tears, so that she looked even younger than she really was, her firm, well-cut mouth and decided little chin betrayed a certain strength of character which indicated that she was able to take care of herself. The young man. now I saw him at close quarters as he sat down beside her, was extraordinarily handsome. He looked like a shepherd from the Roman Campagna. As he leaned towards the girl and said something in a low voice, I thought I had never seen a more attractive pair of children.

The girl nodded, looking shyly, not at him but at me. The boy leaned forward,

and taking off his hat asked if I was going as far as Nimes. As far as Montpellier, I told him, beyond Nimes.

"Then, if it is not too much to ask, would madame object to undertaking the charge of this young girl, who is alone, and who is making a long and difficult journey? She has to change at Nimes, and I am anxious about her."

"But certainly, monsieur; it will give me great pleasure. I will see you are all right at Nimes," I added to the girl, whose eyes, always fixed on me, slowly brightened with a smile. He turned to her. "Then, mademoiselle, in that case I will say adieu. I leave you in good company."

She looked towards him, not at him, as he took her small, rough hand in his strong, brown fingers. "I will say

adieu, mademoiselle."

"Adieu, monsieur. I thank you for your courtesy," she said, lifting her eyes for a single instant to his dark

ones.

The next moment he had opened the door and leaped out of the carriage, only just in time, for the train was already moving and the huddled figures on the platform gliding slowly past us. But I noticed she followed him with her eyes as he stood bareheaded in the rain, a picturesque figure among a crowd of prosaic bourgeois.

"Monsieur"-"Mademoiselle"! What could it all mean?

As the train rattled through the silvery, olive-clad flatness, veiled in drenching rain, I leaned forward.

"You are very young, mademoiselle, to be travelling alone?"

the train. I saw you on the platform, madame, at Arles."

"Have you much farther to go?"

She stood up, pulled down the bundle from the rack, and untying its knots, extricated after a good deal of fumbling a very dirty little piece of paper, which she handed to me. At the top was the address of one of those convents which for some inexplicable reason the Government of to-day has permitted to continue in France-perhaps because the nuns are useful in nursing the poor, or serve in hospitals, or teach some useful trade, gratis, to young girls.

"But, my child, this is a very long and difficult journey. You must change at Nimes, then again at Alois. From there. you must take the light railway to What happens then?"

"I am going to the Soeurs de St. Joseph, madame. Joseph, madame. It is a long drive from They will send their cart to meet me. I do not reach the convent till eleven to-night."

"And this is your first visit to France?"

"But yes, madame. I have never left our village."

"Well, I will tell you exactly what to do at Nimes. I wish I could wait and see you into your train for Alois, but you have an hour before it starts, and I have a very important engagement at Montpellier. You must go to the waiting-room, which I will show you, and sit there until your train starts. But I see you have food with you. Why not eat something now? You will be less tired later on."

From the blue bundle she obediently extricated a lump of bread, a piece of goat's-milk cheese, two figs, and a small black bottle of thin red wine. On these she proceded to lunch, watching me under her eyelashes while I once more addressed myself to my book. At last she tied up the bundle and restored it to the rack, volunteering as she did so an observation.

"I am going to the Soeurs de St. Joseph to teach silk-weaving," she said. "You must be quite an expert to come all the way from Corsica on purpose for that," I answered, smiling.

"It is the 'métier' of my village," she said. "We are all silk-weavers. It is beautiful silk-the best! There are many mulberry trees. We keep silkworms, who eat the leaves, and we spin their cocoons. Most of our silk goes to Lyons. It was the Reverend Mother of the convent in my village who arranged with my mother that I should go to the Soeurs de St. Joseph for five years" her voice faltered “we were poor and we needed the money. There are nine of us."

"But, my poor child, do you mean that you are going to stay five years in France without returning to Corsica."

"Si, o si!" she said, so pathetically that my heart melted for pity of her. She was such a heroic little creature. Then she explained how the Sisters were anxious to start a silk-weaving industry on a much larger scale than their existing one. She was to teach a number of the nuns, first; and then they were to open a school. The silk would go to Lyons. That was all arranged. "And you are not afraid of the responsibility?"

"Oh, no, madame. 'C'est mon

métier.'

Nimes was only half-an-hour distant, now, and as yet I had said no word of warning to this ignorant little girl who had faced a journey, to her so tremendous, all unprotected and alone.

"Have you friends at Tarascon, mademoiselle?"

"Alas, no, madame. I know no one in France."

"Then that young man who accompanied you he was not your brother?" "Oh, no, madame. He was no relation."

"But your friend, perhaps?"

"No, madame, he was not a friend."

"Then," I said bluntly, "who was he, my child?"

"Madame, I do not know."
"You do not know?"

"No, madame; I do not know his name."

"Then, my poor child, how did you come to be with him."

"It was thus, madame. He was travelling, like me, from Marseilles. He saw my mother bid me good-bye in the train. He was in the next compartment. He heard her bid me change trains at Tarascon. When we reached Tarascon he came to the carriage door and asked if he could be of any service, as he was 'du pays,' and could put me right on the next stage of my journey.'

She looked earnestly at me. "I did not think it was any harm," she concluded.

But I had to be stern. This child was in a sense in my care, and she must be warned against the risks she ran in speaking to strangers.

"How was it, then," I asked, "that he was going to travel with you-as I suppose he was ?"

"Oh, yes, madame. He was so kind. He would have accompanied me Nimes and paid the fare, second-class, just to see me into my train for Alois if we had not seen you. When I saw you in this train I spoke to him, and he said that madame was evidently a person to be trusted, and had a good heart; that we would get into your carriage, and if-if-"

"If he continued to approve of me," I interposed, laughing.

"Bien, madame, he said if you seemed respectable he would ask you to take charge of me."

I laughed outright. ments were rare!

Such compli

"Then he was satisfied? And you?” "Oh, yes, madame. Naturally, I would rather travel with a lady than with a strange man. Though he was very kind," she added, thoughtfully.