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As she spoke, they drove into a covered courtway. The diligence drew up at last with a squeak and a grunt, as if it sympathised with the tired, cramped travellers it had brought so far. A jabber outside, and the conducteur jerked open the door, enquiring if Madame Archère were the name of “une de ces dames.”

“Archère. Archer,” repeated Cissy “yes, certainly, by all means. Now Charlie, my boy, wake up;” and so alighting from their coupé, they found that the very obliging Dr. Bailey had sent a man-servant and carriage to convey them to their apartement at the other end of the queer, rambling, up-and-down-hill little town.

It was not so very late after all, though past poor Charlie’s bedtime, when they found themselves installed in the pretty little suite of rooms, which for several months to come they were to consider “home.”

The first thing to be done, of course, was to get the small gentleman of the party safely disposed of for the night. He pronounced himself too sleepy to want any supper; but brightened up in the most aggravating manner at the sight of pretty Thérèse Poulin, already prepared to commence her new duties as his personal attendant.