The Argosy — page 197: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

180 Winifred Power. ‘Really, Miss Power, to be frank, I was too shocked to ask for particulars,” replied Clara. “Then you must permit me to believe that your aunt made a mistake of identity. It could not have been Mademoiselle Marthe.” And with these words, Winifred, who had already packed up her painting materials and made ready for her departure, turned her back and walked away. “The Christian name was the same at any rate, and you can ask your friend if she has ever been in Kent,” called out Clara: but Winifred was already out of hearing. For several weeks Winifred saw nothing of Mademoiselle Marthe, for Mr. Russell became very ill and claimed all her attention. By the time he again partially recovered great things had happened. The King of Prussia had turned on his heel and left M. Benedetti standing in the sunlight on the promenade at Ems: war had been declared and the first shots fired ; and although France did not yet fully foresee the catastrophe in store for her, matters began to look serious. The Bonnards were leaving Paris in some haste for their country- house in Provence, and they invited Mr. and Mrs. Russell to accom- pany them. Winifred could not leave, for she had a picture to finish, and Mrs. Chandos-Fane had no fancy for French country-life. So she betook herself to Boulogne-sur-Mer, on the understanding that her daughter should join her there. Winifred, thus left to her own devices, bethought herself one fine Sunday morning of Mademoiselle Marthe, and went off to see her. ‘It is my birthday, dear,” said the girl, giving her little friend a hug. ‘You cannot be so barbarous as to expect me to spend it al} by myself. So you are just to come home and help me to eat the feast that Sophie has prepared forme. And afterwards we will go to the Bois and see the brides.” | Mademoiselle Marthe was nothing loth. She made herself ready with her wonted care; one of the most characteristic. and touching things about her being the exquisite neatness of her poor attire. Winifred, watching her affectionately, thought she seemed brighter than usual, and was struck anew with the child-like goodness under- lying the age and sorrow of her face. They sallied forth, and the girl’s gleesome prattle, combined with the loveliness of the day, kept up the pleased look in her companion’s eyes. For many long and weary years, indeed, Mademoiselle Marthe’s dimmed glance had not dwelt with such untroubled peace on the serenity of the heavens. Such moments are the ambuscades of fate: another instant, and the blow falls. All at once, the two friends came upon Clara Smythe and a party of girl-artists. Winifred would have passed on with a bow, but Mademoiselle Marthe, partly from innate courtesy, partly from habit, stopped and held out her hand. Miss Smythe, however, was equal CORNICE OOOKS. Cong)