Frenchwoman continued for some time silent, still busy with her
flowers. But, suddenly, she heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head.

"You seem disquieted, mademoiselle," said Mrs. Marston, in a tone
of kindness.

"I am thinking, madame," she said, still looking upon the flowers which
she was adjusting, and again sighing profoundly, "I am thinking of what
you said to me a week ago; alas!"

"I do not remember what it was, my good mademoiselle--nothing, I am
sure, that ought to grieve you--at least nothing that was intended to
have that effect," replied the lady, in a tone of gentle encouragement.

"No, not intended, madame," said the young Frenchwoman, sorrowfully.

"Well, what was it? Perhaps you misunderstood; perhaps I can explain what
I said," replied Mrs. Marston, affectionately.

"Ah, madame, you think--you think I am unlucky," answered the young
lady, slowly and faintly.

"Unlucky! Dear mademoiselle, you surprise me," rejoined her companion.

"I mean--what I mean is this, madame; you date unhappiness--if not its
beginning, at least its great aggravation and increase," she answered,
dejectedly, "from the time of my coming here, madame; and though I know
you are too good to dislike me on that account, yet I must, in your eyes,
be ever connected with calamity, and look like an ominous thing."