suspended by a ribbon, embroidered with fleur-de-lis. "The Cross of St. Louis," he cried, "conferred upon me by the king for my services in escorting Mademoiselle Fentress on her patriotic errand."

Dr. Franklin told the marquis that his mother was not in Paris, but had gone to her chateau in Normandy soon after her return from Geneva.

"Her city house is open," said the marquis, "and her servants are here. I shall make that my home until your niece is ready to accompany me to Normandy."

Mlle. de Passy prevailed upon Frances to make her a long visit.

"You will be safe here," she said. "From what the marquis has told me I do not think your uncle will be likely to trouble you again for some time. Was it not strange that your uncle and the marquis should go to Geneva incognito?”

"Yes," said Frances, "when he called my aunt said that Monsieur Vendôme wished to see me, and on the way to Paris the marquis said that my uncle was known in Geneva as George Didier."

About a fortnight after Frances's return to Paris, the marquis called upon her one morning and there was a grave look upon his face as he greeted her.

"I have some strange news for you," he said. "They were apprehended soon after crossing the French frontier, by the order of Monsieur Jacquin; they were brought to Paris, tried by a secret court, and were beheaded this morning."

"I do not understand you," said Frances. "My uncle said that"-she did not speak the name "was to come alone, and you say they were apprehended."

"Yes, there were two of them," said the marquis. "Jacques Langlois and George Didier."

"What!" cried Frances. "My uncle?"

"It is true, said the marquis. "He has paid the penalty of being found in bad company. I do not think he knew what Langlois's object was, but the secret tribunal did not give him an opportunity to testify. The fact that he was in the company of the would-be assassin sealed his fate."

Shortly after this event, Franklin went to the king to ask another loan in behalf of the Colonies. Not only was his request granted, but twice the sum asked for was given.

"You do not understand, my good doctor," said his majesty, "why I am so munificent. I think you will when I tell you that I have had the name of Mademoiselle Fentress placed upon the gratuity list for a royal douceur of one thousand louis d'ors, as a slight token of my gratitude."

When Dr. Franklin returned to Passy, he told Frances of her good fortune, and how her action had contributed to the success of her suffering countrymen, for money was greatly needed on both land and sea.

"I can buy Commodore Jones a new ship now," cried the delighted doctor.

"I saw Monsieur Jacquin to-day," said the marquis, who was one of the party, "and he gave me something which I know you will be glad to receive. It was found upon the person of George Didier."

He handed a folded paper to Dr. Franklin, who looked at it and found it was the missing commission, issued by John Hancock, President of the Continental Congress, to Gustavus Conyngham, creating him a captain in the American navy.

CHAPTER XXVI.

IN OLD NORMANDY.

THE her

HE Marquise de Ferdieu had enjoyed her visit to

Geneva. It made her happy to place Frances in

the care of her aunt, and she passed a very pleasant week with Mme. Vaillarde, whom she had known years before in Paris, when she was the wife of M. de Bressant. She did not look forward with any pleasure to her return to Paris. The connection of her son with the abduction of Miss Fentress she felt would become known in some way. When she reached the city, she found that her worst fears were realized. She was not the only one who had recognized her son as the leader of the band that had abducted the young lady. One of the band who had been engaged to help in the nefarious work had penetrated his disguise, and one evening at a cabaret in Paris, when he was in his cups, had told the whole story. It soon spread like wildfire throughout the city. If Frances had not been a protégé of Dr. Franklin, the affair would not, probably, have attracted so much public attention; but when it became known who she was, and that she had accompanied Dr. Franklin to France, public indignation rose to a high pitch, and if the marquis had returned at that time it might have been with unpleasant consequences.

In imitation of Oriental countries, the society to which the marquise belonged visited the sins of the son upon the

mother, and she soon found her situation, from a social point of view, far from pleasant-in fact, unbearable. She then made up her mind to leave the city and bury herself in the seclusion afforded by the Chateau de Ferdieu. No word of the scandal would be likely to reach that remote spot. But the account of bad actions travels much faster than the record of good ones, and the marquise was astonished and depressed, upon reaching her chateau, to find that the story of her son's escapade had preceded her.

She tried long walks over the well-known roads, across the green fields, and through the dense forests, but the exercise, though physically healthful, did not reduce her mental disquietude. As in days gone by, she mounted the high cliff which rose beyond the chateau, and looked out upon the turbulent waters of the English Channel. Once their very agitation had brought her peace of mind, but now it only added to her unrest. She went back to the chateau and shut herself in her room, where her uncomfortable thoughts and unpleasant reminiscences of the past took complete mastery of her, and it was not long before she took to her bed, suffering from that mysterious and almost incurable complaint-nervous prostration.

Her servants were kind and willing and satisfied her physical wants, but none of them could "minister to a mind diseased." The village doctor was called in, but he shook his head ominously and said that the only thing he could suggest was a change of scene. But where could she go? Not to the Chateau of Anet, for that was intimately connected with the most reprehensible act which her son had ever committed, and she felt that her suffering would be increased rather than diminished.

One day the most welcome news which she could have heard was brought to her,

"A young lady wishes to see you, madame," said Hortense, her faithful maid.

"There is no young lady whom I wish to see," said the marquise, petulantly.

"But the mademoiselle thinks that you will be glad to see her when you know her name," said Hortense, expecting that her mistress would ask who it was; but instead, she turned her face to the wall and remained silent.

Hortense resolved upon a bold stroke. "Then, madame, I shall tell Mademoiselle Fentress that you do not wish to see her and that she must go back to Paris?" "What!" cried the marquise, sitting upright in bed, "did you say Fentress-Frances Fentress? She here? Send her to me at once."

The smiling maid quickly performed the duty required of her, and Frances was soon clasped in the arms of the old lady, who laughed and wept by turns.

"Why, how did you come here?" she asked. "How could you make such a long journey alone?"

"I did not," said Frances. "I had a young man for an escort."

"A young man," said the marquise. "Ah, I see, your lover has reached Paris and he has come with you to see me, your friend. But why did you leave Geneva?"

"My uncle followed me there."

"And will he not come here after you?"

"No," said Frances. "He will trouble me no more. He is dead. I would tell you the whole story now, madame, but they say that you have been sick, and I think it best to wait until you are better. It was not Mr. Shelby who came with me, but one who is near and dear to you. "I know of no such person," said the marquise, sternly. "Oh, yes, you do; or you will when I have told you my story. He has been as kind to me as a brother could be."