Glancing up inquiringly at her mother, she took it.

He held hers in a clasp of good nature.

The child was so demure, one could scarcely think her capable of tossing the Bailly's hat into the stream; yet looking closely, there might be seen in her eyes a slumberous sort of fire, a touch of mystery.

They were neither blue nor grey, but a mingling of both, growing to the most tender, greyish sort of violet.

Down through generations of Huguenot refugees had passed sorrow and fighting and piety and love and occasional joy, until in the eyes of this child they all met, delicately vague, and with the wistfulness of the early morning of life.
"What is your name, little lady ?" asked d'Avranche of the child.
"Guida, sir," she answered simply.
"Mine is Philip.