The uncomfortable "campaign," as Marie had called it, continued for some days, and Barbara was in the unpleasant condition of having both parties in her. At the end of that time, however, it seemed as if the dainties that sustained the two upstairs began to upon them, as housekeeping evidently did on Mademoiselle Thérèse, and Barbara saw signs of a .  
This was doubtless hastened by the news that an old family friend was coming with his wife and daughter on the next Sunday afternoon, and, as Mademoiselle Thérèse explained, they must keep up appearances. He was a lawyer who lived at Dol, and from the preparations that were made, Barbara saw that they thought a great deal of him, for there was such baking and cooking as had never been since her arrival. The salad even was with rose leaves, and looked charming, while the Mesdemoiselles Loiré clothed themselves in their best garments.
 
They all sat in state in the drawing-room as the hour for the arrival of the visitors approached, trying to look as if they had never heard of soufflet or mayonnaise salad, and Barbara, who had been called upon to taste each of the dishes in turn and give an opinion on their worth, almost felt as if she never wished to hear of such things again. About twelve o'clock a fiacre stopped at the door, and a few minutes later the visitors were announced—father, mother, and daughter.
 
Barbara was agreeably surprised—as indeed she often was by the Loirés' friends—to find that they were so nice. The mother and daughter were both very fashionably dressed, but simple and frank, the father, however, being most attractive to Barbara. He was clever and amusing, and contradicted Mademoiselle Thérèse in such an audacious way, that had it been any one else, she would have to her bedroom offended for a week. The visit passed most successfully, Mademoiselle Loiré's cooking being quite as much appreciated as she had expected, and when the visitors said good-bye, Barbara left the sisters congratulating themselves on their success.
 
A few days later the final word was added to the truce between the sisters by Mademoiselle Thérèse proposing that she should stay at home and look after the house, while her sister took Barbara and Marie for a visit to Cancale, whose beauties, Mademoiselle Thérèse assured Barbara, had a world-wide .
 
But the elder sister, though obviously pleased by the suggestion, thought she would rather "Thérèse" went, while she stayed in St. Servan and paid a few calls that she was desirous of making.
 
After much discussion it was so , and the following day Mademoiselle Thérèse, with the two girls, set off after lunch by the train. The ride was a pleasant one, and the magnificent view of the Bay of Cancale with the Mont St. Michel in the distance delighted Barbara's heart. She much preferred the little fishing village, La Houle, nestling at the foot of the cliffs, to the more fashionable quarter of the town; but Mademoiselle Thérèse, who was on "seeing the fashions of the visitors," led the way with energy to the hotel half way up the cliff. It was certainly gay enough there, and the Frenchwoman explained to her pupil "that if one noticed the costumes at seaside resorts it often saved buying fashion-books."
 
They sat on the terrace, mademoiselle and Marie dividing their attention between a lady, in a gorgeous toilet of purple trimmed with blue, and , which, the Frenchwoman assured Barbara, were "one of the beauties of the place." But the latter herself with tea, wondering idly, as she drank it, why the so often tasted of hay. After their they strolled round the town, and then sat upon the , watching the sun travel slowly down the sky towards the sea-line.
 
Suddenly mademoiselle remembered the time, and, looking at her watch, declared they had but a few minutes in which to get to the train, and that they must run if they wished to catch it. Off they started, mademoiselle panting in the rear, calling upon the girls to wait, and out that it would be of no use to arrive without her. They were extremely glad on arriving at the terminus to see that they had still a minute or two to spare.
 
"We are in time for the train?" mademoiselle asked of a near the station house.
 
The man stared at her.
 
"Certainly, madame," he said at last; "but would it not be as well to come here in the morning?"
 
"In the morning!" she echoed. "You foolish fellow! We want to go by this train—it should be here now—it leaves at 7.30."
 
"Ah!" the man said, and he seemed to understand. "I fear you have lost that train by several days; it went last Sunday."
 
"What!" screamed mademoiselle. "How dare you mock me! I will report you."
 
"That must be as madame wishes," returned the man with horrible calmness; "but the train madame wishes to get only runs on Sundays, and, therefore, she must wait several days for the next. If any other train will do, there is one in the morning at 9.30."
 
Barbara wanted to laugh, but consideration—or fear—of Mademoiselle Thérèse—kept her quiet, and they stood gazing at one another in sorrowful silence. A ten-mile walk at 7.30 in the evening, unless with very choice companions, is not an unmitigated pleasure, especially when one has been walking during the day. However, there was nothing for it but to walk, as a , if obtainable, would have been too expensive for Mademoiselle Thérèse's economical ideas.
 
They declared at first that it was a lovely evening, and began to cheer their way by conversation, but a mile or two of dusty highroad told upon them, and silence fell with the darkness. It was a particularly hot evening too, and great heat, as every one knows, frequently tends to , so perhaps their silence was . Mademoiselle Thérèse kept murmuring at that it really was most annoying, as her sister would have been expecting them much earlier, and would be so . Perhaps visions of a second , which no "family friend" would come to relieve, floated before her eyes.
 
More than half the distance had been covered when they heard the sound of wheels behind them.
 
"A carriage!" cried mademoiselle, roused to sudden energy, "they must give us a lift," and drawing up by the side of the road, they waited anxiously to know their fate. It was fairly dark by this time, and they could not distinguish things clearly, but they saw a big horse, with a light, open cart behind. When mademoiselle first began to speak, the driver took not the least notice, but after going a few yards, pursued by her with praiseworthy diligence and surprising , he pulled up and to the seat behind, the place beside him being already filled by a trunk.
 
The wanderers in , greatly pleased with their good luck, and it was not until they were in their places, and near the man, that they discovered he had been drinking freely and was not as clear-headed as he might have been. If there had been time they would all have got out again, but he whipped up so quickly that there was no chance. He continued to whip up, moreover, till they were going at a most break-neck speed.
 
Mademoiselle, clinging madly to the side of the cart, begged him in the midst of her and to let them ; but the more she begged and the more desperate she became, the better pleased he seemed, and it really looked as if they might all be thrown into the ditch. Then mademoiselle, who was always rather nervous about driving, broke into screams, with Marie joining in at intervals—Gilpin's flight was nothing to it—and the cart and swayed so that calm expostulation was impossible.
 
A lesson in rough-riding to a beginner could not have proved a more disjointing experience, and the man, over the loudly-expressed fear of his companions, drove on. Fortunately, there were not many turns, and the road was fairly wide all the way; but once Barbara felt the hedge brush her face, and Marie's handkerchief, which she had been using to mop up her tears, was borne away a few minutes later by the bushes on the opposite side of the road.
 
The only thing that could be said in favour of the drive was that they covered the ground with great speed, and the thought occurred to Barbara that it would be by no means pleasant to enter the streets of St. Servan with their present driver and two screaming women, as, apart from other considerations, they might meet the policeman, and the encounter would be unpleasant.
 
She told mademoiselle and Marie that if they did not want to be killed or locked up in the préfecture, they must jump off the back of the cart while going up the hill outside the town. The horse, after its wild career, would calm down on the incline, besides which, a fall in the road would be preferable to being thrown through a shop window.
 
It took very forcible language to make Mademoiselle Thérèse face present terror rather than await the future; but, when the horse really did slow down to a walk, and the two girls had reached the ground in safety, she made a effort, and floundered out in a heap upon the road, making so much noise that Barbara was afraid the man would realise they were gone, and insist upon their getting in again.
 
But he whipped up at that moment, and the noise of the cart drowned the complaints. The girls their companion by assuring her that in ten minutes they would be home, when, most assuredly, her sister's heart would be moved to pity by their sorry and the tale of their adventures.
 
Just as they arrived at their own door they met Mademoiselle Loiré hurrying up, and her sister, thinking she was coming to look for them, and not knowing the reception she might get, fell upon her neck, pouring with incoherent and explanations the tale of their .
 
Mademoiselle Loiré was most sympathetic and unreproachful, and, having dried her sister's tears, led her into the house, where the whole party sat down to cake and cider, under the influence of which Mademoiselle Thérèse quite recovered, and retold their adventures, Barbara realising for the first time, as she listened, what heroines they had been!
 
Their screaming advance along the highroad became a journey, where they sat grimly, with set teeth, listening to the curses of a madman, and bowing their heads to escape having them cut off repeatedly by the branches of trees.
 
Their exit from the cart on the hill became a desperate leap into the darkness, when the vehicle was advancing at full ; and when Barbara finally rose to say good-night, she felt as if they had all been princesses in a fairy-tale, in which, ! there had been no prince.
 
She learned two things on the morrow—not counting the conviction that riding at a gallop in a cart made one stiff. The first was from Marie, who told her that Mademoiselle Loiré's forbearance with their late return, and her intense sympathy with their adventures, probably arose from the fact that she had just been returning from her own expedition when she met the wanderers, and had been filled with very similar fears concerning her reception as those which had filled her sister's heart.
 
The other fact, which Barbara read aloud to Mademoiselle Thérèse from the newspaper, was that Jean Malet had been for furious driving at a late hour the previous night, and would have to pay a heavy fine.
 
"How he had come safely through the streets at such speed," said the journalist, "was a miracle. Fortunately, there was no one in the cart but himself."
 
"Fortunately, indeed, there was not," remarked Barbara, folding up the paper.