A Rolling Stone by B. M. Croker

It was evident that some kind of armistice or _pourparlers_ had been arranged between Mrs. Ramsay and her misguided young companion, for, when the General, the Rector, and Mrs. Morven returned to England, home, and duty, these ladies still remained abroad, and went together to a small and picturesque village in the very heart of the Alpes-Maritimes. Aurea longed for some such quiet retreat, where she could hide herself, and recover from a blow which had still left its quivering traces. Love and happiness were possibly within her reach, and she had, in all ignorance, cast them aside; her widowed chaperone understood and sympathised, and, though it was she who had inflicted the wound, she was absolved.

In the inn of a little mountain village the friends spent three weeks far from the giddy crowds, aloof from luxury, and the world. Here were thick cups, thin candles, good coffee, and sour bread. What long walks and talks they enjoyed, and how fully the girl opened her innocent heart to the experienced, world-worn matron! Letters were rare, and newspapers ignored; in Aurea's mental condition, what were to her the fate of plays, of Cabinets, yea, of nations? She was never likely to hear tidings of _him_ through the Press; but here Aurea was wrong. The unexpected -- as is so frequently the case -- declared itself. One afternoon the two ladies walked to a town at some distance, and as they waited for a well-deserved _café complét_, Mrs. Ramsay idly glanced over an old and fly-blown copy of the continental _Daily Mail_, and the following paragraph caught her eye and seemed to stab her in the face: --