In another moment the little party was making its way through the station.
Which Léonie did, and in another moment the little party was making its way through the station, among the crowd of their fellow-passengers. Mr. Marton first, with the rugs, then his wife holdingGladys by the hand, then Léonie and Roger, followed by the porter bringing up the rear. Mrs. Marton's heart was not beating fast by this time; it was almost standing still with apprehension. But she said nothing. On they went through the little gate where the tickets were given up, on the other side of which stood with eager faces the few expectant friends who had been devoted enough to get up at five o'clock to meet their belongings who were crossing by the night mail. Mr. Marton's eyes ran round them, then glanced behind, first to one side and then to the other as if Captain Bertram could jump up from some corner like a jack-in-the-box. His face grew graver and graver, but he did not speak. He led his wife and the children and Léonie to the most comfortable corner of the dreary waiting-room, and saying shortly, "I'm going to look after the luggage and to hunt up Bertram. He must have overslept himself if he's not here yet. You all wait here quietly till I come back," disappeared in the direction of the luggage-room.
Mrs. Marton did not speak either. She drew Gladys nearer her, and put her arm round the little girl as if to protect her against the disappointment which shefeltwas coming. Gladys sat perfectly silent. What she was expecting, or fearing, or eventhinking, I don't believe she could have told. She had only one feeling that she could have put into words, "Everything isquitedifferent from what I thought. It isn't at all like going to Papa."
But poor little Roger tugged at Léonie, who was next him.
"What are we waiting here in this ugly house for?" he said. "Can't we go to Papa and have our chocolate?"
Léonie stooped down and said something to soothe him, and after a while he grew drowsy again, and his little head dropped on to her shoulder. And so they sat for what seemed a terribly long time. It was more than half an hour, till at last Mr. Marton appeared again.
"I've only just got out that luggage," he said. "What a detestable plan that registering it is! And now I've got it I don't know what to do with it, for——"
"Has he not come?" interrupted his wife.
Mr. Marton glanced at Gladys. She did not seem to be listening.
"Not a bit of him," he replied. "I've hunted right through the station half a dozen times, and it's an hour and a half since the train was due. It cannotbe some little delay. It's a pretty kettle of fish and no mistake."
Mrs. Marton's blue eyes gazed up in her husband's face with a look of the deepest anxiety.
"Whatisto be done?" she said.
"That is the question."Hamlet.
Yes, "what was to be done?" That was certainly the question. Mr. Marton looked at his wife for a moment or two without replying. Then he seemed to take a sudden resolution.
"We can't stay here all the morning, that's about all I can say at present," he said. "Come along, we'd better go to the nearest hotel and think over matters."
So off they all set again—Mr. Marton and the rugs, Mrs. Marton and Gladys, Léonie and Roger—another porter being got hold of to bring such of the bags, etc., as were not left at the station with the big luggage. Gladys walked along as if in a dream; she did not even wake up to notice the great wide street and all the carriages, and omnibuses, and carts,and people as they crossed to the hotel in front of the station. She hardly even noticed that all the voices about her were talking in a language she did not understand—she was completely dazed—the only words which remained clearly in her brain were the strange ones which Mr. Marton had made use of—"a pretty kettle of fish and no mistake." "No mistake," that must mean that Papa's not coming to the station was not a mistake, but that there was some reason for it. But "a kettle of fish," whatcouldthat have to do with it all? She completely lost herself in puzzling about it. Why she did not simply ask Mrs. Marton to explain it I cannot tell. Perhaps the distressed anxious expression on that young lady's own face had something to do with her not doing so.
Arrived at the hotel, and before a good fire in a large dining-room at that early hour quite empty, a slight look of relief came over all the faces. It was something to get warmed at least! And Mr. Marton ordered the hot chocolate for which Roger had been pining, before he said anything else. It came almost at once, and Léonie established the children at one of the little tables, drinking her own coffee standing, that she might attend to them and join inthe talking of her master and mistress if they wished it.
Roger began to feel pretty comfortable. He had not the least idea where he was—he had never before in his life been at a hotel, and would not have known what it meant—but to find himself warmed and fed and Gladys beside him was enough for the moment; and even Gladys herself began to feel a very little less stupefied and confused. Mr. and Mrs. Marton, at another table, talked gravely and in a low voice. At last Mr. Marton called Léonie.
"Come here a minute," he said, "and see if you can throw any light on the matter. You are more at home in Paris than we are. Mrs. Marton and I are at our wits' end. If we had a few days to spare it would not be so bad, but we have not. Our berths are taken, and we cannot afford to lose three passages."
"Mine too, sir," said Léonie. "Is mine taken too?"
"Of course it is. You didn't suppose you were going as cabin-boy, did you?" said Mr. Marton rather crossly, though I don't think his being a little cross was to be wondered at. Poor Léonie looked very snubbed.
"I was only wondering," she said meekly, "if Icould have stayed behind with the poor children till——"
"Impossible," said Mr. Marton; "lose your passage for a day or two's delay in their father's fetching them. If I thought it was more than that I would send them back to England," he added, turning to his wife.
"And poor Mrs. Lacy so ill! Oh no, that would never do," she said.
"And there's much more involved than our passages," he went on. "It's as much as my appointment is worth to miss this mail. It's just this—Captain Bertram is either here, or has been detained at Marseilles. If he's still there, we can look him up when we get there to-morrow; if he's in Paris, and has made some stupid mistake, we must get his address at Marseilles, he's sure to have left it at the hotel there for letters following him, and telegraph back to him here. I never did know anything so senseless as Susan Lacy's not making him give a Paris address," he added.
"He was only to arrive here yesterday or the day before," said Mrs. Marton.
"But the friends who were to have a nurse ready for the children? We should have hadsomeaddress."
"Yes," said Mrs. Marton self-reproachfully. "Iwish I had thought of it. But Susan was sosureall would be right. And certainly, in case of anything preventing Captain Bertram's coming, it was only natural to suppose he would have telegraphed, or sent some one else, or donesomething."
"Well—all things considered," said Mr. Marton, "it seems to me the best thing to do is to leave the children here,evenif we had a choice, which I must say I don't see! For I don't know how I could send them back to England, nor what their friends there might find to say if I did—nor can we——"
"Take them on to Marseilles with us?" interrupted Mrs. Marton. "Oh, Phillip, would not that be better?"
"And find that their father had just started for Paris?" replied her husband. "And then think of the expense. Here, they are much nearer at hand if they have to be fetched back to England."
Mrs. Marton was silent. Suddenly another idea struck her. She started up.
"Supposing Captain Bertram has come to the station since we left," she exclaimed. "He may be there now."
Mr. Marton gave a little laugh.
"No fear," he said "Every official in the placeknows the whole story. I managed to explain it, and told them to send him over here."
"And what are you thinking of doing, then?Wherecan we leave them?"
Mr. Marton looked at his watch.
"That's just the point," he said. "We've only three hours unless we put off till the night express, and that is running it too fine. Any little detention and we might miss the boat."
"We've run it too fine already, I fear," said Mrs. Marton dolefully. "It's been my fault, Phillip—the wanting to stay in England till the last minute."
"It's Susan Lacy's fault, or Bertram's fault, or both our faults for being too good-natured," said Mr. Marton gloomily. "But that's not the question now. I don't think weshouldput off going, for—another reason—it would leave us no time to look up Bertram at Marseilles. Only if we had had a few hours, I could have found some decent people to leave the children with here, some good 'pension,' or——"
"But such places are all so dear, and we have to consider the money too."
"Yes," said Mr. Marton, "we haveliterallyto do so. I've only just in cash what we need for ourselves, and I couldn't cash a cheque here all in a minute,for my name is not known. But something must be fixed, and at once. I wonder if it would be any good if I were to consult the manager of this hotel? I——"
"Pardon," said Léonie, suddenly interrupting. "I have an idea. My aunt—she is really my cousin, but I call her aunt—you know her by name, Madame?" she went on, turning to Mrs. Marton. "My mother often spoke of her"—for Mrs. Marton's family had known Léonie's mother long ago when she had been a nurse in England—"Madame Nestor. They are upholsterers in the Rue Verte, not very far from here, quite in the centre of Paris. They are very good people—of course, quite in a little way; but honest and good. They would do their best, just for a few days! It would be better than leaving the dear babies with those we knew nothing of. I think I could persuade them, if I start at once!" She began drawing her gloves on while she was speaking. And she had spoken so fast and confusedly that for a moment or two both Mr. and Mrs. Marton stared at her, not clearly taking in what she meant.
"Shall I go, Madame?" she said, with a little impatience. "There is no time to lose. Of course if you do not like the idea—I would not have thought of it except that all is so difficult, so unexpected."
"Not like it?" said Mr. Marton; "on the contrary I think it's a capital idea. The children would be in safe hands, and at worst it can't be for more than a couple of days. If Captain Bertram has been detained at Marseilles by illness or anything——"
"That's not likely," interrupted Mrs. Marton, "he would have written or telegraphed."
"Well, then, if it's some stupid mistake about the day, he'll come off at once when we tell him where they are. I was only going to say that, at worst, if heisill, or anything wrong, we'll telegraph to Susan Lacy from Marseilles and she'll send over for them somehow."
"Should we not telegraph to her at once from here?"
Mr. Marton considered.
"I don't see the use," he said at last. "We can tell her nothing certain, nothing that she should act on yet. And it would only worry the old lady for nothing."
"I'm afraid she's too ill to be told anything about it," said Mrs. Marton.
"Then the more reason for waiting. But here we are losing the precious minutes, and Léonie all ready to start. Off with you, Léonie, as fast as ever youcan, and see what you can do. Take a cab and make him drive fast," he called after her, for she had started off almost with his first words. "She's a very good sort of a girl," he added, turning to his wife.
"Yes, she always has her wits about her in an emergency," agreed Mrs. Marton. "I do hope," she went on, "that what we are doing will turn out for the best. I really never did know anything so unfortunate, and——"
"Is it all because of the kettle of fish? Did Papa tumble over it? Oh, Iwishyou'd tell me!" said a pathetic little voice at her side, and turning round Mrs. Marton caught sight of Gladys, her hands clasped, her small white face and dark eyes gazing up beseechingly. It had grown too much for her at last, the bewilderment and the strangeness, and the not understanding. And the change from the cramped-up railway carriage and the warm breakfast had refreshed her a little, so that gradually her ideas were growing less confused. She had sat on patiently at the table long after she had finished her chocolate, though Roger was still occupied in feeding himself by tiny spoonfuls. He had never had anything in the way of food more interesting than this chocolate, for it was still hot, and whenever he left it for a moment a skingrew over the top, which it was quite a business to clear away—catching now and then snatches of the eager anxious talk that was going on among the big people. And at last when Léonie hurried out of the room, evidently sent on a message, Gladys felt that she must find out what was the matter and what it all meant. But the topmost idea in her poor little brain was still the kettle of fish.
"If Papa has hurt himself," Gladys went on, "I think it would be better to tell me. I'd so much rather know. I'm not so very little, Mrs. Marton, Mrs. Lacy used to tell me things."
Mrs. Marton stooped down and put her arms round the pathetic little figure.
"Oh, I wish I could take you with me all the way. Oh! I'm so sorry for you, my poor little pet," she exclaimed girlishly. "But indeed we are not keeping anything from you. I only wish we had anything to tell. We don't know ourselves; we have no idea why your father has not come."
"But the kettle of fish?" repeated Gladys.
Mrs. Marton stared at her a moment, and then looked up at her husband. He grew a little red.
"It must have been I that said it," he explained. "It is only an expression; a way of speaking, littleGladys. It means when—when people are rather bothered, you know—and can't tell what to do. I suppose it comes from somebody once upon a time having had more fish than there was room for in their kettle, and not knowing what to do with them."
"Then we're the fish—Roger and I—I suppose, that you don't know what to do with?" said Gladys, her countenance clearing a little. "I'm very sorry. But I think Papa'll come soon; don't you?"
"Yes, I do," replied Mr. Marton. "Something must have kept him at Marseilles, or else he's mistaken the day after all."
"I thought you said it was 'no mistake!'" said Gladys.
Mr. Marton gave a little groan.
"Oh, you're a dreadful little person and no—there, I was just going to say it again! That's only an expression too, Gladys. It means, 'to be sure,' or 'no doubt about it,' though I suppose it is a little what one calls 'slang.' But you don't know anything about that, do you?"
"No," said Gladys simply, "I don't know what it means."
"And I haven't time to tell you, for we must explain to you what we're thinking of doing. Youtell her, Lilly. I'm going about the luggage," he added, turning to his wife, for he was dreadfully tender-hearted, though he was such a big strong young man, and he was afraid of poor Gladys beginning to cry or clinging to them and begging them not to leave her and Roger alone in Paris, when she understood what was intended.
But Gladys was not the kind of child to do so. She listened attentively, and seemed proud of being treated like a big girl, and almost before Mrs. Marton had done speaking she had her sensible little answer ready.
"Yes, I see," she said. "It is much better for us to stay here, for Papa might comeverysoon, mightn't he? Only, supposing he came this afternoon he wouldn't know where we were?"
"Mr. Marton will give the address at the station, in case your Papa inquires there, as he very likely would, if a lady and gentleman and two children arrived there from England this morning. And he will also leave the addresshere, for so many people come here from the station. And when we get to Marseilles, we will at once go to the hotel where he was—where he is still, perhaps; if he has left, he is pretty sure to have given an address."
"And if he's not there—if you can't find him—what will you do then?" said Gladys, opening wide her eyes and gazing up in her friend's face.
Mrs. Marton hesitated.
"I suppose if we really could not find your father at once, we should have to write or telegraph to Miss Susan."
Gladys looked more distressed than she had yet done.
"Don't do that, please," she said, clasping her hands together in the way she sometimes did. "I'd much rather stay here a little longer till Papa comes. It would be such a trouble to Miss Susan—I know she did think we were a great trouble sometimes—and it would make Mrs. Lacy cry perhaps to have to say good-bye again, and she's so ill."
"Yes, I know she is," said Mrs. Marton, surprised at the little girl's thoughtfulness. "But you know, dear, we'd have to let them know, and then most likely they'd send over for you."
"But Papa'ssureto come," said Gladys. "It would only be waiting a little, and I don't mind much, and I don't think Roger will, not if I'm with him. Will they be kind to us, do you think, those friends of Léonie's?"
"I'm sure they will; otherwise you know, dear, we wouldn't leave you with them. Of course it will only be for a day or two, for they are quite plain people, with quite a little house."
"I don't mind, not if they're kind to us," said Gladys. "But, oh! I do wish you weren't going away."
"So do I," said Mrs. Marton, who felt really very nearly breaking down herself. The sort of quiet resignation about Gladys was very touching, much more so than if she had burst out into sobs and tears. It was perhaps as well that just at that moment Mr. Marton came back, and saying something in a low voice to his wife, drew her out of the room, where in the passage stood Léonie.
"Back already," exclaimed Mrs. Marton in surprise.
"Oh yes," Léonie replied, "it was not far, and the coachman drove fast. But I thought it better not to speak before the children. It is a very little place, Madame. I wonder if it will do." She seemed anxious and a little afraid of what she had proposed.
"But can they take them? That is the principal question," said Mr. Marton.
"Oh yes," said Léonie. "My aunt is goodnessitself. She understands it all quite well, and would do her best; and it would certainly be better than to leave them with strangers, and would cost much less; only—the poor children!—all is so small and so cramped. Just two or three little rooms behind the shop; and they have been used to an English nursery, and all so nice."
"I don't think they have been spoilt in some ways," said Mrs. Marton. "Poor little Gladys seems to mind nothing if she is sure of kindness. Besides, what elsecanwe do? And it is very kind of your aunt to consent, Léonie."
"Yes, Madame. It is not for gain that she does it. Indeed it will not be gain, for she must find a room for her son, and arrange his room for the dear children. They have little beds among the furniture, so that will be easy; and all is very clean—my aunt is a good manager—but only——"
Léonie looked very anxious.
"Oh I'm sure it will be all right," said Mr. Marton. "I think we had better take them at once—I've got the luggage out—and then we can see for ourselves."
The children were soon ready. Gladys had been employing the time in trying to explain to poor littleRoger the new change that was before them. He did not find it easy to understand, but, as Gladys had said, he did not seem to mind anything so long as he was sure he was not to be separated from his sister.
A few minutes' drive brought them to the Rue Verte. It was a narrow street—narrow, at least in comparison with the wide new ones of the present day, for it was in an old-fashioned part of Paris, in the very centre of one of the busiest quarters of the town; but it was quite respectable, and the people one saw were all well-dressed and well-to-do looking. Still Mr. Marton looked about him uneasily.
"Dreadfully crowded place," he said; "must be very stuffy in warm weather. I'm glad it isn't summer; wecouldn'thave left them here in that case."
And when the cab stopped before a low door leading into a long narrow shop, filled with sofas and chairs, and great rolls of stuffs for making curtains and beds and mattresses in the background, Mr. Marton's face did not grow any brighter. But it did brighten up, and so did his wife's, when from the farther end of the shop, a glass door, evidently leading into a little sitting-room, opened, and an elderly woman, with a white frilled cap and a bright healthyface, with the kindliest expression in the world, came forward eagerly.
"Pardon," she said in French, "I had not thought the ladies would be here so soon. But all will be ready directly. And are these the dear children?" she went on, her pleasant face growing still pleasanter.
"Yes," said Mrs. Marton, who held Gladys by one hand and Roger by the other, "these are the two little strangers you are going to be so kind as to take care of for a day or two. It is very kind of you, Madame Nestor, and I hope it will not give you much trouble. Léonie has explained all to you?"
"Oh yes," replied Madame Nestor, "poor darlings! What a disappointment to them not to have been met by their dear Papa! But he will come soon, and they will not be too unhappy with us."
Mrs. Marton turned to the children.
"What does she say? Is she the new nurse?" whispered Roger, whose ideas, notwithstanding Gladys's explanations, were still very confused. It was not a very bad guess, for Madame Nestor's good-humoured face and clean cap gave her very much the look of a nurse of the old-fashioned kind. Mrs. Marton stooped down and kissed the little puzzled face.
"No, dear," she said, "she's not your nurse. Sheis Léonie's aunt, and she's going to take care of you for a few days till your Papa comes. And she says she will be very, very kind to you."
But Roger looked doubtful.
"Why doesn't she talk p'operly?" he said, drawing back.
Mrs. Marton looked rather distressed. In the hurry and confusion she had not thought of this other difficulty—that the children would not understand what their new friends said to them! Gladys seemed to feel by instinct what Mrs. Marton was thinking.
"I'll try to learn French," she said softly, "and then I can tell Roger."
Léonie pressed forward.
"Is she not a dear child?" she said, and then she quickly explained to her aunt what Gladys had whispered. The old lady seemed greatly pleased.
"My son speaks a little English," she said, with evident pride. "He is not at home now, but in the evening, when he is not busy, he must talk with our little demoiselle."
"That's a good thing," exclaimed Mr. Marton, who felt the greatest sympathy with Roger, for his own French would have been sadly at fault had he had to say more than two or three words in it.
Then Madame Nestor took Mrs. Marton to see the little room she was preparing for her little guests. It was already undergoing a good cleaning, so its appearance was not very tempting, but it would not have done to seem anything but pleased.
"Anyway it will beclean," thought Mrs. Marton, "but it is very dark and small." For though it was the best bedroom, the window looked out on to a narrow sort of court between the houses, whence but little light could find its way in, and Mrs. Marton could not help sighing a little as she made her way back to the shop, where Mr. Marton was explaining to Léonie about the money he was leaving with Madame Nestor.
"It's all I can possibly spare," he said, "and it is English money. But tell your aunt she issureto hear in a day or two, and she will be fully repaid for any other expense she may have."
"Oh dear, yes," said Léonie, "my aunt is not at all afraid about that. She has heard too much of the goodness of Madame's family to have any fears about anything Madame wishes. Her only trouble is whether the poor children will be happy."
"I feel sure it will not be Madame Nestor's fault if they are not," said Mrs. Marton, turning to the kindold woman. It was all she could say, for she felt by no means sure that the poor little things would be able to be happy in such strange circumstances. The tears filled her eyes as she kissed them again for the last time, and it was with a heavy heart she got back into the cab which was to take her husband and herself and Léonie to the Marseilles station. Mr. Marton was very little happier than his wife.
"I wish to goodness Susan Lacy had managed her affairs herself," he grumbled. "Poor little souls! I shall be thankful to know that they are safe with their father."
Léonie was sobbing audibly in her pocket-handkerchief.
"My aunt will be very kind to them, so far as she understands. That is the only consolation," she said, amidst her tears.
"The city looked sad. The heaven was gray."Songs in Minor Keys.
"Gladdie, are you awake?"
These were the first words that fell on Gladys's ears the next morning. I cannot say the firstsounds, for all sorts of strange and puzzling noises had been going on above and below and on all sides sinceeverso early, as it seemed to her—in reality it had been half-past six—she had opened her eyes in the dark, and wondered and wondered where she was! Still in the railway carriage was her first idea, or on the steamer—once she had awakened enough to remember that she wasnotin her own little bed at Mrs. Lacy's. But no—people weren't undressed in the railway, even though they did sometimes lie down, and then—though the sounds she heard were very queer—she soon felt she was not moving. And bit by bit it all came back to her—about the long tiringjourney, and no Papa at the station, and Mr. and Mrs. Marton and Léonie all talking together, and the drive in the cab to the crowded narrow street, and the funny old woman with the frilled cap, and the shop full of chairs and sofas, and the queer unnatural long afternoon after their friends went away, and how glad at last she and Roger were to go to bed even in the little stuffy dark room.Howdark it was! It must still be the middle of the night, Gladys thought for some time, only that everybody except herself and Roger seemed to be awake and bustling about. For the workroom, as Gladys found out afterwards, was overhead, and the workpeople came early and were not particular about making a noise. It was very dull, and in spite of all the little girl's courage, a few tearswouldmake their way up to her eyes, though she tried her best to force them back, and she lay there perfectly quiet, afraid of waking Roger, for she was glad to hear by his soft breathing that he was still fast asleep. But she could not help being glad when through the darkness came the sound of his voice.
"Gladdie, are you awake?"
"Yes, dear," she replied, "I've been awake a long time."
"So have I," said Roger in all sincerity—he hadbeen awake about three minutes. "It's very dark; is it the middle of the night?"
"No, I don't think so," Gladys replied. "I hear people making a lot of noise."
"Gladdie," resumed Roger half timidly—Gladys knew what was coming—"may I get into your bed?"
"It'sverysmall," said Gladys, which was true, though even if it had not been so, she would probably have tried to get out of Roger's proposal, for she was not half so fond of his early morning visits as he was. In the days of old "nurse" such doings were not allowed, but after she left, Gladys had not the heart to be very strict with Roger, and now in spite of her faint objection, she knew quite well she would have to give in, in the end.
"So's mine," observed Roger, though Gladys could not see what that had to do with it. But she said nothing, and for about half a minute there was silence in the dark little room. Then again.
"Gladdie," came from the corner, "mayn't I come? If we squeezed ourselves?"
"Very well," said Gladys, with a little sigh made up of many different feelings. "You can come and try."
But a new difficulty arose.
"I can't find my way in the dark. I don't 'amemberhow the room is in the light," said Roger dolefully. "When I first waked Icouldn'tthink where we were. Can't you come for me, Gladdie?"
"How can I find my way if you can't," Gladys was on the point of replying, but she checked herself! She felt as if she could not speak the least sharply to her little brother, for he had nobody but her to take care of him, and try to make him happy. So she clambered out of her bed, starting with the surprise of the cold floor, which had no carpet, and trying to remember the chairs and things that stood in the way, managed to get across the room to the opposite corner where stood Roger's bed, without any very bad knocks or bumps.
"I'm here," cried Roger, as if that was a piece of news, "I'm standing up in my bed jigging up and down. Can you find me, Gladdie?"
"I'm feeling for you," Gladys replied. "Yes, here's the edge of your cot. I would have found you quicker if you had kept lying down."
"Oh, then, I'll lie down again," said Roger, but a cry from Gladys stopped him.
"No, no, don't," she said. "I've found you now. Yes, here's your hand. Now hold mine tight, and see if you can get over the edge. That's right. Nowcome very slowly, round by the wall is best. Here's my bed. Climb in and make yourself as little as ever you can. I'm coming. Oh, Roger, what a squeeze it is!"
"I think it's littler than my bed," said Roger consolingly.
"It's not any bigger anyway," replied Gladys, "we might just as well have stayed in yours."
"Is it because they're poor that the beds is soverylittle?" asked Roger in a low voice.
"Oh, no, I don't think so," said Gladys gravely. "They've very nice beds; I think they're almost quite new."
"Mine was very comfitable," said Roger. "Do you think all poor childrens have as nice beds?"
"I'm afraid not," said Gladys solemnly. "I'mafraidthat some haven't any beds at all. But why do you keep talking about poor children, Roger?"
"I wanted to know about them 'cos, you see, Gladys, if Papa wasn't never finded and we had to stay here,we'dbe poor."
"Nonsense," said Gladys rather sharply, in spite of her resolutions, "itcouldn'tbe like that; of course Papa will come in a few days, and—and, even if he didn't, though that's quite nonsense, you know, I'monly saying it to make you see,evenif he didn't, we'd not stay here."
"Where would we go?" said Roger practically.
"Oh, back to Mrs. Lacy perhaps. I wouldn't mind if Miss Susan was married."
"Iwould rather go to India withthem," said Roger. Gladys knew whom he meant.
"But we can't, they've gone," she replied.
"Are theygone, and Léonie, that nice nurse—are theygone?" said Roger, appalled.
"Yes, of course. They'll be nearly at India by now, I daresay."
Roger began to cry.
"Why, youknewthey were gone. Why do you cry about it now—you didn't cry yesterday?" said Gladys, a little sharply it must be confessed.
"I thought," sobbed Roger, "I thought they'd gone to look for Papa, and that they'd come to take us a nice walk every day, and—and——" He did not very well knowwhathe had thought, but he had certainly not taken in that it was good-bye for good to the new friends he had already become fond of. "I'msureyou said they were gone to look for Papa," he repeated, rather crossly in his turn.
"Well, dear," Gladys explained, her heart smitingher, "theyhavegone to look for Papa. They thought they'd find him at the big town at the side of the sea where the ships go to India from, and then they'd tell him where we were in Paris, and he'd come quick for us."
"Is this Paris?" asked Roger.
"Yes, of course," replied Gladys.
"I don't like it," continued the little boy. "Do you, Gladys?"
"It isn't like what I thought," said Gladys; "nothing's like what I thought. I don't think when we go home again, Roger, that I'll ever play at pretend games any more."
"How do you mean when we go home?" said Roger. "Where's home?"
"Oh, I don't know; I said it without thinking. Roger——"
"What?" said Roger.
"Are you hungry?" asked Gladys.
"A little; are you?"
"Yes, I think I am, a little," replied Gladys. "I couldn't eat all that meat and stuff they gave us last night. I wanted our tea."
"And bread and butter," suggested Roger.
"Yes; at home I didn't like bread and buttermuch, but I think I would now. I daresay they'd give it us if I knew what it was called in their talking," said Gladys.
"It wouldn't be so bad if we knew their talking," sighed Roger.
"It wouldn't be so bad if it would get light," said his sister. "I don't know what to do, Roger. It'shourssince they've all been up, and nobody's come to us. I wonder if they've forgotten we're here."
"There's a little tiny, weenyinchof light beginning to come over there. Is that the window?" said Roger.
"I suppose so. As soon as it gets more light I'll get up and look if there's a bell," decided Gladys.
"And if there is?"
"I'll ring it, of course."
"But what would Miss—— Oh, Gladys," he burst out with a merry laugh, the first Gladys had heard from him since the journey. "Isn't I silly? I was just going to say, 'What would Miss Susan say?' I quite forgot. I'm not sorryshe'snot here. Are you, Gladdie?"
"I don't know," the little girl answered. Truth to tell, there were times when she would have been very thankful to see Miss Susan, even though shewas determined not to ask to go back to England till all hope was gone. "I'm not——" but what she was going to say remained unfinished. The door opened at last, and the frilled cap, looking so exactly the same as yesterday that Gladys wondered if Madame Nestor slept in it, only if so, how did she keep it from getting crushed, appeared by the light of a candle surrounding the kindly face.
"Bon jour, my children," she said.
"Thatmeans 'good-morning,'" whispered Gladys, "I know that. Say it, Roger."
Why Roger was to "say it" and not herself I cannot tell. Some unintelligible sound came from Roger's lips, for which Gladys hastened to apologise.
"He's trying to say 'good-morning' in French," she explained, completely forgetting that poor Madame Nestor could not understand her.
"Ah, my little dears," said the old woman—in her own language of course—"I wish I could know what you say. Ah, how sweet they are! Both together in one bed, like two little birds in a nest. And have you slept well, my darlings? and are you hungry?"
The children stared at each other, and at their old hostess.
"Alas," she repeated, "they do not understand.But they will soon know what I mean when they see the nice bowls of hot chocolate."
"Chocolate!" exclaimed both children. At last there was a word they could understand. Madame Nestor was quite overcome with delight.
"Yes, my angels, chocolate," she repeated, nodding her head. "The little servant is bringing it. But it was not she that made it. Oh, no! It was myself who took care it should be good. But you must have some light," and she went to the window, which had a curtain drawn before it, and outside heavy old-fashioned wooden shutters. No wonder in November that but little light came through. It was rather a marvel that at eight o'clock in the morning even a "tiny weenyinch" had begun to make its way.
With some difficulty the old woman removed all the obstructions, and then such poor light as there was came creeping in. But first she covered the two children up warmly, so that the cold air when the window was opened should not get to them.
She placed the whole on a little table which she drew close to the bed.
"Would not do for them to catch cold, that would be a pretty story," she muttered to herself, for she had a funny habit of talking away about everything she did. Then, when all was air-tight again, there came a knock at the door. Madame Nestor openedit, and took from the hands of an invisible person a little tray with two steaming bowls of the famous chocolate and two sturdy hunches of very "hole-y" looking bread. No butter; that did not come within Madame Nestor's ideas. She placed the whole on a little table which she drew close to the bed, and then wrapping a shawl round the children, she told them to take their breakfast. They did not, of course, understand her words, but when she gave Roger his bowl and a preliminary hunch of bread into his hands, they could not but see that they were expected to take their breakfast in bed.
"But we're not ill," exclaimed Gladys; "we never stay in bed to breakfast except when we're ill."
Madame Nestor smiled and nodded. She had not a notion what Gladys meant, and on her side she quite forgot that the children could not understand her any better than she understood them.
"We never stay in bed to breakfast unless we'reill," repeated Gladys more loudly, as if that would help Madame Nestor to know what she meant.
"Never mind, Gladdie—the chocolate's very good," said Roger.
As before, "chocolate" was the only word Madame Nestor caught.
"Yes, take your chocolate," she repeated; "don't let it get cold," and she lifted Gladys's bowl to give it to her.
"Stupid old thing," murmured Gladys, "why doesn't she understand? I should like to throw the chocolate in her face."
"Oh, Gladdie," said Roger reproachfully, "thinkwhat a mess it would make on the clean sheets!"
"I was only in fun—you might know that," said Gladys, all the same a little ashamed of herself.
Madame Nestor had by this time left the room with a great many incomprehensible words, but very comprehensible smiles and nods.
"I think breakfast in bed's very good," said Roger. Then came a sadder exclamation. "They've given me a pudding spoon 'stead of a teaspoon. It'ssobig—it won't hardly go into my mouth."
"And me too," said Gladys. "How stupid French people are! We'll have to drink it out of the bowls, Roger. How funny it is not to have tea-cups!"
"Ithink it's best to take it like soup," said Roger; "you don't need to put the spoon so much in your mouth if you think it's soup."
"I don't see what difference that makes," returned Gladys. But anyhow the chocolate and the bread disappeared, and then the children began to wonderhow soon they might get up. Breakfast in bed wasn't so bad as long as there was the breakfast to eat, but when it was finished and there was no other amusement at hand they began to find it very tiresome. They had not so very long to wait, however, before Madame Nestor again made her appearance.
"Mayn't we get up?" cried both children, springing up in bed and jumping about, to show how ready they were. The old lady seemed to understand this time, but first she stood still for a moment or two with her head on one side admiring them.
"The little angels!" she said to herself. "How charming they are. Come now, my darlings, and get quickly dressed. It is cold this morning," and she took Roger in her arms to lift him down, while Gladys clambered out by herself. Their clothes were neatly placed in two little heaps on the top of the chest of drawers, which, besides the two beds and two or three chairs, was the only furniture in the room. Madame Nestor sat down on one of the chairs with Roger on her knee and began drawing on his stockings.
"Well done," she said, when one was safely in its place; "who would have thought I was still so clever a nurse!" and she surveyed the stockinged leg with much satisfaction. Roger seemed quite of her opinion,and stuck out the other set of pink toes with much amiability. He greatly approved of this mode of being dressed. Miss Susan had told Ellen he was big enough, at five years old, to put on his stockings himself, and she had also been very strict about sundry other nursery regulations, to which the young gentleman, in cold weather especially, was by no means partial. But he was not to get off as easily as he hoped. His silence, which with him always meant content, caught Gladys's attention, which till now had been taken up with her own stockings, as she had a particular way of her own of arranging them before putting them on.
"Roger," she exclaimed when she turned round and saw him established on Madame Nestor's motherly lap; "what are you thinking of? You haven't had your bath."
Roger's face grew red, and the expression of satisfaction fled.
"Need I——?" he was beginning meekly, but Gladys interrupted him indignantly:
"You dirty little boy," she said. "What would Miss Susan say?" at which Roger began to cry, and poor Madame Nestor looked completely puzzled.
"We didn't have a bath last night, you know, because in winter Miss Susan thinks once a day isenough. But I did think we should have had one, after the journey too. And anyway this morning wemusthave one."
But Madame Nestor only continued to stare.
"What shall I say? HowcanI make her understand?" said Gladys in despair. "Where's the little basin we washed our faces and hands in yesterday, Roger?" she went on, looking round the room. "Oh, I forgot—it was downstairs. There'snobasin in this room! What dirty people!" then noticing the puzzled look on Madame Nestor's face, she grew frightened that perhaps she was vexed. "Perhaps she knows what 'dirty' means," she half whispered to herself. "Oh dear, I don't mean to be rude, ma'am," she went on, "but I suppose you don't know about children. HowcanI explain?"
A brilliant idea struck her. In a corner of the room lay the carpet-bag in which Miss Susan had packed their nightgowns and slippers, and such things as they would require at once. There were, too, their sponges; and, as Miss Susan had been careful to point out, a piece ofsoap, "which you never find in French hotels," she had explained to Gladys. The little girl dived into the bag and drew out the sponges and soap in triumph.
"See, see," she exclaimed, darting back again to the old lady, and flourishing her treasure-trove, "that's what I mean! We must have abath," raising her voice as she went on; "we must be washed andsponged;" and suiting the action to the word she proceeded to pat and rub Roger with the dry sponge, glancing up at Madame Nestor to see if the pantomime was understood.
"Ah, yes, to be sure," Madame Nestor exclaimed, her face lighting up, "I understand now, my little lady. All in good time—you shall have water to wash your face and hands as soon as you are dressed. But let me get this poor little man's things on quickly. It is cold this morning."
She began to take off Roger's nightgown and to draw on his little flannel vest, to whichhewould have made no objection, but Gladys got scarlet with vexation.
"No, no," she cried, "he must be washedfirst. If you haven't got a bath, you might anyway let us have a basin and some water. Roger, youarea dirty boy. You might join me, and then perhaps she'd do it."
Thus adjured, Roger rose to the occasion. He slipped off Madame Nestor's knee, and stepping outof his nightgown began an imaginary sponging of his small person. But it was cold work, and Madame Nestor seeing him begin to shiver grew really uneasy, and again tried to get him into his flannels.
"No, no," said Roger, in his turn—he had left off crying now—even the cold wasn't so bad as Gladdie calling him a dirty boy. Besides who could tell whether, somehow or other, Miss Susan might not come to hear of it? Gladys might write her a letter. "No, no," repeated Roger valorously, "we must be washedfirst."
"You too," said Madame Nestor in despair; "ah, what children!" But her good-humour did not desert her. Vaguely understanding what they meant—for recollections began to come back to her mind of what Léonie's mother used to tell her of the manners and customs ofhernurseries—she got up, and smiling still, though with some reproach, at her queer little guests, she drew a blanket from the bed and wrapped it round them, and then opening the door she called downstairs to the little servant to bring a basin and towel and hot water. But the little servant did not understand, so after all the poor old lady had to trot downstairs again herself.
"My old legs will have exercise enough," she saidto herself, "if the Papa does not come soon. However!"
"I'm sure she's angry," whispered Roger to Gladys inside the blanket, "we needn't have a batheveryday, Gladdie."
"Hush," said Gladys sternly. "I'mnotgoing to let you learn to be a dirty boy. If we can't have a bath we may at least bewashed."
"But if Papa's coming for us to-day or to-morrow," Roger said, "the new nurse could wash us. I don't believe Papa's coming for us," he went on as if he were going to cry again. "I believe we're going to stay here in this nugly little housealways—and it's all a trick. I don't believe we've got any Papa."
Poor Gladys did not know what to say. Her own spirits were going down again, for she too was afraid that perhaps Madame Nestor was vexed, and she began to wonder if perhaps it would have been better to let things alone for a day or two—"If I was sure that Papa would come in a day or two," she thought! But she felt sure of nothing now—everything had turned out so altogether differently from what she had expected that her courage was flagging, and she too, for the first time since their troubles had begun, followed Roger's example and burst into tears.
"They wake to feelThat the world is a changeful place to live in,And almost wonder if all is real."Lavender Lady.
So it was rather a woe-begone looking little couple, crouching together in the blanket, that met old Madame Nestor's eyes when, followed by the little servant with the biggest basin the establishment boasted of, and carrying herself a queer-shaped tin jug full of hot water and with a good supply of nice white towels over her arm, she entered the room again.
"How now, my little dears?" she exclaimed; "not crying, surely? Why, there's nothing to cry for!"
Gladys wiped her eyes with the skirt of her little nightgown, and looked up. She did not know whatthe old woman was saying, but her tone was as kind as ever. It was very satisfactory, too, to see the basin, small as it was, and still more, the plentiful hot water.
"Thank you, ma'am," said Gladys gravely, and nudging Roger to do the same. Everybody, she had noticed the day before, had called the old lady "madame," but that was the French for "ma'am" Léonie had told her, so she stuck to her native colours.
"Thank you," repeated Roger, but without the "ma'am." "It sounds so silly, nobody says it but servants," he maintained to Gladys, and no doubt it mattered very little whether he said it or not, as Madame Nestor didn't understand, though she was quick enough to see that her little guests meant to say something civil and kind. And the washing was accomplished—I cannot say without difficulty, for Roger tried to stand in the basin and very nearly split it in two, and there was a great splashing of water over the wooden floor—on the whole with success.
Poor Madame Nestor! When she had at last got her charges safely into their various garments, she sat down on a chair by the bed and fairly panted!
"It's much harder than cooking a dinner," she said to herself. "I can't think how my cousin Marie could stand it, if they have this sort of business every morning with English children. And five, six of them as there are sometimes! The English are a curious nation."
But she turned as smilingly as ever to Gladys and Roger; and Gladys, seeing that she was tired, and being sensible enough to understand that the kind old woman was really giving herself a great deal of trouble for their sake, went and stood close beside her, and gently stroked her, as she sometimes used to do—when Miss Susan was not there, be it remarked—to Mrs. Lacy.
"I wish I knew how to say 'thank you' in French," said Gladys to Roger. But Madame Nestor had understood her.
"Little dear," she said in her own language, "she thinks I am tired." The word caught Gladys's ear—"fatigued," she interrupted, "I know what that means. Poor Mrs. Nest," she explained to her little brother, "she says she's fatigued. I think we should kiss her, Roger," and both children lifted up their soft fresh rosy lips to the old woman, which was a language that needed no translation.
"Little dears," she repeated again, "but, all the same, I hope we shall soon have some news from the Papa. Ah!" she interrupted herself; "but there is the clock striking nine, and my breakfast not seen to. I must hasten, but what to do with these angels while I am in the kitchen?"
"Take them with you; children are very fond of being in a kitchen when they may," would have seemed a natural reply. But not to those who know what a Paris kitchen is. Even those of large grand houses would astonish many English children and big people, too, who have never happened to see them, and Madame Nestor's kitchen was really no better than a cupboard, and a cupboard more than half filled up with the stove, in and on which everything was cooked. There could be no question of taking the children into the kitchen, and the tiny room behind the shop was very dark and dull. Still it was the only place, and thither their old friend led them, telling them she must now go to cook the breakfast and they must try to amuse themselves; in the afternoon she would perhaps send them out a walk.
Two words in this were intelligible to Gladys.
"We are to be amused, Roger," she said, "and we are to promenade, that means a walk where the bandplays like at Whitebeach last summer. I wonder where it can be?"
The glass door which led into the shop had a little curtain across it, but one corner was loose. This Gladys soon discovered.
"See here, Roger," she said, "we can peep into the shop and see if any one comes in. Won't that be fun?"
Roger took his turn of peeping.
"It aren't a pretty shop," he said, "it's all chairs and tables. I'd like a toy-shop, Gladdie, wouldn't you?"
"It wouldn't be much good if we mightn't play with the toys," Gladys replied. "But I'll tell you what, Roger, we might play at beautiful games of houses in there. We could have that corner where there are the pretty blue chairs for our drawing-room, and we might pay visits. Or I might climb in there behind that big sofa and be a princess in a giant's castle, and you might come and fight with the giant and get me out."
"And who'd be the giant?" asked Roger.
"Oh, we canpretendhim. I can make a dreadfulbooingwhen I see you coming, and you can pretend you see him. But you must have a sword. Whatwould do for a sword?" she went on, looking round. "They haven't even a poker! I wish we had Miss Susan's umbrella."
"Here's one!" exclaimed Roger, spying the umbrella of Monsieur Adolphe, Madame Nestor's son, in a corner of the room. It was still rather damp, for poor Adolphe had had to come over in the heavy rain early that morning from the neighbouring inn where he had slept, having, as you know, given up his room to the two little strangers, and his mother would have scolded him had she noticed that he had put it down all dripping, though as the floor was a stone one it did not much matter. And the children were not particular. They screwed up the wet folds and buttoned the elastic, and then shouldering it, Roger felt quite ready to fight the imaginary giant.
There was a little difficulty about opening the door into the shop, and rathertoolittle about shutting it, for it closed with a spring, and nearly snapped Roger and his umbrella in two. But he was none the worse save a little bump on his head, which Gladys persuaded him not to cry about. It would never do to cry about a knock when he was going to fight the giant, she assured him, and then she set to work, planning the castle and the way Roger was to comecreeping through the forest, represented by chairs and stools of every shape, so that he grew quite interested and forgot all his troubles.
It really turned out a very amusing game, and when it was over they tried hide-and-seek, which would have been famous fun—there were so many hiding-holes among the bales of stuffs and pillows and uncovered cushions lying about—if they had had one or two more to play at it with them! But to playfellows they were little accustomed, so they did not much miss them, and they played away contentedly enough, though quietly, as was their habit. And so it came about that Madame Nestor never doubted that they were in the little back-room where she had left them, when a ring at the front door of the shop announced a customer.
This door was also half of glass, and when it was opened a bell rang. Gladys and Roger were busy looking for new hiding-places when the sudden sound of the bell startled them.
"Somebody's coming in," whispered Gladys; "Roger, let's hide. Don't let them see us; we don't know who they are," and quick as thought she stooped down in a corner, drawing her little brother in beside her.
From where they were they could peep out. Two ladies entered the shop, one young and one much older. The face of the older one Gladys did not distinctly see, or perhaps she did not much care to look at it, so immediately did the younger one seize her fancy. She was very pretty and pleasant-looking, with bright brown hair and sweet yet merry eyes, and as she threw herself down on a seat which stood near the door, Gladys was able to see that she was neatly and prettily dressed.
"Aren't you tired, Auntie?" she said to the other lady.
"A little. It is farther than I thought, and we have not much time. I wonder what colour will be prettiest for the curtains, Rosamond?"
"The shade of blue on that sofa over in the corner is pretty," said the young lady.
Gladys pinched Roger. It was precisely behind the blue-covered sofa that they were hiding.
"I wish they would be quick," said the elder lady. "Perhaps they did not hear the bell."
"Shall I go to the door and ring it again?" asked the one called Rosamond.
"I don't know; perhaps it would be better to tap at the glass door leading into the house. MadameNestor sits in there, I fancy. She generally comes out at that door."
"I don't fancy she is there now," said the young lady. "You see we have come so early. It has generally been in the afternoon that we have come. Madame Nestor is probably busy about her 'household avocations' at this hour," she added, with a smile.
"I wonder what that means," whispered Gladys. "I suppose it means the dinner."
Just at that moment the door opened, and Madame Nestor appeared, rather in a flutter. She was so sorry to have kept the ladies waiting, and how unfortunate! Her son had just gone to their house with the patterns for the curtains. He would have sent yesterday to ask at what hour the ladies would be at home, but they had all been so busy—an unexpected arrival—and Madame Nestor would have gone on to give all the story of Léonie's sudden visit to beg a shelter for the two little waifs, had not the ladies, who knew of old the good dame's long stories, cut her short as politely as they could.
"We are very hurried," said the one whom the young lady called "auntie." "I think the best thing to be done is to get home as quickly as we can, andperhaps we shall still find your son there; if not, he will no doubt have left the patterns, so please tell him to try to come this evening or to-morrow morning before twelve, for we must have the curtains this week."
Of course—of course—Madame Nestor agreed to everything as amiably as possible, and the ladies turned to go.
"Are you much troubled with mice?" said the younger lady as they were leaving. "I have heard queer little noises two or three times over in that corner near the blue sofa while we were speaking."
Old Madame Nestor started.
"Mice!" she exclaimed. "I hope not. It would be very serious for us—with so many beautiful stuffs about. I must make them examine, and if necessary get a cat. We have not had a cat lately—the last was stolen, she was such a beauty, and——"
And on the old body would have chattered for another half-hour, I daresay, had not the ladies again repeated that they were very hurried and must hasten home.
The idea of mice had taken hold of Madame Nestor's mind; it made her for the moment forget the children, though in passing through the little roomwhere she had left them she had wondered where they were. She hurried into the workroom to relate her fears, and Gladys and Roger, as soon as she had left the shop, jumped up, not sorry to stretch their legs after having kept them still for nearly a quarter of an hour.
"I wonder if she'd be angry at our playing here," said Gladys. "What fun it was hiding and those ladies not knowing we were there! I think they were nice ladies, but I wish they had kept on talking properly. I liked to hear what they said."
"Why doesn't everybody talk properly here if some does?" asked Roger.
"I suppose," said Gladys, though she had not thought of it before, it had seemed so natural to hear people talking as she had always heard people talk—"I suppose those ladies are English. I wish they had talked tous, Roger. Perhaps they know Papa."
"They couldn't talk to us when they didn't know us was there," said Roger, with which Gladys could not disagree. But it made her feel rather sorry not to have spoken to the ladies—it would have been very nice to have found some one who could understand what they said.
"I wish we hadn't been hiding," she was going tosay, but she was stopped by a great bustle which began to make itself heard in the sitting-room, and suddenly the door into the shop opened, and in rushed Madame Nestor, followed by the servant and two or three of the workpeople.
"Where are they, then? Where can they have gone, the poor little angels?" exclaimed the old lady, while the servant and the others ran after her repeating:
"Calm yourself, Madame, calm yourself. They cannot have strayed far—they will be found."
Though the children could not understand the words, they could notmisunderstand the looks and the tones, and, above all, the distress in their kind old friend's face. They were still half hidden, though they were no longer crouching down on the floor. Out ran Gladys, followed by Roger.
"Are you looking for us, Mrs. Nest?" she said. "Here we are! We've only been playing at hiding among the chairs and sofas."
Madame Nestor sank down exhausted on the nearest arm-chair.
"Oh, but you have given me a fright," she panted out. "I could not imagine where they had gone," she went on, turning to the others. "I left them asquiet as two little mice in there," pointing to the sitting-room, "and the moment my back was turned off they set."
"It is always like that with children," said Mademoiselle Anna, the forewoman. She was a young woman with very black hair and very black eyes and a very haughty expression. No one liked her much in the workroom—she was so sharp and so unamiable. But she was very clever at making curtains and covering chairs and sofas, and she had very good taste, so Madame Nestor, who was, besides, the kindest woman in the world, kept her, though she disliked her temper and pride.
"Poor little things—we have all been children in our day," said Madame Nestor.
"That is possible," replied Mademoiselle Anna, "but all the same, there are children and children. I told you, Madame, and you will see I was right; you do not know the trouble you will have with these two little foreigners—brought up who knows how—and a queer story altogether it seems to me," she added, with a toss of her head.
Gladys and Roger had drawn near Madame Nestor. Gladys was truly sorry to see how frightened their old friend had been, and she wished she knew how tosay so to her. But when Mademoiselle Anna went on talking, throwing disdainful glances in their direction, the children shrank back. They could not understand what she was saying, but theyfeltshe was talking of them, and they had already noticed her sharp unkindly glances the evening before.
"Why is she angry with us?" whispered Roger.
But Gladys shook her head. "I don't know," she replied. "She isn't as kind as Mrs. Nest and her son. Oh I do wish Papa would come for us, Roger!"
"So do I," said the little fellow.
But five minutes after, he had forgotten their troubles, for Madame Nestor took them into the long narrow room where she and her son and some of their workpeople had their meals, and established them at one end of the table, to have whatshecalled their "breakfast," but what to the children seemed their dinner. She was very kind to them, and gave them what she thought they would like best to eat, and some things, especially an omelette, they found very good. But the meat they did not care about.