CHAPTER I

MAISIE'S MERRY CHRISTMAS

By NINA RHOADES

Author of "Brick House Books,"

"Marion's Vacation," and "Dorothy Brown"

_ILLUSTRATED BY ELIZABETH WITHINGTON_

BOSTON

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

Published, March, 1911

COPYRIGHT, 1911

BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

_All Rights Reserved_

MAISIE'S MERRY CHRISTMAS

NORWOOD PRESS

BERWICK & SMITH CO.

NORWOOD, MASS.

U. S. A.

CONTENTS

MAISIE'S MERRY CHRISTMAS

JILL AND LILL

HOW REGGIE SAW THE SPHINX

ILLUSTRATIONS

"Oh, may I really take it?"

She laid a kind little hand on one of the blind child's shoulders.

"And may I ask what your mother does in the galleries?"

"Has there really been an earthquake, and where was it?"

Reggie paused before the open window.

"She's pretty, isn't she?" whispered Phyllis.

MAISIE'S MERRY CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER I

"I wish there wasn't going to be any Christmas at all this year."

Maisie made this startling assertion in a tone of conviction, but there

was a quiver in her voice, nevertheless, and a suspicious moisture

in her eyes. The remark caused quite a shock to the members of her

family, who were all assembled in their private sitting-room at the

Hotel de Nice. Mr. Barton looked up from his American newspaper, that

had arrived by the last mail, Mrs. Barton paused in the letter she

was writing home to Grandma, and Auntie Belle--who was playing on the

piano--whirled around on her stool, and regarded her little niece with

an expression of horrified amazement.

"Why, Maisie," she exclaimed indignantly; "how can you say such a

dreadful thing? Think of the wonderful winter we are having! You must

really be a very unappreciative child."

"I'm not an unappreciative child," declared Maisie, who did not like

the long word, although she was not quite sure she knew what it meant,

"and I'm not having a wonderful winter at all. It's been horrid ever

since we went away from Morristown. First there was that dreadful

ocean. You didn't mind that, because you weren't seasick, and didn't

have to lie in bed and hate things to eat. Then there was London. I

hated London, it was so foggy and rainy, and Françoise was always

making me wash my face and hands because of the smoots. We had to go

to stupid churches and galleries, and papa made me say history to him

every day. I hate history even worse than geography and arithmetic.

After that came Paris, and there were more churches and pictures, and

everybody talked French. Now we've come here, and it's going to be

Christmas next week, though I don't see how it really can be, with all

the roses out just the way they are at home in June. I don't see any

use in Christmas without any people to give presents, and I just wish

there wasn't going to be any, so there!"

"But, Maisie darling," began Mrs. Barton, eagerly, "there will be

presents. Grandpa and Grandma and all the aunties and uncles have sent

money to spend for our Christmas, and we are planning a very merry day."

But Maisie's cross little face did not brighten.

"It won't be like Christmas at home, anyway," she persisted. "How can

it be, without any party, and with nobody but you and papa and Auntie

Belle and Françoise to buy presents for? Even if we had a tree, there

wouldn't be any people to come to it."

Auntie Belle opened her lips as if she were going to say something, but

at a glance from her brother she closed them again. Mrs. Barton looked

really distressed, but Mr. Barton only smiled.

"Come here, Maisie," he said, laying down his newspaper, and lifting

his little daughter on his knee. "So Europe is a failure in your

estimation, and you would much rather have spent the winter in

Morristown, New Jersey, than in France or Italy."

"Much rather," said Maisie, with decision; "I wish we hadn't come."

"That is really a very sad state of affairs, especially when mamma and

Auntie Belle and I are all enjoying ourselves so much. But I thought

we agreed that the pantomime and the Zoo in London were rather good

fun, after all, and that the Bois in Paris was even nicer than Central

Park. Then how about the ponies?"

Maisie was beginning to look a little ashamed of her outburst.

"London and Paris weren't so very bad," she admitted, reluctantly, "and

I do like the ponies, but it's Christmas--oh, Papa, it's dreadful not

to be at home on Christmas!" And Maisie took out her handkerchief and

wiped her eyes.

"We are all sorry to be away from our dear ones on Christmas, of

course," said Mr. Barton, "and we shall miss them very much; but you

know people can't expect to have all the good things in the world at

the same time. Now, I have an idea. You have always had very 'Merry

Christmasses' at home, but you are afraid this one isn't going to be

quite the same thing. How would it do to try to make this Christmas

just as merry for some one else as your friends made yours for you last

year?"

"I don't think that would be any fun," said Maisie, who did not look

much impressed by her father's suggestion. "Besides, we don't know any

people here."

"It is true that we don't know any one as yet, but Christmas is nearly

a week off, and in the meantime we might be on the look out. Suppose

you think the matter over for a day or two, and see how it strikes you."

Maisie did not look as if she considered her father's suggestion at all

an interesting one, but at the moment her ear was caught by the sound

of distant music, and glad of any opportunity to change a conversation

which was threatening to become personal, she slipped down off her

father's knee, with the remark.

"There are some more musicians; I want to see them." And promptly

disappeared through the open French window on to the balcony, which

overlooked the garden, where roses bloomed all winter long.

"Poor mite!" said Mrs. Barton, when Maisie had left the room, "we

forget what a baby she really is. Of course she cannot be expected to

enjoy the things that we do. I almost wish I had taken mother's advice,

and left her at home, though it would have been very hard to part from

her."

"I don't agree with you at all," said Mr. Barton smiling. "Has it

ever occurred to you, Alice, that our small daughter is just a trifle

selfish?"

"I don't consider her in the least selfish," Mrs. Barton declared

indignantly. "She is the most generous little thing in the world.

Why, only this morning I had to prevent her giving a whole franc to

some of those ridiculous street musicians she is so fond of. She is

always giving away her pocket-money, and one of her chief reasons for

being unhappy just now is because she has so few people for whom to buy

Christmas presents this year."

"All very true. Maisie loves to shop, and when her pocket-money is all

gone she will come to us for more, but honestly now, Alice dear, has

the child ever been obliged to give up anything she really wanted?"

Auntie Belle gave her brother a quick, comprehending glance, and with

difficulty repressed a laugh. She was really very fond of her little

niece, but there had been times lately when she had found Maisie just

a little tiresome. But Mrs. Barton looked really unhappy. She was very

conscientious, and honestly tried to bring up her little girl in the

best way, but Maisie was such a funny, sweet-tempered little person,

that it was hard to keep from spoiling her. She was an only child, and

the joy of her mother's heart.

Before Mrs. Barton could reply, however, Maisie herself reappeared.

"It's a boy and a little girl this time," she announced, with the air

of a person imparting most interesting news. "The little girl isn't

much bigger than me. She sings and the boy plays the mandolin. Please

give me some money for them, Papa. They look very poor; they haven't

any shoes or stockings on."

"I have known boys who preferred going without shoes and stockings to

wearing them," said Mr. Barton, laughing, but he handed Maisie some

small coins, and the little girl once more disappeared from view.

"Hark!" exclaimed Auntie Belle, in a tone of sudden interest; "listen

to that child's singing."

They were all silent for a moment, and through the open window came the

sound of a child's voice, singing a little French ballad. It was a very

sweet, clear little voice, though as yet quite untrained, and there was

a strange pathos in it, which touched the hearers in a way that they

could hardly have explained.

"Rather better than one usually hears," Mr. Barton said, when the

ballad came to an end. "It is shameful, though, that a child of that

age should be allowed to go about the streets singing. She ought to be

at school or at home with her mother."

Just then there was a tap at the sitting-room door, and Françoise,

Maisie's French maid, appeared, with the announcement that the ponies

were at the door.

"I gave them the money, but I don't think they were very polite,"

remarked Maisie, coming from the balcony at Françoise's summons. "The

boy took off his hat, but the little girl didn't even smile, and she

never looked up once."

"Perhaps she has never been taught to be polite," said Mrs. Barton.

"Now run along, my darling, and have a pleasant drive. Don't stay out

late, and do be careful of those dreadful motor cars."

Ten minutes later, Maisie, seated by Françoise's side in the pony cart,

was driving the pretty little pair of cobs down the boulevard in the

direction of the sea. A small boy in livery occupied the seat behind,

but beyond an occasional word to the ponies, he had nothing to do.

Maisie had always lived in the country, and had ridden her first pony

when she was five. Although only just ten, she could already both drive

and ride better than many people twice her age. She had always cared

more for animals than for toys, and the leaving her pony and other

pets had been one of the hardest things about going abroad for the

winter. It had been a great delight to her, when, on their arrival at

Nice--where they expected to spend several weeks--her father had hired

the little pair of cobs for her use, and the afternoon drives into the

country, or along the esplanade by the sea, were by far the pleasantest

hours of the day.

To-day she chose the esplanade. It was a glorious afternoon; the air

was soft and balmy, and felt much more like April than December. The

sea was very calm, but the little waves danced and sparkled in the

sunshine. Françoise--who loved everything connected with her native

land--was enchanted, and asked Maisie if she did not think it was

"_magnifique_," but Maisie--who was still feeling rather aggrieved on

the subject of Christmas--replied crossly that she thought Morristown

was much prettier, and the maid was forced to fall back on the small

groom for sympathy. Antoine had spent three winters in Nice, and was

quite ready to talk about the attractions of the place, and he and

Françoise became so enthusiastic, and repeated the words "_magnifique_"

and "_charmante_" so many times that Maisie grew quite tired of hearing

them.

"I wish you'd talk about something else," she said at last. Maisie

had had French nurses all her life, and spoke that language quite as

fluently as her own.

"You have no love for the beautiful," said Françoise, severely.

"I have, too, but I get tired hearing people always talking about the

same thing. I'm not going to stay here any longer. I'm going to buy

Christmas presents." And she resolutely turned the ponies' heads in a

homeward direction.

"Your mamma does not wish you to shop in the afternoon," remonstrated

Françoise; "she says you are to be out in the fresh air."

"I don't like the fresh air, and I've got twenty francs that papa gave

me yesterday to buy Christmas presents with. Next Saturday will be

Christmas, though I don't see how it can be with all the roses out, and

last year I shopped every day for two whole weeks."

Françoise was still inclined to object, but Maisie was in one of her

obstinate fits, and the argument was threatening to become a serious

one, when the little girl's attention was attracted by something, which

for the moment directed her thoughts into a new channel.

"Look at that little girl crying on the bench," she exclaimed, with

suddenly aroused interest. "She's bigger than I am; I should think

she'd be ashamed to have people see her crying in the street. Why, I do

believe it's the same little girl who was singing in front of the hotel

just before we went out! What's the matter, Antoine?" For Antoine had

suddenly uttered a startled exclamation, and half risen in his seat.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle, but might I be permitted to speak to the little

girl for a moment? It is poor little Celeste Noel, and she is alone."

"Why shouldn't she be alone?" Maisie inquired, as she brought the

ponies to a stand-still. "She must be ten or eleven."

"Because she is blind, and it always frightens her to be left alone."

"Blind! Oh, how sad! I think I will go and speak to her too."

"Indeed you will do nothing of the kind, Mademoiselle Maisie," cried

Françoise, indignantly. "Your mamma would never--"

But already Maisie, with characteristic impetuosity, had sprung out

of the pony cart, throwing the reins to Françoise, and the maid, who

did not like driving, and was in constant fear of the horses running

away, was too frightened to finish her sentence. Meantime Antoine had

already reached the bench, on which the little blind girl was crouched,

her face buried in her hands, shaking from head to foot with sobs. He

was quickly followed by Maisie.

"What is the matter?" she inquired in her pretty, fluent French, before

Antoine had had time to utter a word, and she laid a kind little hand

on one of the blind child's shoulders.

[Illustration: SHE LAID A KIND LITTLE HAND ON ONE OF THE BLIND

CHILD'S SHOULDERS.]

At the sound of the friendly voice, the little girl lifted her head,

and an expression of relief came into her face. It was a pretty,

pathetic little face, in spite of the tear stains, and there was

nothing repulsive or painful in the sight of the downcast eyes.

"Pierre has left me all alone," she said, with a mighty effort to check

the rising sobs. "I am afraid to be alone."

"Don't cry, Celeste," said Antoine, soothingly; "you are quite safe

here; nothing can harm you. Pierre will soon be back."

Celeste turned her head eagerly in the direction of the new voice.

"It is Antoine Dupont," she said eagerly; "I know your voice. Pierre

said he was tired of playing for me to sing, and that I must stay here

until he comes for me. He may stay away all the afternoon; he did one

day last week, and I am so afraid of the horses and those terrible

motor cars; they come so near and make such a dreadful noise. Besides,

I am afraid Pierre will spend all the money for sweets and marbles, and

there will be nothing to take home to poor Maman Remo."

Antoine's eyes flashed angrily.

"Pierre is a beast," he muttered. "If my father could catch him, he

would beat him as he deserves."

"Where do you live?" inquired Maisie, whose interest and sympathy were

growing stronger every moment.

"It is a long way from here; I could not possibly go there myself."

"No, of course you couldn't, but we could take you in the pony cart, if

Antoine knows the way. Would you like to go with us?"

"It is little Mademoiselle Barton," Antoine explained. "She drives the

cobs. I told you about her the other day."

Celeste's face brightened perceptibly.

"I remember," she said, "the little American girl, with the long soft

hair, that you said you would like to have me feel. Yes, I will go with

you. You are very kind; you gave Antoine chocolates, and he gave them

to me."

Antoine blushed at this mention of his generosity, but Maisie was

pleased.

"Antoine is a nice boy," she said, approvingly, "and I will give him

some more chocolates when we go home. I have a whole box full, that

Auntie Belle gave me yesterday. I will send you some, too, if you like

them. Now come along."

Celeste rose promptly, and held out her hand, and as Maisie took it,

and led the way to the waiting pony cart, her heart was suddenly filled

with a great pitying tenderness, such as she had never felt before in

her life, and she felt suddenly as if she wanted to cry.

At the sight of Maisie returning with her strange companion, Françoise

once more found her voice.

"Leave that child alone, and get in at once, Mademoiselle Maisie," she

commanded. "You are a very naughty little girl, and I shall certainly

tell your mamma what you have done. Antoine, come here this instant,

and hold these ponies. You know it terrifies me to be left alone with a

horse."

Antoine, feeling considerably conscience-smitten, sprang to the ponies'

heads, but Maisie had no intention of relinquishing her charge.

"I'm going to take the little blind girl home," she explained. "Her

brother ran away and left her, and she is frightened. Please move up,

Françoise, so she can sit between us on the seat."

"Indeed you will do nothing of the kind," returned Françoise,

decidedly. "Your mamma would never allow it. Take the child back to the

bench where you found her, and then we must go on. It is getting late,

and we must hurry if you wish to shop before going home."

But Maisie did not move.

"The little girl is blind, Françoise," she said, reproachfully, "and

she is frightened. I know papa and mamma wouldn't mind my taking her

home. They like to have me do kind things for people. Please let us

take her. Antoine knows her."

Françoise wavered. She was not really an unkind woman, and she noticed

that, although very poorly dressed, the little blind girl was not

at all dirty. But now, to the surprise of every one, it was Celeste

herself who drew back.

"I--I would rather not go, please," she said, her cheeks crimsoning,

and she took a few quick steps backward, in the direction of the bench

where she had been sitting.

"Why not?" inquired Maisie, in surprise, and she grasped her new

friend's hand still more firmly.

"The lady does not want me. I would rather wait here for Pierre. Please

take me back to the bench."

"There, you see, Françoise, you have hurt her feelings," cried Maisie,

indignantly. "Please do come, Celeste; I want you very much, and so

does Françoise. You do want her, don't you, Françoise?"

"Yes, come, my child," said the maid, in a much gentler tone, and she

made room for Celeste to sit beside her on the seat. "Now, Antoine, if

you know where the little girl lives, direct us there at once."

Thus urged, Celeste though still looking a little uncomfortable,

allowed herself to be lifted into the cart, and in accordance with

Antoine's directions, Maisie turned the ponies' heads, and they trotted

away towards the home of her little protégée.

"Does your brother often leave you like that?" Maisie inquired,

sympathetically, as the little blind girl settled back in her seat,

with a sigh of unmistakable enjoyment.

"Pierre is not my brother; he is Maman Remo's boy. My brother would

never be so cruel. He was always kind, and once he beat a boy who

teased me."

"Why does your brother let you go out with that horrid Pierre--why

doesn't he take you himself?"

A shadow crept into the child's face, and her lip trembled.

"He is not here," she said, sadly. "He went away four years ago, to

seek his fortune, and he has never come back since."

"To seek his fortune?" repeated Maisie, looking puzzled. "I thought it

was only in fairy tales that people did that. Where did he go?"

Celeste shook her head.

"I do not know," she said. "Maman Remo thinks he may have gone to

America. We have never heard from him since he went away. He told Maman

Remo he would not come back until he had made his fortune."

"And who is Maman Remo?"

"She is the lady who has taken care of me ever since my own maman died.

She promised Louis she would let me stay with her until he came back."

"And is she kind--do you love her?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, she is very kind, and I love her very much. She was

so good to my poor maman when she was ill, and so was Papa Remo, too,

but he is dead now. He was run over by a motor car, two years ago, in

Paris. That is why I am so afraid of them. We lived in Paris then, and

Papa and Maman Remo had a house where they took lodgers. There was a

shop on the first floor, and they sold beautiful flowers. But after

papa was killed maman could not pay the rent, and so we came here to

Nice, and she does washing for the people in the hotels, and Pierre and

I earn money, too."

"I know you do," said Maisie eagerly. "I heard you sing in front of our

hotel this afternoon. I threw you some pennies, and I wondered why you

never looked up or smiled, as the other musicians do."

Celeste flushed. "That was because I could not see you, and Pierre does

not always tell me when people throw pennies. He is afraid I will keep

the account, and tell Maman Remo if he does not bring all the money

home."

"Pierre must be a very bad boy," said Maisie, with conviction.

"I am afraid he is not always good, and it is a great pity, because

his mother loves him so much, and it makes her so unhappy when he does

mean, bad things."

"When did you first come to live with Maman Remo?" inquired Maisie, who

was beginning to find this new acquaintance very interesting.

"It was five years ago, just after my own papa died, that maman and

Louis and I came to her house to live. My papa was a great singer. He

had a wonderful voice, and he sang at the opera in Paris. But he caught

a terrible cold one winter, and lost his voice, and after that we were

very poor. He was ill for a long time, and maman nursed him, and after

he died she was ill too. Maman Remo says it was because she had worked

so hard to nurse papa and take care of us all. She used to sew all

day to earn money for us, and they paid her so little at the shops.

She lived a year after we came to the Remo's, and then she died too,

and Louis and I were left alone. Louis used to help in the shop, but

he never liked it. He had a beautiful voice; even more beautiful than

papa's, and he loved music better than anything else in the world. So

when maman was dead, he went away to seek his fortune."

"It's very interesting," said Maisie; "it sounds just like a story. Why

doesn't your brother ever write to you or let you know where he is?"

"He would not know where to write. You see, there was no way of telling

him when we left Paris, after Papa Remo was killed. Maman Remo cannot

write."

"How queer," said Maisie. "I thought all grown-up people could write.

Suppose your brother comes home some time, and wants to find you; how

will he be able to do it?"

"I do not know," said Celeste, mournfully. "It is very sad, and I often

cry about it. I am sure he will come some time, and if he does not find

us he will be so unhappy, for he was always good, and we loved each

other very much."

The little blind girl looked so sad and distressed, that Maisie thought

it might be as well to change the subject, so, after they had both been

silent for a moment, and Antoine had given a direction about the next

turning, she inquired whether Celeste was not glad Christmas was so

near.

"Oh, yes, very glad," said the child, her face brightening. "I love

Christmas. Maman used to say I must always love it, because my name,

Celeste Noel, means Celestial Christmas."

"I think it is a beautiful name," said Maisie, much impressed. "I wish

mine were half as pretty, but it's just plain Mary Barton, though

everybody calls me Maisie. Do you always have a good time on Christmas?"

"I used to have beautiful times when maman was alive, and Louis was at

home, and even now I love it very much."

"What are you going to do this year?" Maisie inquired, with interest.

"Oh, Maman Remo will take me to High Mass at the cathedral, and the

music will be beautiful. I think I love music as much as Louis does,

though I have not his wonderful voice. In the afternoon perhaps she

will take me to the concert in the Public Gardens. She is too busy to

take me other days, and Pierre does not like music, though he plays the

mandolin for me to sing, but no one ever works on Christmas, not even

Maman Remo."

"And don't you expect any presents? I thought everybody had some kind

of presents on Christmas."

"I used to have presents when maman and Louis were here, but Maman Remo

is very poor; she has no money to spend for such things."

Maisie was silent for a moment. The thought of a Christmas without

presents was such a new one, that it took time to accustom herself to

it. She really could not imagine what such a Christmas would be like.

Then another idea flashed into her mind, and she inquired, eagerly--

"But suppose you knew you were to have a present--what would you rather

have than anything else?"

"I know what I would like best, but I could never have it; it is too

expensive."

"What is it? Do please tell me."

"The little statue of the Blessed Mother with the Baby Jesus in her

arms. It is in the window of a shop on the Boulevard Messina. Pierre

told me about it, and one day we went into the shop, and the man was

very kind. He let me hold it in my hand, it was so beautiful to feel

the dear Mother's face and the precious Baby's. I would rather have it

than anything else in the world."

"And how much does it cost?" Maisie asked anxiously.

"Oh, a great deal of money; nearly twenty francs. Certainly we could

never buy such a beautiful thing."

"Twenty francs is four dollars, isn't it?" said Maisie reflectively.

"Four dollars isn't very much. I spent five for mamma's Christmas

present last year, and nearly six for papa's."

Celeste's astonishment was almost too great for words.

"You Americans must be very rich indeed," she said. "We heard about how

rich you were. That is why Louis wanted to go to America to seek his

fortune."

"There are a good many poor people in America, too," said Maisie. "I

think there must be poor people everywhere. I think I would rather be

poor in Nice than in New York. New York is such a big, noisy place, but

Morristown, where my home is, is lovely."

Celeste began to look troubled again.

"I hope Louis is not very poor," she said, in a tone of real distress.

"Sometimes I am so afraid he may be, even poorer than we are. I lie

awake thinking about it at night."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said practical Maisie. "He may not

be poor at all, you know, and if he isn't, you are worrying all for

nothing. Auntie Belle says it is very foolish to worry about things

until you are sure they are going to happen. That's what she said to

mamma when I was ill last winter, and mamma thought I was getting

scarlet fever. It turned out not to be scarlet fever, at all, only

German measles, so Auntie Belle was quite right. How old was Louis

when he went away to seek his fortune?"

"Just eighteen, and I was eight. He is ten years older than me. He is

twenty-two now, and I am twelve."

"A big boy of eighteen ought to be able to take care of himself,"

Maisie remarked, with cheerful conviction. "I really don't believe you

need worry about him. Perhaps he will be very rich when he comes home.

In stories the people who go to seek their fortunes always come home

rich."

"I don't think I care very much about his being rich if he is only

well and strong," said Celeste, with a sigh. "I do miss him so much.

Sometimes it seems as if I couldn't wait, but Maman Remo says I must

pray to the good God every day, and by and by He will let Louis come

home and find us."

"Oh, I am sure He will," said Maisie, "and I know Louis will be rich,

too, like the people in books. I don't suppose you ever have to go to

school or learn lessons, on account of being--the way you are, you

know."

"No," said Celeste, "but I wish I could. I don't want to grow up

ignorant like Maman Remo."

"But I don't see how you can help it; you couldn't learn to read and

write like other people, could you?"

"Not just the same, but I could learn to read and write the way blind

people do. If I could only go to the school for the blind in Paris, I

should be so happy."

Maisie was more surprised by this remark than by anything her new

friend had said yet. That any person in her senses should actually wish

to go to school and to learn lessons, was a state of affairs that she

had never even contemplated as the wildest possibility.

"I never heard of a school for the blind," she said, doubtfully; "is it

a nice place?"

"Oh, it is a beautiful place! I was there once, when I was a very

little girl. Maman and Louis went with me, and a kind gentleman took us

around, and told us such interesting things. There were books full of

little dots that the blind children read with their fingers, and raised

maps to teach them geography, and they let me take them, and told me

how they used them. And, oh, so many other wonderful things! But the

best of all was the music. Some of the children played and sang for us,

and it was beautiful. I wanted to stay there, but the gentleman said

they did not take any children under eight, and I was only six."

"Well, you are more than eight now, so why don't you go, if you think

you will like it so much?" Maisie inquired, with interest.

"Because Paris is so far away, and it costs so much money to go there.

Besides there is no one to take me, and I cannot go by myself. If Louis

were here, I know he would take me."

"I should think you would be glad you didn't have to go," said Maisie

cheerfully. "I know I should be if I were you. You are the first girl I

have ever met who was sorry because she couldn't go to school. I go to

school at home, but the very best part about coming abroad this year,

was that I wouldn't have to go all winter. At first mamma thought of

taking a governess, and that would have been dreadful, but papa said

he was sure I would learn enough travelling in different countries, so

mamma changed her mind, and I only have to do history and spelling for

an hour every morning with her or with Auntie Belle."

Celeste said nothing, and there was a short silence, which was broken

by Antoine's direction--

"This is the street, Mademoiselle; it is the first house on the left."

They turned into a little narrow back street, lined on both sides with

small, shabby houses, before the very smallest and shabbiest of which

the ponies were brought to stand, and the groom sprang to the ground,

and came round to the side of the cart, to help the little blind girl

out.

Françoise, who had been feeling far from comfortable during the short

drive, looked decidedly relieved.

"Bid the little girl good-bye at once, Mademoiselle Maisie," she said;

"it is getting late."

But Maisie was in no hurry.

"Good-bye," she said, reluctantly. "Are you sure you will find some one

at home? I don't like to leave you alone again."

Celeste smiled, and explained that she did not in the least mind being

alone at home; it was only in the street that she was afraid.

"Besides, I am quite sure Maman Remo will be in this afternoon," she

added. "She is ironing some clothes that must go back to one of the

hotels to-night."

But Maisie insisted that Antoine should take the little blind girl

in, and make sure that she was quite safe before leaving her. She

would have greatly enjoyed going in herself, and making Maman Remo's

acquaintance, but that she dared not suggest, well knowing that

Françoise would never consent to such a proceeding. So she bade Celeste

good-bye regretfully, and watched the little figure disappear with

Antoine into the small, shabby house. In a few moments the boy returned.

"Was Maman Remo at home?" she inquired anxiously, as Antoine resumed

his seat, and the ponies started off at a leisurely trot.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, and she was very angry when she heard what had

happened. That Pierre of hers is a beast. No one but a beast would

leave a little blind child alone in the streets like that. He deserves

a good beating."

"Have you known the family long?" asked Françoise, who was, perhaps,

more interested in poor little Celeste than she cared to show.

"Oh, yes, a long time. Every one knows Madame Remo, and every one is

sorry for the child; she is such a dear little thing. Madame Remo works

very hard, and Pierre is too lazy to be of any help. The only thing he

will do is to play his mandolin for Celeste to sing, and even that he

is getting tired of. You see how he treats her. Madame Remo is a very

good woman; my mother respects her greatly."

"She must be a good woman to keep that child all these years," observed

Françoise, sympathetically. "I do not suppose she receives a penny for

it."

"No, indeed, not one. People often ask her why she does not send

Celeste to the asylum, but she says she loves the child like her own,

and nothing will induce her to part with her."

"Françoise," said Maisie, with sudden determination, "I'm not going

shopping; I'm going straight home. I've got a beautiful plan, and I

want to tell papa and mamma all about it."

* * * * *

Mr. and Mrs. Barton and Auntie Belle were just starting out for an

afternoon walk when the pony cart drew up once more before the Hotel de

Nice. With one bound, Maisie was on the sidewalk, and had seized her

father's hand in both her own.

"I've found somebody, Papa," she cried, joyously. "You said a good many

things might happen in a week, and one has happened already. She's

a little blind girl, the same one that sang in front of the hotel

this afternoon, only then I didn't know she was blind. She hasn't

any father or mother, only a brother, and he's gone away to seek his

fortune. She doesn't expect a single Christmas present because Maman

Remo, who is a very good woman, Antoine says, is very poor, but she

loves Christmas just the same, because her name is Celeste Noel, which

means Celestial Christmas. The thing she wants most in the world is a

little statue that costs twenty francs. I want to buy it for her, and

a lot of other things besides. Please say I can. You said I could make

somebody else's Christmas as merry as mine was last year. I thought I

wouldn't care much about doing it at first, but I've changed my mind,

and just think what a beautiful surprise it will be for poor little

Celeste!"

CHAPTER II

"Are you ready, Auntie Belle?"

"I'll be ready in five minutes. Now do be quiet, Maisie, like a good

girl, and let me finish this letter. I want it to catch the next mail."

Maisie heaved an impatient sigh, and shifted her position from one foot

to the other. She was standing in the doorway of her aunt's room, ready

dressed for a morning walk, and Auntie Belle was hurriedly finishing a

letter, begun several days before, to a girl friend at home. There was

a short silence, and then Maisie broke out again--

"Seems to me you are always writing letters, Auntie Belle, how can you

think of so many things to say to people?"

Auntie Belle made no answer, but continued scribbling away in silence.

"I never can think of things to say when I write letters," Maisie went

on, ignoring her aunt's silence. "Mamma said I must write to Grandma

yesterday, and I did, but the letter was only a page long. How many

pages is yours?"

"Maisie, if you don't go away and leave me to finish this letter in

peace, I shall never be ready to go Christmas shopping with you this

morning. I told you I would be through in five minutes, and so I will

if you will only leave me alone. Do run away and talk to some one else,

and I'll find you when I'm ready."

"All right, I'll go downstairs, and you can meet me in the hall, but be

sure you do come in five minutes. If you don't I shall have to come and

hurry you up. We've got a great deal of shopping to do this morning,

and if we don't start soon we won't be through in time for lunch."

Auntie Belle murmured something unintelligible, and Maisie departed

reluctantly. When her aunt came hurrying downstairs some ten minutes

later, with her letter in her hand, she found the little girl in

the lower hall, in earnest conversation with Madame Strobel, the

pleasant-faced landlady.

"I've been telling Madame all about my plan," she explained, "and she's

so interested. She knows Celeste and Maman Remo, too."

"Yes, I do indeed," said the landlady, heartily. "Madame Remo has

washed for us ever since she came to Nice, and a very good and worthy

woman she is. As for the little blind girl, every one is interested in

her. Has Mademoiselle perhaps heard her sing?"

"Only once," said Auntie Belle, "and then it was in the distance, but I

remember thinking the child had an unusually sweet voice."

"Isn't it pleasant to be doing kind things for 'worthy' people?"

remarked Maisie, as she and her aunt walked down the street together.

"I think it's one of the pleasantest things I've ever done. Do you

know, I've decided to be a philanthropist when I grow up? It's so

interesting making other people happy."

Auntie Belle laughed.

"You will have to have plenty of money if you are going to be a

philanthropist," she said. "It might be as well to begin to save a

little now, don't you think so?"

Maisie's bright face was clouded for a moment, and she looked a little

puzzled.

"I hate saving money," she said; "there are always so many things I

want to spend it for. Besides, philanthropists are always generous. I

don't see how I can save my allowance and be generous at the same time."

"That is a problem which has troubled older heads than yours, I

fancy," said Auntie Belle, "but I don't think I would worry about it

just yet if I were you. You have had a good many plans for your future,

and you know you might happen to change again. I think the last idea

was to be a circus rider, wasn't it?"

Maisie felt sure her aunt was laughing at her, and as she objected

to being laughed at as much as most little girls do, she hastened to

change the subject by saying--

"I keep thinking of more and more things that I want for the tree. It

won't do to have candles, because Celeste couldn't see them, and might

burn herself if she went too near. I want her to be able to feel all

the things, and even take them off the tree herself if she would like

to. I suppose it must be a great comfort to a blind person to feel

things, don't you?"

Auntie Belle said she supposed it must be, and Maisie chatted on

happily.

"First of all, we must buy the statue, because that is the most

important. Won't she be happy when she gets it? Then we must have some

candy, of course, and a sachet. Françoise says she is sure Celeste

would like a sachet with perfume in it. I think I'll get a bottle of

cologne, too--blind people must like nice things to smell. Then I want

to get a pretty little purse for her to keep her pennies in, and a pair

of soft lined gloves to keep her hands warm. I suppose she's too old

for toys, but perhaps we can find some pretty little things that she'd

like to feel. Mamma's going to give an envelope with money in it, so

Maman Remo can buy her some shoes and stockings, but I want all the

other things to come from me."

Auntie Belle--who had been much interested in all she had heard of the

little blind girl--was quite ready to listen, and sympathize, and the

two chatted on pleasantly till they reached the Place Messina, the

principal shopping district in Nice.

"It's so much more fun shopping with you than with Françoise," Maisie

remarked, with a little skip of delight, as they turned into the busy

thoroughfare. "I suppose I ought to be very sorry for her headache, but

if she hadn't one this morning, you would have gone off somewhere with

papa and mamma, and I shouldn't have had you to help me choose things.

Oh, look at those Christmas trees! Don't they smell like home? I was

afraid nothing over here was going to seem a bit like Christmas, but

it's beginning to, just a little."

It was a glorious morning, and the Place was crowded with busy

Christmas shoppers. Many of them were English and Americans, who were

wintering at the gay resort, but there was a goodly sprinkling of

natives as well, and it seemed to Maisie and her aunt that everybody

was looking unusually happy. They had no difficulty in finding the shop

with the little statues in the window and Maisie at once recognized

Celeste's favorite, the Virgin Mother, with the infant Jesus in her

arms.

"I want that one," she announced, before the obliging shop-keeper had

time to inquire their wishes. "It costs twenty francs, I know."

The man looked surprised, and Maisie hastened to explain in her

friendly way.

"The reason I know how much it costs is because a little blind girl

told me. She said you were very kind, and let her take it in her hand

one day. She wants it more than anything else in the world, and I'm

going to give it to her for a Christmas present."

The shop-keeper's face lighted up with pleasure.

"I remember the child well," he said. "Indeed I would gladly have given

her the little image, but alas! we are poor people, and cannot afford

to be generous."

Maisie thought he must be a very good man, even if he could not afford

to be generous, and she made several other purchases at his shop, as

well as the little statue, which Auntie Belle privately considered very

ugly.

It took Maisie a long time to buy all she wanted, as each article

required a great deal of thought and consideration, and a good part of

the morning was passed in the shops. Auntie Belle was most kind and

sympathetic, but she grew a little tired after a time, and when at

last Maisie's money was nearly all gone, and at least a dozen parcels

had been ordered to be sent to their hotel, she proposed that they

should not shop any more that morning, but go to Rumpelmeyer's, the big

confectioner's, and have a cup of chocolate before going home.

"All right," agreed Maisie, readily, "and please let me treat; I've got

nearly three francs left."

Auntie Belle thanked her, but insisted on doing the "treating" herself

this time, and ten minutes later they were sitting at a little table,

sipping delicious chocolate, with whipped cream on the top.

"My, but this is good!" exclaimed Maisie rapturously. "Do you suppose

that poor little Celeste ever has anything as delicious as this?"

"Perhaps she wouldn't consider it delicious," said Auntie Belle. "I

once asked a little girl in my mission class whether she liked ice

cream, and she replied that it was first rate, but she liked olives and

sausage better."

"What a queer taste she must have had," said Maisie, looking disgusted,

"but I'm sure Celeste isn't that kind of person at all. Her father was

an opera singer, and she has such pretty manners. Even Françoise says

she is very refined, and you know Françoise doesn't generally care for

poor children."

"I am really very anxious to see that Celeste of yours," said Auntie

Belle. "From your description she must be quite a paragon."

"You can see her whenever you want to," said Maisie, eagerly. "Let's go

to her house now, on the way home. I know the way, and I can invite her

to the Christmas tree."

Auntie Belle glanced doubtfully at her watch.

"It's after twelve," she said; "I'm afraid there won't be time before

luncheon."

"Oh, yes there will; we don't have it till half-past one, and you

know papa is always late. Mamma said I might stop and ask her this

afternoon, when I am out with the ponies, but it would be so much nicer

to have you with me."

Auntie Belle yielded. She had really some curiosity to see the

child about whom she had heard so much, and besides, she was a very

good-natured girl, and was always glad to give any one pleasure.

"Very well," she said; "finish your chocolate, and we will go. I don't

suppose it can be far."

Maisie replied that it was not far at all, and proceeded to drink her

chocolate so fast that it burnt her tongue.

Just as they were rising to leave the shop, a party of ladies came in,

one of whom recognized Auntie Belle as an old acquaintance.

"Why, if it isn't Isabel Barton!" she exclaimed in surprise, as she

hurried forward, and smilingly held out her hand. "I had no idea you

were here."

"I have been here for over a week," said Auntie Belle, returning her

friend's greeting heartily. "I came over in November with my brother

and his wife and little girl, and we expect to spend some time here

before going to Italy."

"How delightful! We are here for the winter, and have taken a villa.

My sister is just over typhoid, and the doctor has sent her to The

Riviera to recuperate. We like it immensely here, don't you?"

Auntie Belle said she thought the place beautiful, but rather quiet so

early in the season.

"It is rather early for gaiety," her friend agreed, "but we have

enjoyed every moment. Of course you have been to the opera."

Auntie Belle replied that they had not been as yet, but that her

brother had promised to take them some evening, whereupon her

friend--who was an enthusiastic young person--launched forth on

an account of a wonderful performance that she and her family had

witnessed the previous night.

"You must go," she declared, "if only for the sake of hearing that

wonderful young tenor. His voice is simply divine, and every one is

wild about him. He made his _début_ in Paris in the autumn, and I

believe Hammerstein has engaged him to sing in New York next season. He

isn't much more than a boy, and the best-looking creature you ever saw."

"Would you like to be a tenor, Auntie Belle?" Maisie asked, when she

and her aunt had at last escaped from the talkative young lady, and

were hurrying along the street in the direction of the shabby little

house where Celeste Noel lived with Maman Remo.

Auntie Belle laughed heartily. "You funny child," she said; "why in the

world should I want to be a tenor?"

"Why, because every one would admire you, and come crowding to hear you

sing. I should love to have people admire me. Could a lady be a tenor

if she was very fond of music, and studied very hard?"

"Hardly, but she might be a soprano, which I should think would be

equally satisfactory."

"Perhaps that is what Celeste will be," said Maisie reflectively. "She

has a beautiful voice, and so has her brother Louis, and her father was

an opera singer before he caught cold and lost his voice."

Auntie Belle admitted that it might be possible, and then she asked

a question about something else, and no more was said on the subject

of singers. A brisk walk of ten minutes brought them to the little

back street Maisie remembered, and Auntie Belle looked about her with

considerable interest. She was used to poverty at home, having spent

some months in a New York settlement, and it surprised her to find

how much more thrifty foreigners of a similar class appeared to be.

Poor and small as these houses were, each one was occupied by a single

family, and in many windows she saw blooming plants, while some even

boasted a canary in a gilt cage.

"This is where she lives," announced Maisie, pausing before the door

through which she had watched the little blind girl disappear two days

before. "There doesn't seem to be any door-bell, so I suppose we'd

better knock. Oh, listen; she's singing."

One of the windows was open, and through it could be distinctly heard

the sound of a clear, childish voice singing an old Christmas Carol.

"_Noel, Noel, tous chantantes!_" Auntie Belle loved music dearly, and

both played and sang herself. And as she listened to the little blind

girl's singing, her expression changed from good-natured curiosity to

real interest.

"That child has a beautiful voice," she said, decidedly; "she should

not be allowed to strain it."

Maisie was delighted. "I told you what a lovely voice she had," she

said triumphantly; "now you see it's true."

Just then Celeste's song came to an end, and the sound of a broom could

be heard.

"Maman Remo must be sweeping," said Maisie. "I hope she won't mind our

coming before she's finished her work."

Auntie Belle said she did not believe Maman Remo would mind being

disturbed, and promptly knocked at the door. There was a moment's

silence, then footsteps approached, and the door was opened by the

little blind girl herself.

"How do you do, Celeste?" said Maisie, in her friendly way. "I'm Maisie

Barton, the girl who brought you home in the pony-cart the other day."

Celeste's face was suddenly irradiated by the brightest of smiles.

"I know you," she cried, eagerly; "I remember your voice. Will you

please come in?"

"My aunt is here, too," Maisie explained. "I brought her to see you."

Celeste turned her bright welcoming face in the direction where she

believed the stranger to be, and held out her hand.

"It was very kind of you to come," she said, in her pretty, refined

little voice. "I am sorry Maman Remo is out."

"We have come to see you," said the young lady, kindly, and she took

the little outstretched hand and held it. Auntie Belle spoke French

as well as Celeste herself, for she had been educated at a Paris

boarding-school.

Celeste led the way into the house, which appeared to consist of but

one room on the first floor, and drew two chairs for her visitors.

Maisie gazed at her in astonishment, for the little blind girl moved

about with as much ease as any seeing person, and appeared to know just

where to find everything she wanted. There was a large hole in the

bottom of one chair, and the other was also sadly the worse for wear.

Maisie was sure she had never seen such a poorly furnished room, but

Auntie Belle, accustomed to the homes of poor people at home, took in

all the details at a glance, and noticed with satisfaction that the

little house was scrupulously neat. Celeste was also neat, though her

calico dress had two large darns in the skirt, and her feet were bare.

"We heard some one sweeping before we knocked," remarked Maisie,

curiously. "We thought it must be Maman Remo."

"Oh, no, Maman Remo has gone down to the river to wash. I am all alone,

but I am never afraid of being alone in the house."

Maisie glanced at the broom, which had been hastily thrust into a

corner and her wonder and interest grew.

"Can you really sweep?" she demanded, incredulously.

"Oh, yes, I can do many things. Maman Remo will not let me touch the

stove for fear of being burned, but I sweep and wash the dishes, and

make the beds."

"You are the most wonderful person I ever heard of," said Maisie, in a

tone of conviction. "I always thought blind people just sat still all

the time unless somebody led them about."

Celeste's laugh rang out merrily. She had a very musical laugh, and

there was something contagious in it, for before they quite realized

it, Auntie Belle and Maisie were both laughing, too.

"You should see the children at the school in Paris," said Celeste,

when she had recovered her gravity. "They can do many more things than

I. The girls sew and knit, and the boys do carpenter's work. Then you

should hear them at their recreation. They shout and laugh, and chase

each other about the garden. My brother said he had never seen boys

play games better than they do."

"It must be a wonderful place," said Maisie, much impressed. "I am

going to ask papa to take me there the next time we are in Paris. I

shouldn't think it would be so very bad to be blind, after all."

A shadow crossed Celeste's bright face.

"It may not be so bad if one has money and people to take one about,"

she said, gravely, "but it is hard to be always dependent upon some one

who does not want the trouble."

"Do you mean Pierre?" inquired Maisie, with a sudden recollection of

what the little blind girl had told her about Maman Remo's boy.

Celeste nodded, and her lip quivered slightly.

"Pierre always hated taking me about," she said, "but there was no one

else to do it, for poor Maman Remo is busy all day long. Now Pierre has

run away, and I don't know how I am ever going to earn any more money."

"Run away?" repeated Maisie. "What a dreadful thing! What made him do

it?"

"He has been threatening to do it for a long time. He wants to go to

sea and be a sailor. We hoped he would not really go, at least not

until he is older, for he is only fifteen, but the day he left me alone

on the Promenade Anglaise, and you brought me home, Maman Remo was very

angry, and she threatened to beat him if he ever did such a thing

again, Pierre was furious, and went out, saying he would never come

back. Maman Remo did not believe him at first, but when night came, and

he did not come home, she was frightened, and at last she went out to

look for him, but she could not find him, and when she came back again

I heard her crying for a long time. That was two days ago, and Pierre

has never come home since and now we are sure he has really gone for

good. A man, Maman Remo knows, thinks he saw him far out on the road

that leads to Marseilles, where the big ships are, but it is such a

long way off, maman is afraid he may die of hunger before he reaches

there."

"He is such a bad boy that I shouldn't think she would care very much

what happened to him," said Maisie. But Celeste looked quite horrified.

"I think all mothers must love their children whether they are bad or

good," she said. "Maman Remo loves Pierre, bad as he is, just as much

as my own maman loved Louis, who was the best boy in the world. It has

nearly broken her heart to have him run away like this. I would not

mind myself, for Pierre was often very unkind, but now that he is gone

there is no one to take me to sing in front of the hotels. I cannot

earn any more money, and we need money so much."

"We heard you singing before we came in," said Maisie, "and Auntie

Belle said you had a beautiful voice."

"I did indeed think so," said Auntie Belle, kindly. It was the first

time she had spoken since coming into the little house, but it was

never easy to break in upon Maisie's chatter, and she had really been

interested in the conversation of the children. "I think you have a

very sweet voice, and I hope that you may be able to have it properly

trained when you are older."

Celeste looked much flattered.

"If I could go to the school for the blind," she said, "I could have

regular singing lessons. That was one reason why maman and Louis were

so anxious to send me there."

"Perhaps you will be a soprano when you grow up," remarked Maisie, glad

of an opportunity of airing her new word. "You can't be a tenor because

you are a girl. There is a very wonderful tenor singing at the opera

here now. A young lady was telling Auntie Belle about him this morning."

"I know," said Celeste, eagerly; "I have heard of him, too. Madame

Dupont--Antoine's mother--goes to the opera sometimes, and she heard

him last week. She says he has the voice of an angel. Oh, what would I

not give to hear him!"

"Have you ever been to the opera?" Maisie inquired, wonderingly. To her

the opera was merely a rather tiresome place, where people were obliged

to sit very still, and not even whisper, and where little girls were

sometimes taken on Saturday afternoons, because their mammas hoped it

might improve their taste in music. Celeste, however, appeared to have

different ideas about it.

"No, I have never been," she said, regretfully. "I was too little to go

when my papa sang there, and it is much too expensive for Maman Remo.

Perhaps I shall go some day, if Louis ever comes home, for he loves the

opera better than any other place in the world, and I am sure I should

love it, too."

Maisie looked doubtful.

"Perhaps you might be disappointed," she said, "I was disappointed the

first time mamma took me, but then I can't sing, and perhaps that makes

all the difference."

At this moment Auntie Belle glanced at her watch, and rose to go.

"I am afraid we cannot stay any longer, Maisie," she said, "or we shall

be late for luncheon. Don't forget to tell Celeste what you came for."

"Of course I won't forget," said Maisie, laughing; "I was just keeping

it for the last. Celeste, I came to invite you to my Christmas Tree. We

are going to have it on Christmas morning at eleven o'clock."

"A Christmas Tree!" gasped Celeste, clasping her hands rapturously.

"Oh, how beautiful! I have never been to a Christmas Tree, but I have

smelled of them in the street."

"Well, I hope you will do something more than smell one this time,"

said Maisie. "Mamma says she will be glad to see Maman Remo, too, if

she can bring you. I think she knows our landlady, Madame Strobel."

"Oh, yes, Madame Strobel is our good friend, and I am sure Maman will

bring me, for she never washes on Christmas. But--but--you are so good;

is there not something I can do for you?"

"I don't want anything--" began Maisie, but Auntie Belle, noticing the

child's eager, wistful expression, hastened to add kindly--

"You can do something for us now if you will. Let us hear one song

before we go. We have only time for one."

Celeste was charmed, and standing with folded hands, and a look of

quiet rapture on her face, she sang the beautiful Christmas song,

beginning "_Noel, Joyeuse Noel_."

There were tears in Auntie Belle's eyes when the little blind girl had

finished her song, and the tone in which she thanked her was not quite

steady.

"Isn't she interesting and wonderful and dear?" burst out Maisie, the

moment Maman Remo's door had closed behind them, and her aunt answered

heartily--

"She is one of the sweetest children I have ever seen, and I am sure

your papa will be fascinated by her voice."

CHAPTER III

It was Christmas Eve. All day the rain had fallen in a steady

down-pour, but at about four o'clock the wind had suddenly changed, the

sky cleared, and Nice had been treated to one of the glorious sunsets

for which the place is famous. The wind blew in sharp gusts through the

streets, giving an almost wintry feeling to the air, and Maisie, who

had gone out for a brisk walk with her father, gave little skips of

delight, declaring that it was really beginning to feel like Christmas.

But in Maman Remo's tiny house, where the wind found its way through

every crack, it was not so pleasant. Indeed, it was most uncomfortably

chilly, for the fire in the stove had gone out, and there was nobody

to relight it. Maman Remo had not yet come home, and Celeste had been

forbidden to go near the stove. When Pierre was at home he usually

attended to the fire, but now the little blind girl was quite alone.

It was growing dark, too, but that Celeste did not notice, for to her

night and day were all the same, but the afternoon had seemed unusually

long, and she was beginning to wonder what could have kept Maman Remo

out so late.

"It cannot possibly have taken her all this time to bring home the

clean clothes to the hotels," she said to herself. "I wish she would

come."

But there was nothing to be gained by wishing, and so, being a

practical little person, not given to fretting over what could not be

helped, Celeste tried to think of something else. To-morrow would be

Christmas, and she would go to the little American girl's Christmas

Tree. How pleased Maman Remo had been to hear of the invitation!

"Then you will have a happy Christmas, my little one," she had said.

"Certainly I will take you to the hotel, and chat with the good Madame

Strobel until you are ready to return." It was very kind of Maman Remo

to be so much interested, for this would be a very sad Christmas to

her. Troublesome and disobedient as Pierre had often been, his mother

loved him dearly, and the thought of her only child wandering penniless

through the country, perhaps suffering from cold and hunger, was a

very terrible one to the poor woman. Celeste could hear her crying

every night when she thought the child was asleep, and she found that

it would not do to think much about Maman Remo if she wanted to be

cheerful on Christmas Eve. So she fell back on her one never failing

resource when she was sad or gay; she began to sing. She chose the

gayest song she knew, and again, as on the day when Maisie and her

aunt had made their call, the strains of "_Noel, Noel, tous chantantes

Noel!_" echoed through the little house. When she reached the end of

her song, she sang it over again. Indeed, she sang it half a dozen

times, for it was one of her favorites, and she did not want to sing

any but Christmas songs on Christmas Eve. But at last her throat

grew tired, and she felt that she could not sing any more. Then it

was very quiet in the little house. Outside the wind whistled and

howled, shaking the crazy windows in their frames, but inside the only

sound to break the stillness was the ticking of the old wooden clock.

Celeste could hear the ticking, but she could not see the time. A

mouse scuttled across the floor, with a little squeak, and the child

shivered, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. She was never

afraid to be left alone in the house in the day-time, but after dark it

was different, and she felt sure it must be after dark now. What could

be keeping Maman Remo out so late?

At last her quick ear caught the sound of an approaching footstep; the

handle of the door was turned, and some one came in.

"Maman Remo," cried Celeste, joyfully, "is it Maman Remo?"

"Surely, my little one; who else should it be? I am sorry to be so

late, but I was detained. Were you afraid?"

"Oh, no," said Celeste cheerfully, "not really afraid, but a little

anxious. Your voice sounds tired, Maman."

"Ah, yes, I am tired--very tired, and it is cold. I will hasten to

light the fire."

"How I wish I could do it for you while you rest," said Celeste,

regretfully. But Maman Remo shook her head.

"No, no, that is strictly forbidden," she said, with decision.

"Remember the poor blind woman Madame Dupont told us about, who was

burned to death trying to light a fire, that her husband and son should

find a warm house. Ah, but I am sorry you have been cold, my little

one."

"It has not been so bad," Celeste assured her, "and it will soon be

warm now. Where have you been to keep you so late?"

"I have told you I was detained. Children should not ask questions. Now

bring me the matches and some wood, that you can do without danger."

Maman Remo's tone was cheerful, but perhaps it was as well that Celeste

could not see how white and tired her face looked. The child ran

eagerly for the matches, and the woman bent over the stove, trying to

warm herself at the burned out embers. There was a worried, almost

frightened look in her eyes, and in spite of all her efforts to appear

as usual, the little blind girl felt sure something was wrong.

She stood by in silence while Maman Remo lighted the lamp, and started

the fire, and the troubled look deepened in her own face.

"Have you had any news of Pierre to-day?" she inquired, timidly, when

the fire had been coaxed into a blaze, and she and Maman Remo were

warming themselves before it.

"Not one word. I fear he has left us forever--my poor Pierre."

Maman Remo heaved a sigh, but her voice sounded preoccupied, and

Celeste feared it could not be only anxiety about Pierre that was

troubling her kind friend to-night.

"Are we going to the midnight mass?" she asked, after a moment's pause.

Maman Remo started as if the question had brought her thoughts back

from somewhere a long way off.

"Midnight mass," she repeated, vaguely. "Ah, surely, I had forgotten.

Would it disappoint you very much to stay at home to-night, my little

one? It is cold and I am very tired."

"Oh, no," said Celeste, eagerly, "I should not mind at all. I am sorry

you are so tired, dear Maman; I am afraid you work too hard."

"It is not the work that troubles me," said Maman Remo, with another

sigh. "I have worked hard all my life. If I can only keep my health, I

shall not mind anything else."

"Are you not well, then--have you the pain in your back again?" Celeste

spoke quickly, and her face grew very grave.

But Maman Remo did not seem disposed to talk about herself. With an

effort she shook off the weariness or depression which seemed to be

troubling her, and without answering Celeste's question, she began

hurrying about preparing the frugal supper of brown bread and milk,

which composed their usual evening meal. Celeste was very quiet all

through supper, but oddly enough, Maman Remo, who was usually so quick

to notice the child's every mood, did not seem to observe it. She was

really disappointed about the midnight mass, to which she had been

looking forward for weeks, but she did not want Maman Remo to know she

cared. Then, too, she was worried, though she could not have explained

why even to herself. It was very strange to hear Maman Remo, who had

always been so strong, complain of being tired. Was it only the anxiety

about Pierre that was troubling her, or was there some other cause,

of which she, Celeste, knew nothing? She had always been old for her

age--many blind children are--and perhaps few little girls of twelve

are often visited by such serious reflections as those which troubled

Celeste on that Christmas Eve.

"You do not eat your supper. Are you not hungry this evening?"

Maman Remo's tone sounded impatient, but it was the impatience of

anxiety.

"I am not very hungry," Celeste answered, laying down her spoon. "I am

never so hungry when I have stayed in the house all day."

"Perhaps you tire of the same food every day, but meat is so dear this

winter."

"I do not care for meat," Celeste protested. "Have you eaten a good

supper yourself?"

"Oh, good enough. It does not matter about me, but you must not lose

your appetite. When I was your age I could eat nails."

"Nails would be very bad for the digestion," said Celeste, laughing.

"But if you have finished, may I not clear the table and wash the

dishes?"

Maman Remo said she might, and while Celeste bustled about, busy with

the little household tasks she loved, the woman watched her sadly,

with an expression in her eyes that it was well the little blind girl

could not see. Once two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, only

to be hastily brushed away, with a muttered exclamation, "What am I

coming to? Crying at my time of life!" And then she rose hurriedly, and

insisted on helping Celeste with the dishes.

Celeste was relieved to find her friend more like herself, and in

her relief she began to sing. Maman Remo winced as the first words

of "_Noel, Joyeuse Noel_," awoke the echoes in the little house, but

before Celeste had reached the last verse, a look of something like

peace had come into the woman's troubled face.

"Sing something else," she said; "I like to hear you." And Celeste,

delighted at the request, sang song after song for the next half hour,

at the end of which time Maman Remo sent her to bed.

"You must sleep well so as to be ready for the little American girl's

Christmas Tree," she said, kindly.

Celeste smiled reassuringly.

"I should be ready for that even if I sat up all night," she said.

"Oh, Maman dearest, won't it be beautiful? I cannot touch the candles,

certainly, but I shall feel their warmth on my face, and smell the good

smell. There will be chocolates on the tree, I am sure, and perhaps the

little American will give me some to take home, like those she gave

Antoine. And I shall wear my Sunday dress, and my shoes and woolen

stockings. Oh, to-morrow will be a happy day, will it not, Maman?"

"Yes, yes, certainly; why should it not be, except that my Pierre is

away?"

There was no trouble or anxiety on Celeste's face when she bade Maman

Remo good-night, and climbed the narrow, rickety stairs to the loft

where the family slept. She was only a little girl, after all, and it

was the night before Christmas. But when she had undressed, and crept

into the hard little bed that she shared with Maman Remo, sleep did not

come as it usually did the moment her head touched the pillow. It was

colder than usual, for one thing, and the blankets were not thick. She

shivered and drew the thin coverings closer, but still sleep did not

come. What was it that was worrying Maman Remo? Was it only anxiety

about Pierre, or was there something else besides? What would become of

them if maman should ever be ill, especially now that Pierre had gone

away? She was glad for her own part that Pierre had gone, for he had

never been kind, but maman loved him. Besides, if Pierre did not come

back, there would be no one to take her to the hotels to sing, and to

play her accompaniments. It was very sad to be blind and poor at the

same time. What a mistake the little American girl had made when she

said she did not think it was so bad to be blind! If she were not blind

she would not need Pierre to take her about. She could go by herself,

and earn money to help maman. But the little American girl was rich,

and rich people never understood such things. She had never been rich,

but once, long ago, when her papa sang in the Paris opera, they had not

been so poor. She could just remember the pretty, comfortable little

home, with her mamma looking so pretty and gay, and Louis coming home

from his lessons at the conservatory. Maman Remo said it was because

her papa had been extravagant that they had lost all their money,

and that her mamma had had to work so hard. It was all very sad and

perplexing. She was sure that if she ever had money she would not be

extravagant. Not that it was likely she ever would have any, unless

Louis came home rich, as the little American had said he might. But

that same little American had told her there were many poor people in

America. Oh, how she did hope Louis was not very poor! He was so big

and strong and handsome--it did not seem possible that he could be so

very poor. If the good God would only let Louis come home, what care he

would take of her and of Maman Remo too, and how happy they would all

be.

When Celeste's reflections reached this point, her eyelids began

to droop, and she was just dropping off into a doze, when she was

startled wide awake again by the sound of a knock at the house door.

It was such an unusual thing for Maman Remo to have visitors at that

late hour, that Celeste sat up in bed, and listened, wondering who it

could possibly be. She heard maman go to the door, and then followed

the sound of voices, maman's, and that of another woman, which she

recognized at once as Madame Dupont's. Madame Dupont was Antoine's

mother, and a great friend of Maman Remo's. Celeste lay down again,

with a feeling of relief. She did not know what she had feared, but was

glad it was only Madame Dupont. But the knock had thoroughly aroused

her, and she lay listening to the voices in the room beneath. There was

a hole in the floor of the loft, into which she and Maman Remo had to

be careful not to step, so that it was really quite impossible to help

hearing every word that was spoken in the room downstairs.

Maman Remo had brought her visitor to a seat near the stove, and was

expressing surprise that Madame Dupont should be out so late.

"I shall be up late to-night on account of the midnight mass," her

friend explained, "and I thought I would just stop to wish you _Joyeuse

Noel_. I have brought you a bit of meat for to-morrow's dinner. I found

I had more than I needed, and it seemed a pity to waste it."

Celeste smiled when she heard this, for she was fond of meat. "Oh, the

good Madame Dupont," she murmured, "how generous she is!"

Maman Remo thanked her friend heartily for the meat, but there was

the same strange, tired sound in her voice that had troubled Celeste,

and Madame Dupont noticed it, too. She noticed something else, which

Celeste could not see, and that was how white and worn her good friend

was looking, but she had heard of Pierre's running away, and thought

she knew the reason.

"Where is Celeste?" she questioned cheerfully, anxious to keep the

conversation in safe and pleasant channels.

"In bed and asleep long ago, poor little one."

"You are not taking her to mass, then? She is so fond of the music, I

thought she would certainly go with you."

"I am not going myself to-night," said Maman Remo, with a sigh.

"Not going! And it is Christmas Eve."

"I am very tired. I have had a hard day, and I must rest, the doctor

says."

"The doctor! You have been to him at last, then?" There was eager

anxiety in Madame Dupont's voice.

"Yes, I went this afternoon, before I came home."

"Well, and what did he tell you?"

"He says I must go to the hospital for an operation, and the sooner I

go the more chance there is that I shall not die."

Madame Dupont threw up her hands in dismay, and began pouring forth a

torrent of exclamations of sympathy. In the room above, little Celeste

sat up in bed, trembling from head to foot, and straining her ears

to catch every word. Maman Remo waited until her friend had finished

exclaiming and sympathizing, and then she said in a dull, tired voice--

"It is a serious operation, and even when it is over I shall have to

stay in the hospital for several weeks. And when I come out I shall not

be strong enough to work as I have been doing for a long time. I told

the doctor I would rather die."

"No, no," cried Madame Dupont, the tears of sympathy streaming down

her honest face, "you must not say that; it is not right to wish to

die. The good God will surely find some way to help you, and you have

friends, remember, dear Madame Remo, you have friends."

"Friends are very good," said Maman Remo, gratefully, "but I would

rather die than be a burden to those who have enough for themselves.

There is no one of my own left to care for me. My husband is dead,

Pierre has gone away, and poor little Celeste, what could she do?"

At the mention of the name Celeste, Maman Remo's voice faltered for the

first time, and her sentence ended in a sob.

"It is the thought of the child that is the hardest of all to bear,"

she said, when she had recovered her composure. "She is such a gentle,

tender little thing, and who will there be to care for her in all the

months that I cannot work? I promised her mother and her brother that I

would always take care of her, and I have grown to love her as my own

child."

"You will have to send her to the orphan asylum," said Madame Dupont,

who, though she was fond of the little blind girl, did not feel

disposed to offer her a home in her already crowded house. "Truly it is

not a bad place. The three little Roberts were sent there when their

parents died, and they all look well and happy."

But Maman Remo only shook her head mournfully, and refused to be

comforted.

"You do not know my little Celeste," she said. "She is not like

ordinary children. Her mother was a lady. You should have seen her,

so pretty and refined, and her father was a great singer. It is not

people like that who are sent to the asylum. The child would pine away

and die."

"Then what will you do with her?" Madame Dupont inquired practically.

"I do not know, and that is what is driving me mad. If I could only

find her brother, but alas, I have no idea what has become of him, or

if I could afford to send her to the school for the blind in Paris. She

longs to go there, and she would be happy among kind people; but the

ticket to Paris costs almost a hundred francs, and where could I get

a hundred francs? Besides, there would be no one to take her, and the

child could not take such a journey alone."

"You might borrow the hundred francs," suggested Madame Dupont, "and

repay it when you are able to work again, and some one going to Paris

might be willing to look after the child on the journey."

"I do not like to be in debt," said Madame Remo, proudly. "I would

borrow the money for the child's sake, though, if I were sure of being

able to pay it back. But suppose I should never be strong again. The

doctor says I shall be as well as ever in six months if I do as he

wishes, but doctors are sometimes mistaken."

Madame Dupont was very sorry for her friend, but she could not think

of any other alternative, and spent the rest of her visit in assuring

Maman Remo that she was not half as ill as the doctor had said, and

that as soon as the operation was successfully accomplished, she would

certainly be quite as strong and well as usual. Maman Remo listened,

and was somewhat comforted. It was a great relief to have told her

trouble to a friend, and perhaps, after all, Madame Dupont, who had

brought a large family successfully through numerous illnesses, might

know more about such matters than a young doctor not yet thirty.

"There is one favor that I must beg of you," she said, with a sudden

recollection, when Madame Dupont at last rose to go. "Do not say

anything to Celeste about this until Christmas is over. Some Americans

at the Hotel de Nice have invited her to a Christmas Tree, and the

child is looking forward to the day with so much pleasure. I cannot

have it spoiled for her."

And Madame Dupont promised readily.

When Maman Remo came upstairs, soon after her friend had left, Celeste

was lying very still, and appeared to be fast asleep, but when she had

undressed and crept into bed beside the motionless little figure, the

child stirred, and nestled close to her.

"Did I wake you, my little one?" Maman Remo asked, anxiously. "I

thought you were sound asleep."

"No, Maman, I am not asleep. It is so cold, and--and--may I lie in your

arms to-night, just as I used to do when I was little?"

"Surely you may, my child, and I will keep you warm. Thank God, it will

be warmer again to-morrow; the cold does not last here as in Paris.

Now go to sleep, and when you wake in the morning it will be _Joyeuse

Noel_."

"Yes, I know," said Celeste, softly, "and I must always be happy on

Christmas, on account of my name, Celeste Noel. Good-night, Maman."

"Good-night, my little one."

Maman Remo was asleep in a few minutes. She was very tired, and even

anxiety could not keep her awake, but for a long, long time Celeste lay

thinking.

"Oh, dear God," she whispered at last, "please, please do find a way

to help us. I cannot think of one, and Maman Remo cannot either, and

we are both so very unhappy. But maman must not know until Christmas

is over, because it would make her so sad, and she wants me to have

_Joyeuse Noel_."

And then the little blind girl fell asleep.

CHAPTER IV

"My dear Maisie, you know I am quite willing to consent to anything in

reason. Indeed, I thoroughly approve of the Christmas Tree, and giving

the little blind girl a good time, but when it comes to taking the

child to the opera--I am really afraid I shall have to draw the line

somewhere."

Mr. Barton set down his coffee cup, and regarded his little daughter

with an expression that was half amused and dismayed. It was Christmas

morning, and the Bartons were at breakfast in their sitting-room.

"But, Papa," persisted Maisie, her brow beginning to pucker into an

unmistakable frown of perplexity, "you said I was to try to make this

Christmas just as merry for somebody else as my friends made mine

for me last year. Last Christmas was the very nicest I ever had,

because you gave me my pony, and I had so many other lovely surprises.

Surprises are the most interesting things about Christmas, and just

think what a wonderful surprise it would be to Celeste to really go

to the opera. She said she would give anything to hear that wonderful

tenor, and she is sure the opera must be the most beautiful place in

the world. Mamma said she would like to have me hear 'Mignon,' and

there's an afternoon performance of it to-day. It would be so lovely

to take Celeste to the opera on Christmas day, after the tree and

ice cream, and everything. I am sure it would be giving her the very

merriest Christmas a person could possibly have."

"But, Maisie darling," Mrs. Barton urged gently, "the poor little girl

probably has no proper dress to wear to the opera. It might make her

uncomfortable to feel that she was dressed differently from every one

else."

"She wouldn't know," said Maisie. "She couldn't see how the other

people were dressed, and of course nobody would tell her. Besides,

you always say it doesn't matter what people wear so long as they are

ladies and gentlemen at heart. I know Celeste is a lady at heart, even

if she does sing in the street, and go around in bare feet."

Mrs. Barton looked a little troubled, but Auntie Belle burst into a

hearty laugh.

"Seems to me, Alice," she said, "you had better give in. I believe

Maisie is right when she says the poor child is a lady at heart. Just

wait till you see her yourselves, and hear her sing. I don't know when

I have ever been as much interested in any one as I was in that little

blind girl. I'll tell you how we might arrange the matter. I know you

two want to go motoring this afternoon, so suppose you let me take the

kiddies to the opera. Françoise could go with us if you consider me too

young to act as a proper chaperone."

Mr. Barton looked at his pretty sister and laughed.

"I believe you are as crazy about the child as Maisie herself," he

said. "You are very kind to offer your services as chaperone, my dear,

but I think if any one is to go to the opera this afternoon, we had

better all go together. I rather like the idea of families keeping

together on Christmas. 'Mignon' is a charming little opera, and I dare

say we should all enjoy it. Besides, I confess I have considerable

curiosity to hear this young tenor that every one is talking about. I

advised Maisie to try to give somebody a merry Christmas, and now that

she has set her heart on doing it, I suppose I ought to be willing to

help her."

Maisie clapped her hands, and springing from her seat, ran round the

breakfast table, to give her father a rapturous hug.

"I do believe this is going to be a beautiful Christmas, after all,"

she declared, "even if it isn't a bit like the ones at home." And

she glanced rather disgustedly at the great bowl of freshly gathered

roses the waiter had just brought in. "Now do let's hurry and finish

breakfast, so we can put the last things on the tree."

Mrs. Barton still looked doubtful, but her husband and sister-in-law

had evidently made up their minds, and as soon as the family rose from

the table, Mr. Barton went away to see about securing seats for the

opera.

It was a radiant morning. All the cold sharp wind of the previous night

had disappeared as if by magic, and the air was as soft and balmy as

June. But Maisie had little time to think of the weather that morning.

Besides the opening and admiring of all her own presents, of which

there were a goodly number, and the examining those of her family as

well, there were the last things to be tied on the tree.

"It really does look very pretty," she remarked in a tone of

satisfaction, pausing to take a final survey of her work, at a few

minutes before eleven o'clock. "It looks a little queer without any

candles, but it isn't bad. I wish we could have had a bigger tree, but

then it couldn't have stood on the table, and Celeste couldn't have

felt of it all so easily."

The tree--which was really very prettily decorated, in spite of the

lack of the usual candles--had been placed on the sitting-room table,

where the family took their meals.

"I wonder what she'll say when she feels the statue," said Maisie,

skipping first on one foot and then on the other in her excitement.

"Oh, I do wish she'd hurry; it's so hard to wait."

But Maisie did not have long to wait, for the clock had only just

finished striking eleven, when there was a tap at the door, and Celeste

appeared, led by a friendly waiter.

The little blind girl was looking rather pale, and was also painfully

shy, this being the very first time within her remembrance, that she

had ever been invited to a party. But no one could be shy for long in

the presence of friendly Maisie, who flew to greet her visitor with as

much warmth as if they had been friends all their lives.

"I'm so glad you are in time," she exclaimed joyfully. "I was afraid

you might be late, and we've got such a lot of surprises for you. Did

Maman Remo bring you? Why didn't she come up, too?"

"She brought me, but she is waiting downstairs with Madame Strobel,"

Celeste explained shyly.

"Oh, she needn't wait, unless she wants to spend the day with Madame

Strobel, for you are going to stay with us a long time, and Françoise

will take you home. You would like to stay all day, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, very much," said the little blind girl, whose shyness was rapidly

melting away beneath the warmth of her new friend's greeting.

"That's all right then. Jean, please tell Madame Remo that she needn't

wait, and that we will send Celeste home this evening."

The waiter departed smiling, for he, too, knew the story of little

Celeste Noel, and was glad the child was going to have a holiday.

"These are my father and mother," Maisie went on, leading her visitor

forward. "They are very glad to meet you, because they have heard a

good deal about you from Auntie Belle and me. Auntie Belle will be here

in a minute; she has just gone to speak to somebody at the telephone."

Mr. and Mrs. Barton received the little blind girl very kindly, and

Mrs. Barton noticed with secret satisfaction, that, though Celeste's

Sunday costume could scarcely have been called stylish, it was very

neat, and the child's face and hands fairly shone from a vigorous

application of soap and water.

"Now take off your things," Maisie commanded, when the introductions

were over, "and then you must feel everything on the Christmas tree."

"I can smell it already," said Celeste, sniffing the air delightedly,

"but may I really touch it? Won't I break something, or burn myself

with the candles?"

"There aren't any candles," laughed Maisie, "and you can touch every

single thing on it, for they are all yours."

The next half hour seemed to the little blind girl more like a bit out

of a fairy tale than anything she had ever experienced before in her

life. Mrs. Barton and Auntie Belle both had tears in their eyes, as

they watched her delight over every new object that the eager little

fingers touched, and even Mr. Barton found it necessary to blow his

nose several times before he finally left the room rather hurriedly.

When Celeste touched the statue, which Maisie had hung in the most

prominent position on the tree, she started back with a little cry of

astonishment.

"It is the blessed Mother with the little Jesus in her arms!" she

exclaimed. "Oh, may I really take it in my hands again?"

[Illustration: "Oh, may I really take it?"]

"Of course you may," cried Maisie, who was almost beside herself with

delight and excitement. "Didn't I tell you everything on the tree was

yours? You can take the statue home with you, and keep it forever."

That was almost too much for the little blind girl, and to Maisie's

horror, she suddenly burst into tears.

"Oh, don't cry, please don't," cried Maisie, her brown eyes big with

dismay. "You'll spoil everything if you do, and we are having such a

good time."

Thus urged, Celeste dried her tears, and smiled instead, but when, a

few moments later, Maisie was leading her round the table to examine

new wonders, she suddenly slipped an arm about her new friend's neck

and kissed her.

"I think you must be something like the angels in Heaven," she said,

simply, at which astounding compliment Maisie felt herself blushing

scarlet. But when all the excitement of the tree was over, and Maisie

had taken her visitor to her own room, while Mrs. Barton and Auntie

Belle went away to dress for the afternoon, Celeste grew suddenly very

quiet. She still clasped the little statue to her heart, as if fearful

that it might melt away or vanish if she put it down, but all the

joy and brightness slowly faded out of her face, and a sad, anxious

expression took its place.

Maisie watched her in growing anxiety, fearing she must be homesick.

"The surprises aren't nearly over yet," she explained, when she had

finished showing Celeste her own presents, in which the little blind

girl had not appeared quite as much interested as she had expected.

"You haven't the least idea what is going to happen after luncheon."

"I think perhaps I should go home soon," Celeste said, anxiously.

"Maman Remo is all alone."

"Oh, but you can't go home till after the--I mean till quite late,"

protested Maisie, feeling more certain than ever that her guest was

suffering from homesickness. "I am sure Maman Remo won't mind your

staying. She will love hearing all about everything afterwards. Mamma

always loves hearing about my good times when I come home."

But Celeste still looked sad and unconvinced.

"Your maman is different," she said. "She is a rich lady, and I don't

suppose rich ladies are ever lonely and unhappy."

"Oh, yes they are," said Maisie, with conviction. "My grandma was very

unhappy for a long time after my grandpa died. I used to have to go and

see her almost every day, and bring her flowers, and she stayed in her

room with the shades all down, and cried. It was very uncomfortable

going to see her while she was like that, but mamma said I had to do

it. We were all so glad when she began to be cheerful again."

"Maman Remo is never like that," said Celeste. "She is always cheerful,

and she would not have time to stay in her room and cry, but when she

is anxious and unhappy I can always hear it in her voice."

"And is she anxious and unhappy now?" questioned Maisie.

"Oh, yes, very; I do not think she was ever quite so anxious before,

even after Papa Remo was killed. She does not think I know, but I do."

"Is it about Pierre--hasn't he come home yet?"

"It is a little about that, but there is something else

besides--something much worse. We have heard from Pierre, and he is

well. A letter came to Maman Remo this morning, telling about him. It

was from a man she knows in St. Raphael. Pierre walked all the way to

St. Raphael, and this man--who is a sailor--met him in the street, and

took him to his house. Pierre was very hungry, and maman's friend was

sorry for him, and when Pierre had told how he had run away, and wanted

to go to sea, he promised to help him find a place on a ship. He knows

the captain of a ship that sails for Algiers this week, and he thinks

he can get Pierre a place on board as cabin-boy. He wrote maman all

about it, and he says he thinks letting Pierre go to sea will make a

man of him. Maman cannot read herself, but Antoine Dupont came in to

wish us _Joyeuse Noel_, and he read the letter to her."

"Well, if she knows Pierre is all right, I don't see why she should be

so unhappy."

"Ah, but I told you there was something much worse than about Pierre.

I only heard it last night, and maman must not know that I have found

out until to-morrow, because she wants me to have _Joyeuse Noel_, and

she would be still more sad if she knew that I was unhappy too."

Celeste's lip quivered, and the tears started to her eyes, but she

winked them back resolutely, remembering what Maisie had said about

spoiling everything if she cried. The two children were sitting on

the sofa together, and Celeste's lap was filled with the trinkets her

friend had been showing her. With a sudden, kindly impulse, Maisie

slipped an arm round her little visitor's waist.

"Would you mind telling me about it?" she said, in an unusually gentle

voice. "Perhaps we may be able to help you."

"I am afraid you could not help us," said Celeste, sadly, "but you are

very kind, and I don't mind telling you. I heard Maman Remo talking to

Madame Dupont last night after I was in bed. They were downstairs, but

I could hear every word through the hole in the floor. Maman went to

see the doctor yesterday, and he says she must go to the hospital and

have an operation, and when she comes out again she will not be strong

enough to work for a long time."

"One of my aunts had an operation," said Maisie, deeply interested.

"She was very ill, but she is all right again now, and I heard her tell

mamma she hadn't felt so strong in years."

"The doctor says maman will be strong again in six months if she does

what he tells her to, but how can she live if she cannot work for six

months?"

"Won't her relations help her? Everybody was very good to Aunt Nelly

when she had her operation, but she didn't need any money, because her

husband--my Uncle George--has a great deal."

"Poor maman has no relations except Pierre, and he has gone away.

Madame Dupont said her friends would help her, but maman is very proud,

she does not like to take money from people. If I could only work for

her, but there is nothing I can do. I cannot even sing in the streets

any more now that Pierre is not here, and maman is so unhappy because

she is afraid she will have to send me to the orphan asylum."

"Oh, that would be dreadful!" exclaimed Maisie, who had once been taken

to a fair at an orphan asylum at home, and remembered thinking it a

very dismal place, where all the little girls dressed just alike in

very ugly clothes. "Why can't she send you to that school in Paris

that you were telling us about?"

"She would send me there if she could, but the journey costs so much,

and there would be no one to take me so far."

This was a new idea, and for a moment Maisie was silent, being really

unable to think of any suggestion to make. But it was only for a

moment; then her usual hopefulness asserted itself once more.

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you," she said, reassuringly.

"Don't you remember what I told you the other day about not worrying

over things? Just as likely as not something nice will happen. Perhaps

Maman Remo won't have to go to the hospital, after all, or if she does,

perhaps somebody will just happen to be going to Paris, and will offer

to take you and buy your ticket. I don't believe it costs such a great

deal. We came from Paris on the night train, and slept in such funny

little staterooms, smaller than the ones on the steamers. Papa didn't

say anything about it's being so very expensive. You know you thought

the little statue was very expensive, but it really wasn't."

"Ah, but you are so rich," said Celeste, with a sigh; "nothing seems

expensive to you."

"Well, don't worry, anyway, at least not till Christmas is over. I do

want you to have a good time all day, and people can't have good times

when they are worrying."

Celeste smiled faintly. She was really only two years older than

Maisie, but to her the little American seemed very young indeed.

"I will try not to worry," she said, "and indeed you have given me a

beautiful Christmas." And she laid her hand lovingly upon the little

statue, which was lying beside her on the sofa.

"That's right," said Maisie, much relieved. "Now, here comes Françoise

to get me ready for luncheon, and after luncheon we are going--you will

never guess where, and I shall not tell you, because I want it to be

the greatest surprise of all."

Mr. and Mrs. Barton and Auntie Belle watched the little girl with a

good deal of interest during luncheon.

Maman Remo was a very ignorant woman, who could neither read nor

write, but she had once lived as housemaid in a French family, and she

had never forgotten the things she had seen there. Celeste's mother

had been a lady, and it was only right and proper that her little

daughter should be taught to do things as ladies did them. Celeste's

table manners were as neat and dainty as those of Maisie herself, and

although rather shy and silent in the presence of these strange, grand

people, she was so sweet and gentle that before the meal was over,

she had won the hearty liking of the whole family. When the ice cream

appeared, and Celeste was helped to a bountiful supply, Maisie watched

her with deep interest.

"Do you like it?" she demanded, as Celeste put the first spoonful into

her mouth, and her friend answered heartily, even shyness forgotten for

the moment--

"Oh, but it is delicious!"

"I knew she wouldn't say that horrid thing about sausages and olives,"

Maisie remarked triumphantly in English, to her aunt, at which remark

everybody laughed, and Celeste, who did not understand English,

blushed, and hoped she hadn't said anything wrong.

It was necessary to hurry a little, as the afternoon performance at

the opera began at two o'clock, and Celeste had only just swallowed

her last spoonful of ice cream when they all rose from the table, and

Maisie took her away to put on her hat. Celeste wondered very much

as to where they could be going, but Maisie had said it was to be a

surprise, and she refrained from asking any questions. But when they

had all left the hotel, and she had been helped into Mr. Barton's big

limousine motor car, her curiosity became too great to be borne any

longer.

"Are we going for a ride in this?" she whispered to Auntie Belle,

who sat next to her. She somehow felt more at ease with Maisie's

pleasant-voiced young aunt than with the other grown-ups. Auntie Belle

laughed.

"You will know in a few moments where we are going," she said, and just

then the car started with a jerk, and Celeste, who had never been in a

motor car before in her life, could do nothing but hold on to the side

with all her might, and gasp for breath.

"Don't you like it?" laughed Maisie. "Oh, you will get used to it in a

minute, and then you will think it great fun! I remember that I was a

little frightened at first."

But before Celeste had had time to "get used to it," the car had

stopped again, and they were all getting out. There seemed to be a

great crowd of people, through which she was safely piloted, and then

she was in a seat, with Auntie Belle on one side of her and Maisie on

the other.

"Now guess where we are," cried Maisie, delightedly; "can't you really

guess?"

But Celeste was too much puzzled and bewildered to form any clear ideas

about anything.

"We talked about this place the other day," Maisie went on, too much

excited to waste any more time in guessing. "You said Madame Dupont

came here sometimes, but Maman Remo couldn't afford it. Your brother,

Louis, liked it better than any other place in the world, and your

father--"

"The opera!" gasped Celeste, with a sudden recollection. "Oh,

mademoiselle, is it really the opera?"

"Of course it is," said Maisie, joyously. "Aren't you glad?" But to her

surprise, Celeste did not answer. She had grown rather pale, and there

were actually tears in her eyes.

"Don't you like it, dear?" Auntie Belle asked, giving the little hand

beside her an encouraging pat.

"Like it! Oh, but it is too wonderful! I never believed that I should

truly go to the opera."

"Well, you are here, you see," said Maisie, much relieved by this

expression of feeling. She was beginning to fear her friend was not

as much pleased as she had expected her to be. "It's going to be a

beautiful opera, too. It's called 'Mignon,' and papa says the music is

lovely, and the best of all is, that tenor you wanted to hear so much

is going to sing."

"Oh!" said Celeste, and that was all, but her radiant face was more

expressive than any words could have been.

"Auntie Belle heard him the other night," Maisie chattered on. "Some

friends invited her, and she says he really has got a beautiful voice.

He's awfully handsome, too. Auntie Belle bought his photograph. O dear,

there's the orchestra beginning, and we can't talk any more!"

If any one had doubted the fact that the little blind girl loved music

with her whole soul, it would have required only one glance at the

child's radiant face during the overture, to banish all such doubts

at once, and forever. The Bartons all watched her with keen interest,

as she sat leaning forward in her seat, with hands clasped, and lips

apart, drinking in the music as if it were her very life. Maisie gazed

at her new friend with eyes round with astonishment. Was it possible

that any human being could really love music like that? She thought

of how often she had grumbled at being obliged to go to concerts with

her mother, and what a bore she had found them. If only she and Celeste

could have changed places on those occasions. Auntie Belle, who loved

music almost as much as Celeste did, felt suddenly drawn to the little

stranger by a bond of sympathy. Mrs. Barton remembered her doubts of

the morning, and her kind heart smote her for having hesitated even for

a moment to give the child such a pleasure.

When the curtain rose upon the gay scene of gypsies and villagers,

Maisie's attention wandered a little from Celeste's face to the stage

and for a few moments she almost forgot her friend in her interest in

the scene before her. Suddenly there was a slight rustle among the

audience as the sound of a rich, clear tenor voice was heard drawing

nearer; and as Wilhelm-Meister stepped out upon the stage, almost every

head was craned forward to catch the first glimpse of the popular young

singer.

"He looks just like his picture, doesn't he?" Maisie whispered to her

aunt. "I think he's the handsomest--"

Maisie paused abruptly, attracted by a slight sound from Celeste, and

turning to see what the matter was, she was rendered fairly speechless

with astonishment by the look on the little blind girl's face. Auntie

Belle also heard the half-suppressed cry, and she, too, turned to look

at Celeste.

"What is the matter, dear?" she whispered anxiously, bending over the

child. "Don't you feel well?"

"Oh, yes, thank you, but--but--pardon, Mademoiselle, but might I ask

you to tell me the gentleman's name?"

"The gentleman," repeated Auntie Belle, looking puzzled; "what

gentleman? Oh, you mean Wilhelm-Meister. His name is Claude Lorraine.

Why, my poor child, what is it? You must be ill. You had better let my

brother take you out."

"No, no," gasped Celeste, who was trembling from head to foot, and

whose face had grown ghastly white; "I do not want to go out. I want to

stay and hear him sing. Oh, mademoiselle, the good God has been very

kind to us!"

Auntie Belle stared at the child in amazement; she had never been so

puzzled in her life, but into Maisie's eyes there flashed a sudden

light, and forgetting for the moment where she was, and all her

mother's cautions about not talking at the opera, she almost sprang

out of her seat, crying excitedly, "It's Louis, I know it is!"

"Oh, Celeste, tell me, is it really Louis?"

"Yes," said Celeste, in a breathless whisper. "I knew his voice the

moment I heard it, and Claude Lorraine was my papa's stage name; Louis

must have taken it too. Oh, Mademoiselle Maisie, Mademoiselle Maisie!"

and the poor little blind girl burst into tears.

But by this time the little excitement was beginning to be noticed

by the audience, and indignant hisses were heard on all sides. Mr.

and Mrs. Barton turned to discover what had caused the disturbance,

and were not reassured by the sight of Celeste in tears, Auntie Belle

looking the picture of dismay, and Maisie jumping up and down in her

seat, and acting very much as though she had lost her senses. And

during all the commotion the clear tenor voice sang on, its owner

quite unconscious of the fact that his presence had caused any unusual

excitement.

Strange to say, it was Celeste herself who was the first to recover.

She checked her sobs, with a mighty effort, and slipped one little

trembling hand into Auntie Belle's, and the other into Maisie's.

"We must be very quiet," she whispered, "or the people will be angry.

Let us listen. I want to hear every note Louis sings."

"What in the world is the matter?" Mr. Barton whispered to his sister,

and Auntie Belle replied that she did not know but believed the tenor

must be a friend or relative of Celeste's, and that she had recognized

him by his voice.

During the rest of that act not one of the party had eyes or thoughts

to spare for anything that was going on the stage. The music and

singing were of the best, and the acting excellent, but the Bartons

looked only at Celeste. Maisie was the only one who knew what had

really happened, and she had been so frightened by those ominous

hisses, that she did not dare open her lips again, even to whisper

the wonderful news to Auntie Belle. But it was easy to see that the

little blind girl was very much excited, and that something unusual had

occurred. After the first few moments the child had ceased to tremble,

and by degrees a little color began to creep back into her face. She

sat, leaning forward in her seat, as if afraid to miss a single note,

and gradually her expression settled into a look of such radiant

happiness, that her kind new friends could do nothing but gaze at her,

in ever increasing astonishment.

At last the curtain fell upon the first act, amid a thunder of

applause, and instantly Maisie's tongue was loosed.

"It's her brother!" she cried, jumping out of her seat in her

excitement. "She hasn't seen him in four whole years. He went away to

seek his fortune, and she hadn't any idea what had become of him. She

was so afraid he might be poor, but I told her I was sure he would come

back rich, the way people always do in stories. Oh, isn't it the most

wonderful, interesting thing you ever heard of in all your lives? Don't

you want to go right off this minute and see him, Celeste?"

But Celeste shook her head.

"I would rather wait till the opera is over," she said. "If he saw me

before he might not be able to sing so well. I want to hear him sing

the whole opera before he knows I am here. After that if your papa will

be so kind--"

But when Mr. Barton had at last been made to understand the wonderful

story, he did not look as much impressed by Celeste's good fortune as

Maisie and Auntie Belle expected he would.

"You had better let me have a talk with the fellow first," he said in

English to Auntie Belle. "He has been singing here in Nice for weeks.

If he had really been anxious to find his little sister, it seems

incredible that he should not have found her before. I haven't as much

faith in these long-lost brothers as some of you have, and I don't want

that poor child's innocent little heart broken if I can help it." And

Mr. Barton glanced pityingly at Celeste's radiant face.

Fortunately for Celeste, she could not understand one word of English,

and so was spared all the discussion which followed. She continued to

smile the smile of unutterable rapture, and sometimes her lips moved as

if she were saying her prayers. Auntie Belle and Maisie both felt lumps

in their throats whenever they looked at her, and Mrs. Barton was seen

to wipe her eyes more than once.

"I feel just as if I were in heaven," Celeste whispered to Maisie, when

the curtain had risen on the second act, and the beautiful tenor voice

was heard again. Maisie dared not answer, for fear of those dreadful

hisses, but she slipped an arm around her friend, and hugged her, in a

burst of sympathy that said more than any words could have done.

"Now, Celeste," said Mr. Barton in his kind, sensible voice, when the

opera was over, and they were making their way out through the crowd,

"we are going to take you back to the hotel. I have sent a line to your

brother, asking him to meet me there as soon as possible on a matter

of importance. It will be much pleasanter for you both to meet at the

hotel than in all this crowd and confusion."

Celeste--who was trembling again so that she could scarcely stand--made

no objection, and allowed herself to be helped into the motor car,

without uttering a word. She spoke only once on the way home, and then

it was to ask in a timid voice, how soon Mr. Barton thought Louis would

come to the hotel, to which he replied that he was sure her brother

would come as soon as he could get away from the opera house.

"Curiosity will bring him if nothing else does," he added in English,

but that Celeste did not understand.

Arrived at the hotel, Maisie was told to take Celeste to her room, and

keep her there till she was sent for, and the elders waited in the

sitting-room, in a state of breathless anticipation.

"I feel as if I were acting a part in a play," Auntie Belle said, with

a little hysterical giggle. "Oh, Harry, if that poor child is doomed to

a disappointment, I really don't know what I shall do! Did you ever

see such a look of rapture on any human face? But it is all right, I

know it is. No man with a voice like that could be anything but good."

Auntie Belle paused abruptly, for at that moment there was a knock at

the door. The tenor had evidently been curious to learn the meaning

of Mr. Barton's mysterious summons, for he had followed them almost

immediately.

He was a tall, handsome young fellow, with a frank, boyish face, and as

he came forward into the room, Mrs. Barton and Auntie Belle felt their

hopes rise instinctively.

"Monsieur Lorraine, I believe," said Mr. Barton, courteously, as he

shook hands with the young man. "I trust you will pardon my sending for

you so unceremoniously. Allow me to present my wife and sister. We have

all been to the opera this afternoon, and have been charmed by your

singing."

The tenor bowed deeply to the two ladies, and blushed boyishly at the

compliment. Indeed, he looked so young, and so honest and pleasant

as well, that Mr. Barton found himself addressing him in a much more

friendly tone than he would have believed possible five minutes

earlier.

"I have sent for you to talk over a matter which interests us all

very much," he said, when they were seated, and Monsieur Lorraine had

somewhat recovered from his first embarrassment. "I said before that we

have been charmed with your singing. May I ask how long you have been

on the stage?"

"I made my _début_ in Paris last autumn," said the young man, in a

pleasant, refined voice, that somehow reminded them all of Celeste's.

"Indeed? Then I presume you have never been to America."

"On the contrary," said the tenor, smiling, "I have spent over two

years in America. Indeed, it is to the kindness of an American

gentleman that I owe my present good fortune. I was singing at a

vaudeville theatre in Chicago about three years ago, and was about

as poor and discouraged as one could well be, when this gentleman--a

Mr. Richardson of New York, who had happened to drop into the place,

out of mere curiosity--became interested in my voice. He spoke to me

after the performance, gave me his card, and advised my coming to

New York and studying at the conservatory there. I followed his kind

advice, he became my friend and benefactor, and it is to him that I

owe everything. I have good reason to love America and the American

people."

The young man spoke earnestly, and Mr. Barton felt his good opinion

rising.

"You are a Frenchman, I know that by your accent," he said. "Is your

home in this part of the country?"

"No, monsieur. I have never been in Nice before. My parents lived in

Paris, and my father sang at the Opera Comique for several years before

his death."

"Are your parents both dead?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"You are young to be alone in the world--have you no near relatives?"

A shadow crossed the young man's face. Auntie Belle's heart was beating

so fast that she was almost afraid the tenor would hear it.

"I have one little sister," he said sadly. "She is still but a child,

many years younger than I."

"Ah, I see, and is this little sister with you now?"

"Alas, no, monsieur, but I would gladly give all I have in the world to

find her."

Auntie Belle could not repress a little chuckle of delight, and she

gave her brother a triumphant glance, but Mr. Barton went quietly on

with his questioning.

"What do you mean by that? Surely you must know where your little

sister is."

"Ah, monsieur, it is a long story, and a very sad one. When our parents

died five years ago, we were very poor indeed. My father had been ill

a long time, and had left us nothing. I had my voice, and--pardon me,

monsieur, if what I say sounds conceited--I knew I could support myself

by singing if I could only get the chance. But there was my little

blind sister. She has been blind from birth, monsieur, and I could not

bear to leave her alone among strangers. Yet I could not take her with

me, perhaps to starve. We had been lodging with some kind people at the

time of our mother's death, and the woman had taken a great fancy to

little Celeste. She told me that if I would leave the child with her,

she would care for her, and be a mother to her until my return. She

was a very ignorant woman, who could neither read nor write, but her

husband was better educated, and they were both good, religious people.

They kept a little shop in Paris, and were comfortably off. It was very

hard to part from little Celeste, for we loved each other tenderly, and

my mother had left her in my care. Still, it seemed the only thing to

do, and I knew I was leaving her in good hands.

"Things went very badly with me for the first year, and I was too

discouraged to write the husband of my ill luck, but as soon as I

began to earn a little money, I wrote at once, sending a small sum

towards my sister's support. I never received any answer, and although

I wrote again and again, not a word ever reached me in reply. As soon

as I came back to Paris this year, I went to the address where I had

left my little sister, but found that the family had moved away three

years ago, and no one in the neighborhood knew where they had gone. The

man, it seems, was run over and killed by a motor car, and his wife

left Paris soon afterward, taking the child with her. As she could not

write, she had not communicated with any of her friends, and not one

among them all could give me her address.

"Since then I have done everything in my power to trace my little

sister, but so far without success. I feel sometimes as if I should go

mad with anxiety about the child, and the hardest of all is that now

when at last I am in a position to support her, and bring her up as my

mother would have wished, I cannot even find out what has become of

her. But pardon me, monsieur, for talking so much of my own affairs, in

which you cannot possibly be interested."

"On the contrary," said Mr. Barton, kindly, "I am very much interested

indeed. To tell the truth, it was for the purpose of hearing just this

very story that I sent for you this afternoon. I have an idea that I

may be able to put you in the way of getting some information about

your little blind sister."

"You, monsieur!" The young man had sprung out of his chair, and seized

Mr. Barton's hand before that gentleman had finished his sentence. "Oh,

monsieur, if this is true--if you can indeed assist me in my search for

poor little Celeste--I shall be grateful to you all my life."

The tenor's honest, boyish face was full of feeling, and his voice

trembled. Auntie Belle--who was romantic--thought him the most

interesting person she had ever seen. Mr. Barton freed his hand gently

from the young man's eager clasp, and went to the door.

"Maisie," he called cheerfully, "you may come now, and bring your

little friend with you."

There was a hurrying of little feet, and Maisie rushed into the room,

fairly dragging the trembling Celeste after her.

"Celeste, my little Celeste!"

With one bound, the tenor was across the room, and had caught the

little blind girl in his arms.

"And to think," sobbed Celeste, with her arms round her brother's neck,

"that the good God sent you back to us on Christmas day! Maman Remo

says I must always be happy on Christmas, because of my name.

"I knew your voice the moment I heard it, but I did not want you to

see me till the opera was over. Oh, Louis, _cherie_, you sing like an

angel!"

Maman Remo was sitting alone in her little house, waiting for Celeste

to come home. It had been dark for more than an hour, and she had

lighted the lamp, and built up a good fire in the stove, but she would

not make any preparations for supper until Celeste should come in.

"Perhaps the little one will not be hungry," she said to herself.

"Those Americans are always feasting on holidays. Poor child, I hope

she has had a happy day. To-morrow she must know, for I dare not put

it off any longer. The doctor said I must go as soon as possible. She

will take it hard, poor child, but surely they will be kind to her at

the asylum, and if I am ever well and strong again, she can come back

to me, and things will be as they have been."

Maman Remo heaved a deep sigh, and put up her hand to brush away a

tear. The day had been very long and lonely.

Suddenly she turned her head and listened. Footsteps were approaching,

and voices. Yes, that was Celeste's voice, and how happy it sounded.

Surely the child had had _Joyeuse Noel_. The footsteps drew nearer,

some one opened the door, and two people came in.

Maman Remo rose and courtesied. She did not recognize the tall young

gentleman, who was leading Celeste by the hand, but supposed him to be

one of the American family who had been so kind to the child all day.

"Maman Remo, don't you know me?"

"Louis, Louis Noel!" Maman Remo sank back into her chair, and turned so

white that for a moment Louis feared she was going to faint. "Oh, my

God, is it really Louis Noel?"

"Yes, yes, Maman, it is really Louis, our own Louis, come back to us

safe and well," cried Celeste, flinging herself upon Maman Remo in a

perfect ecstasy of delight. "Oh, isn't it beautiful and wonderful that

he should have come on Christmas day? And, oh, Maman _cherie_, he is

not poor; he is rich, as Mademoiselle Maisie said he would be. I have

heard him sing at the opera, and truly he has the voice of an angel."

Maman Remo's lips moved, but no sound came from them. Louis Noel came

quickly forward, and took the two trembling hands in his. His own eyes

were full of tears.

"Maman Remo," he said, in a low, unsteady voice, "there are no words in

which to thank you. Celeste has told me everything, and I don't know

what to say. It is true, as the little one says, I am not poor. I am

doing good work with my voice, and have an engagement to sing at the

opera in New York next season. All I ask is that you will let me take

care of you and Celeste; not in payment for your care of the child, for

that is something that can never be repaid in this world, but because I

love and honor you beyond all other women except my mother." And Louis

Noel bent and kissed Maman Remo very tenderly.

"Well, Maisie, and what sort of a Christmas has it been?" Mr. Barton

asked, smiling, as his little daughter was bidding him good-night.

"Oh, Papa," cried Maisie, with sparkling eyes, "it has been the very

loveliest Christmas I have ever had. I do believe it's more interesting

to give other people a good time than to have it one's self. But

there's one funny thing about it."

"And what is that?" her father asked, stooping to kiss the happy, eager

little face.

"Why," said Maisie, laughing, "it's a very queer thing, but I never had

quite such a Merry Christmas before, even at home, with the Christmas

trees, and the parties, and all the presents. Oh, Papa dear, when I

think of that sweet Celeste's face when she went away with her brother,

and remember that if it hadn't been for your wanting me to try that

experiment, Louis might have gone away again without ever knowing she

was here, I feel so happy that I think I should like to hug everybody

in the world!"

JILL AND LILL

CHAPTER I

There were not many people in the great gallery that rainy December

afternoon. It was too early in the season for the crowd of English

and American tourists which in the late winter and early spring fill

Florence to overflowing, and the few people who sauntered about looking

at the pictures were for the most part native Florentines out for an

afternoon holiday. The men all wore their overcoats, and the women

kept their furs--if they were fortunate enough to possess any--wrapped

closely about them, but it was bitterly cold in the gallery, which is

only warmed by the bright Italian sun, and on cold, rainy days often

feels like a great stone vault.

The twins were not so fortunate as to have any furs; neither were their

winter jackets as warm as they might have been if clothes had not been

so expensive, but they were accustomed to the cold galleries, and

although they both shivered more than once, it did not occur to either

of them to mention the fact. The twins were only eleven, but they knew

the great picture galleries of Florence much better than many older

people. Ever since they could remember, their mother had taken them

with her to the galleries, and they had wandered about looking at the

wonderful pictures, or played "sitting still games" in a corner, always

talking softly for fear of disturbing people who came to look, or,

like their mother, to copy the great masterpieces of the world. They

were very poor, for Mummy's pictures sold for a mere trifle at the

print shops, and they lived in three little rooms at the top of an old

building, the windows of which looked out upon the Duomo; the great

cathedral, which has been the pride of Florence for centuries. Once,

long ago, when their father was alive, they had lived in Rome, and

their father had painted pictures which sold for much more money than

poor little Mummy's pictures did; but after her husband's death Mummy

had brought the children to Florence, because living there was cheaper

than in Rome. The twins themselves did not particularly mind being

poor, and if it had not been for Mummy's anxious face, and the fears

they sometimes heard her express about the future, they would have been

quite happy and contented. As for education, clothes, and all those

other tiresome things, which seemed to trouble Mummy so much, they were

matters of the most supreme indifference to the twins. They were quite

happy in their three little rooms, where Mummy did the cooking on a

tiny stove, and which were so cold in winter, that they often went to

bed right after supper, for the purpose of keeping warm, and so hot on

summer nights that they sometimes carried their beds out on the roof,

in the faint hope of catching a little breeze from the river half a

mile away.

Twins are supposed to resemble each other so closely that sometimes

their own families cannot tell them apart, but this was not the case

with Jill and Lill, for Jill was fully half a head taller than Lill,

and looked at least two years older. Lill was a small, fair child, with

a delicate, refined little face, and big innocent eyes, that had an

odd appealing look in them. She had been a delicate baby, and even now

was far from strong, while Jill had never had an ailment in her life,

and was as plump and rosy as if she had been fed on new-laid eggs and

country cream ever since she was born. They had never been separated

for a day in their lives, and if Jill's love for her twin sister had a

touch of motherliness in it, and Lill looked up to Jill with a kind of

adoring admiration, their affection was none the less strong for that.

When the twins were born, their father, who was an artist, and somewhat

romantic, had declared their names must sound alike.

"One is to be Lilian for your mother," he said, "but it would never do

to call the other Jane, for my little sister who died. Who ever heard

of twins being Lilian and Jane? They wouldn't harmonize at all."

"We might call little Janie, Jill," suggested Mummy, who had an

imagination. "I remember once reading a book called 'Jack and Jill,'

and Jill's real name was Jane."

"That will do," said Mr. Dinsmore, laughing. "Jill and Lill, nothing

could be better."

So Jill and Lill, the twins had been called ever since.

To most little American and English girls, the life they led would have

seemed very dull and forlorn indeed, but Jill and Lill had never known

any other. They were not yet six when their kind, merry young father

had died of the cruel Roman fever, which so often attacks imprudent

foreigners in the hot Italian summer, and they had come to live in the

tiny apartment in Florence, where good Signor and Signora Paloni--the

landlord and his wife--had taken the two little Americans into their

kind, elderly hearts, and petted and made much of them ever since.

Poor little Mummy had been quite heart-broken at the death of her

husband, whom she had loved very dearly, but the children's lives must

not be saddened; and so, being a brave little woman, she assumed a

cheerfulness she was very far from feeling, and it was only seldom that

Jill and Lill saw the tired, wistful look in her eyes, that they had

learned to know meant Mummy was discouraged.

On several mornings of each week, summer and winter, Mummy went to one

of the great galleries, for which Florence is famous, and there she sat

for hours, making her poor little copies of the great pictures. She did

not like to leave the children alone all day, so she generally brought

them with her, and on fine days they would take their lunch--consisting

of a roll and a cake of chocolate apiece--out into the gardens, where

the fountains played and the birds sang in summer, and which were the

twins' only idea of what the country was like. Lately Mummy had been

fortunate in obtaining some drawing pupils in a large boarding-school

kept by an English woman, and three afternoons in the week she spent

teaching little English and French girls how to draw.

But on this stormy December day there had been no going into the

gardens for lunch. They had eaten their rolls and chocolate on a bench

in the gallery, and Mummy had been in a hurry, because she was anxious

to finish her picture before leaving, and this was one of the drawing

class days. It was not very cheerful spending a whole long day in a

place where nobody ever spoke much above a whisper, and although the

twins knew and loved many of the beautiful pictures, they had looked

at them all so often that there had long ago ceased to be any novelty

about it. So after lunch they had retired to a recess by one of the

windows, and tried to pass the time by counting the raindrops.

"It's very cold," said Lill, with a little shiver. "I wish there wasn't

any cold weather, don't you?"

"I like summer best," Jill admitted, "but then I suppose we should get

tired of it if we had it all the time." Jill was noted for a way she

had of always making the best of things, and looking on the bright

side--a quality she inherited from her brave, cheerful little mother.

"I shouldn't mind winter so much if we had snow here the way they do

in America," Lill went on. "I should love sleighing, and skating, and

all the nice things Mummy tells about. I wonder if we shall ever go to

America."

"Oh, I am sure we shall some day, when Mummy has made a great deal of

money."

Lill sighed.

"I'm afraid that won't be for a long time," she said, "unless people

pay her much more for her pictures than they do now. Do you think she

would like to go?"

"I don't know," said Jill, thoughtfully; "perhaps it would make her

sad. I don't think she likes to talk very much about America."

"I wonder why," said Lill. "I should think people would love talking

about the places where they used to live, shouldn't you?"

"Yes, unless sad things happened to them there. I think a good many sad

things must have happened to Mummy in America. You see, her father and

mother both died there, and Uncle George was so angry when she wanted

to go away and study art, instead of coming out in society the way all

the other girls he knew did. I wonder what 'coming out in society'

means."

"I don't know," said Lill, "but I'm glad Mummy didn't do it, for if she

had she wouldn't have married father."

"She might have married somebody else, though," said Jill, practically,

"and then perhaps Uncle George wouldn't have been so angry."

"I hate Uncle George," remarked Lill, in a tone of decision.

"Mummy says it's wicked to hate people, and perhaps he couldn't help

being the way he was. Signor says some people are born disagreeable;

perhaps Uncle George was one of them."

"I don't believe he was," said Lill; "or Mummy wouldn't have loved

him so much. You know she said she loved him better than any one in

the world till she met father, and then of course she loved father

best, because she married him, and you always love the person you

marry better than anybody else. I don't believe Uncle George was born

disagreeable, I believe he was just wicked, and I hate him."

Jill was silent. She had learned from long experience, that there was

never any use in arguing with her sister, for when Lill had once made

up her mind firmly on a subject, gentle and babyish as she looked, Lill

was capable of an amount of obstinacy that was quite a revelation to

her friends. There was a moment's silence, and then Lill went on.

"It always makes me hot inside when I think about Uncle George and how

cruel he was to Mummy. Just think of his telling her he would never

see her again if she married father, and sending back all her letters

without reading them. Even when father was ill, and she wrote begging

him to send her a little money, he never answered her. I think if I

ever saw him I should--I should feel like doing something awful to him."

"I wouldn't think about him at all if it makes you feel like that,"

said Jill, with a rather troubled glance at her sister's flushed cheeks

and flashing eyes. "I know Mummy would hate to have you say such

things. She never told us about what Uncle George did, and we wouldn't

have known anything about it if we hadn't met that Mrs. Trevor, who

used to know her in America, and heard her telling that other lady

about it. I don't suppose she would have said all those things if she

had known we were sitting on the bench right behind her. She only knew

about that letter Mummy wrote when father was ill, because she happened

to be in Rome at the same time. It isn't likely we shall ever see

Uncle George. Even Mummy has never seen him since she was married, and

she never tells us anything about him that isn't nice and kind."

"I can't forget what that lady said, though," said Lill, obstinately.

"I keep thinking about it all the time, and it makes me so angry. Mummy

is so dear, and sweet, and precious; I don't believe she was ever

unkind to any one in her life. Oh, I wish I could meet Uncle George

sometime; just to let him see how I hate him!"

"Don't let's talk any more about him," said Jill, soothingly. "Let's

talk about Christmas. Don't you wonder what Mummy's going to give us?"

"I think I know, but I won't tell," said Lill, her face brightening.

"Oh, I do wish we had money enough to buy her a really beautiful

present, but we've only got three francs between us, and one can't buy

much with that!"

"We can buy something, though," said cheerful Jill, "and Mummy's sure

to love it, whatever it is. She always says it isn't the money we spend

for a thing that counts, it's just the thought. Signora says she will

take us shopping some day before Christmas."

"I know it's the thought that counts," said Lill, "but I wish we could

buy Mummy a nice present just the same. Wouldn't it be beautiful to be

rich, and to have a real Christmas tree, the kind they have in America?

Think of the parties Mummy used to have when she was a little girl, and

all the beautiful presents. O dear, how cold it is here! My feet are

almost frozen."

"Let's pretend," suggested Jill, with a sudden inspiration. "We always

forget the disagreeable things when we pretend."

Lill agreed, and the twins turned away from the contemplation of the

raindrops, and settled themselves on a bench, directly opposite one of

Raphael's beautiful Madonnas.

"What shall we be to-day?" inquired Lill. Lill had less imagination

than Jill, and generally left the selection and planning of their games

to her more enterprising sister.

Jill thought for a moment; then she said:

"Let's pretend we are the two little princes in the Tower of London.

I'm sure they must often have been cold, so our being cold, too, will

make it seem more real. Pretend it's a cold, dark night, and we haven't

had any supper. We are afraid every one has forgotten us, and we won't

have anything to eat till morning. Then when we remember that it's

really day-time, and that we've just had lunch, we shall feel so nice

and comfy inside."

"All right," agreed Lill; "let's begin."

Instantly Jill's whole manner changed. She was no longer the little

Twentieth Century American girl, sitting on a bench in the Florence

picture gallery, but the little English prince shut up by a cruel uncle

in the old tower, patiently awaiting the terrible fate, which has made

the two little princes famous in history.

"How dark and cold it is, brother," she began in a low tremulous voice.

"I fear our cruel captors have forgotten to bring us any supper, and we

shall have to stay here alone in the darkness till the morning."

"Without any food," chimed in Lill, nestling a little closer to her

sister. When Lill "pretended" it always seemed very real to her, and

for the moment she almost fancied herself really the character she was

personating. "And if we have to stay alone in the cold and dark all

night, the rats will come, and that will be frightful. Oh, brother, I

am afraid--I am afraid!"

"Courage," urged Jill. "Rats cannot hurt us. It is men we have to fear.

If our cruel uncle succeeds in carrying out his wicked plan, we shall

never see our dear home or our dear mother again. You know it is his

intention to have us smothered, and our bodies thrown into the river.

We have too many real dangers to fear to think of little things like

rats."

"Don't talk about smothering," said Lill, relapsing into her natural

voice. "I hate that part of the story; it scares me. I wish they could

have been rescued just at the last minute, the way people generally are

in stories."

"But this isn't a story, it's English history," protested Jill. "You

can't make things in history end happily, because they're true."

"Don't true things ever end happily?" Lill inquired anxiously.

"I suppose they do, sometimes, but the little princes didn't. I wish we

could go to London sometime, and see the Tower, and Westminster Abbey,

and all the other interesting places."

"What a dreadfully wicked man the little princes' uncle must have

been," remarked Lill. "I wonder if most uncles are wicked. I don't

think I like uncles, anyway."

"Hush," said Jill, in a warning whisper, and she glanced apprehensively

at a gentleman who had paused just in front of them to look at the

Raphael. He was a tall gentleman, evidently a tourist, and he was

dressed in black with a black band on his hat. How long he had been

there the twins did not know, having been too much absorbed in their

own affairs to notice, but as Lill pronounced her opinion of uncles,

he had suddenly turned from the great picture, and was regarding them

rather curiously.

"You mustn't talk so loud," whispered Jill. "I'm afraid we disturbed

that gentleman. You know Mummy never lets us disturb people when they

are looking at the pictures."

"I don't believe he heard what I said," began Lill. Then she paused

abruptly, and grew crimson, as the gentleman quietly took the vacant

place on the bench by her side.

"You must excuse me for interrupting you, young ladies," he said in

a rather pleasant voice, "but I couldn't help overhearing a little

of your conversation, and it has interested me very much. At first I

feared from your tones that you were really in trouble of some kind,

but I soon found that I was mistaken."

He smiled, and his smile was pleasant, too, though it was sad. His

whole expression was sad, and although he was not at all old, there was

something in his face that made the twins feel unaccountably sorry for

him.

"We were pretending to be the two little princes in the Tower of

London," said Jill, feeling that she must offer some explanation; "you

know the ones whose cruel uncle had them smothered and thrown into the

river."

"Yes, I have heard of them. You seem to have formed a rather poor

opinion of uncles in general. May I ask if you often pretend in quite

such a realistic fashion?"

"We like to pretend," said Jill, blushing. "It's one of the few things

we can do without making a noise, and of course we can't play noisy

games in the galleries."

"And why do you choose the galleries for a play-ground? I should think

you might find them uncomfortably cold sometimes."

"We don't mind the cold much," said Jill, "we are used to it, you see.

We come to the galleries almost every day, because our mother doesn't

like to leave us at home alone all day long."

"And may I ask what your mother does in the galleries?" the gentleman

inquired, in a tone of evident interest.

[Illustration: "AND MAY I ASK WHAT YOUR MOTHER DOES IN THE

GALLERIES?"]

"She copies the pictures," said Jill, and Lill, forgetting her shyness

at the mention of her adored mother, added proudly--

"Mummy's very clever. She gives drawing lessons at one of the big

schools as well as copying the pictures. Our father painted beautiful

pictures, too."

The expression of interest on the stranger's face deepened, and he

regarded Lill more attentively. Indeed, he had been looking at Lill all

the time Jill was talking.

"Indeed!" he said, and there was a note of real eagerness in his

voice. "Now, I wonder if I have ever happened to hear of your father's

pictures. Would you mind telling me his name?"

"It was Robert Dinsmore," said Lill, "but he died a long time ago when

we lived in Rome."

The gentleman was silent for a moment, and Jill noticed with surprise,

that he had grown rather pale, and that the hand resting idly on his

knee trembled slightly; but when he spoke again his voice was quite

calm.

"No, I don't think I have ever seen any of your father's pictures,"

he said, "but then I am an American, and this is my first visit to

Florence."

"We are Americans, too," said Jill eagerly. "We have never been to

America, because our father and mother came to live in Italy before

we were born, but we hope we shall go some day; Mummy has told us so

much about it."

"And you live here in Florence, I suppose, and your mother sells her

copies of the pictures?"

"Oh, yes, that's what she paints them for, but people don't pay very

much for them, and so she was very glad to have the drawing class at

the English school."

The gentleman rose abruptly.

"Well, perhaps I may want to buy some copies to take back to America

with me," he said, "so suppose you give me your mother's address, in

case I should take a fancy to look at some of hers."

"She sells hers at the shops," Jill explained, "but she has some at

home that the shop people wouldn't take. Perhaps you might like to look

at them. We live on the Lungarno Acciasill, at Signor Paloni's. Our

apartment is on the top floor."

"Thank you," said the gentleman; "I will remember the address. And your

name is Dinsmore, you say?"

"Yes, sir, I am Jane Dinsmore, though every one calls me Jill, and my

sister's name is Lilian."

"Lilian," repeated the stranger, and an oddly softened look came into

his face. "So they called one of you Lilian."

"I am named for my grandmother," Lill explained. "People always call me

Lill, because it rhymes with Jill, and we are twins, but I think Lilian

is much prettier."

"So do I," said the gentleman, and he smiled his sad smile again. "I

had a little Lilian of my own once, and I am very fond of the name. Is

your mother here to-day?"

"Yes," said Jill; "she is copying the _Madonna delta Duca_. Would you

like to see her, and ask about the pictures at home?"

"No, no, I don't care to see her. I merely asked out of curiosity. I

must be hurrying along now. Good-bye."

"What a nice gentleman!" remarked Jill, as soon as their new

acquaintance was out of ear-shot. "I'm afraid he won't come to look at

Mummy's pictures, though; he didn't seem much interested."

"I think he was interested," said Lill. "He had such a queer look in

his eyes all the time he was talking to us, and wasn't it funny he

should have had a little girl named Lilian?"

"I suppose there must be a good many Lilians in the world," returned

practical Jill. "I think his little girl is dead, for he looked so sad

when he spoke of her, and did you notice the black band on his hat?"

At that moment the twins caught sight of a little woman in a gray dress

coming towards them, and instantly the stranger and his affairs were

forgotten, as they sprang to their feet and hurried to meet Mummy.

Mummy was a very little woman indeed. She was not much taller than

Lill, and Jill quite towered over her when they walked in the street

together. She looked very young to be the mother of two such big girls,

and there was an innocent, almost childlike expression in the blue eyes

that were so like Lill's, that all the sorrow and anxiety of years had

failed to banish. Mummy had fought her way through more than one fierce

battle with fate, but she still kept her simple faith, and believed

that people meant to be kind, and that the world was, after all, a

very good place. There was only one person the thought of whom could

banish the look of sweet serenity from her face, and that was her only

brother, to whom she had been devotedly attached, and whose unkind

treatment had been the one cup of bitterness in her life.

"You are through early to-day," said Jill, as she and Lill each

slipped an arm lovingly round Mummy's waist.

"A little early, but it was so cold I was afraid to keep you here any

longer."

"We didn't mind it much," said Jill. "We pretended we were the little

princes in the Tower, and being cold made it seem more real, because

they must often have been very cold, you know."

Mummy laughed in spite of herself.

"There is nothing like looking on the bright side of things, is there?"

she said. "I am glad you enjoyed playing you were the little princes in

the Tower, but I can't help wishing you had warmer jackets."

"Lill," whispered Jill, as they dropped behind Mummy for a moment going

out of the gallery, "don't say anything about the gentleman."

"Why not?" inquired Lill, in surprise.

"Because perhaps he won't ever come to see the pictures, and if Mummy

thinks he's coming, and he doesn't, she'll be so disappointed."

CHAPTER II

"There, everything is ready, and when Mummy comes in there won't be

a single thing for her to do but sit down and drink her tea, and get

warm."

Jill spoke in a tone of satisfaction, and as she did so she glanced

about the cosy little room, with an air of pardonable pride. It was a

rather shabbily furnished little room, and everything in it was of the

cheapest and plainest, but it was as neat as hands could make it, and

the lamp burning on the table, and the tea-kettle humming on the stove,

gave an air of comfort and cheerfulness to the humble surroundings,

that Jill's home-loving little soul was quick to feel.

"I'm afraid she'll be dreadfully wet," said Lill, anxiously. "Just

listen to the rain!"

"Yes, it's a horrid night, but it's nice and warm in here, and when

Mummy gets her wet things off, and drinks her tea, I know she'll love

it. Isn't it nice we've learned to make the tea and toast, so we can

have them all ready when she comes in?"

"I should like to learn to cook," said Lill. "It would be such fun to

cook the whole dinner some day, and have it waiting for Mummy. Wouldn't

she be surprised?"

"It would be splendid if we could really do it well," agreed the more

cautious Jill. "The trouble is, we might spoil things at first and

that would be such a dreadful waste when everything costs so much. I

shouldn't like to feel I had wasted food, should you?"

"No, but I don't believe we should if we got Signora to teach us. I

know she would if we asked her. She likes cooking, and is so economical

that I'm sure she would never let us waste anything."

"All right, let's ask her. We'll tell Mummy we want to stay at home

some day, and get Signora to give us a cooking lesson."

At that moment there was a tap at the door, and in answer to Jill's

bidding to enter, Signora Paloni herself appeared. She was a

rosy-cheeked little woman, with very bright eyes, and a pleasant smile,

and there was no one in the world, with the exception of their mother,

whom the twins loved so much.

"_Buon giorno, Signora_, we were just talking about you," said Lill, in

her pretty, fluent Italian. Signora Paloni spoke no English, but the

twins talked Italian as well as their own language, if not better. "We

want to know if you will teach us how to cook a real dinner, so we can

surprise Mummy some day?"

"Of a certainty I will," said the landlady, beaming with pleasure. "It

is a kind thought to wish to save the dear mother trouble. I came up to

see if the tea was ready, for it is a terrible night, and the poor lady

will be so wet."

"It's all ready," said Jill, proudly, "and the bread is cut, so Lill

can make the toast the minute Mummy comes in. She is late to-night."

"She will come soon," said Signora Paloni, cheerfully, "and in the

meantime I have news for you. Guess what good fortune has just befallen

us."

"Oh, Signora, what is it? Please tell us," cried both twins at once.

"We have rented our first-floor apartment at last--the apartment that

has been empty for so long."

"Who has taken it?" inquired Jill, with interest. Signora Paloni's

first-floor apartment was, in the eyes of the twins at least, a very

grand place indeed.

"A countryman of yours; a gentleman from America. He intends spending

some time in Florence, he tells us, and he does not care for the

hotels. My husband asked him how he had heard of us, and he said the

house had been recommended to him. He speaks very little Italian, but

he made us understand. I am to prepare his morning coffee, and for his

other meals he will go to the restaurants. We are wondering what kind

friend has done us this good turn."

"And will he give you your price?" inquired Jill, who seldom forgot

business details.

"Yes, and what is more, he has paid us a month's rent in advance. He

seemed to fear we might not trust him, as he is a stranger to us, but

we should not have feared; he has a good face."

"When is he coming?" Lill wanted to know.

"He will take possession to-morrow, and as he is not quite satisfied

with the furniture, he has asked if he may bring in a few extra things."

"But the furniture is beautiful!" cried Jill, indignantly. "How could

any one want better?"

"Ah, my little one," said the landlady, smiling, "you have never

visited the houses of the rich. My little apartment is neat and

comfortable, and in it are many relics of our family, which are to my

husband and me very precious, but to a rich American gentleman it must

seem but a poor place."

"What is the gentleman's name?" asked Lill.

"Mr. George H. Brown," said Signora Paloni, pronouncing the name very

slowly and distinctly, and making it sound as if it were "Misterre

Georga Ash Broon."

"That's not a very pretty name," said Jill, and her interest in the

stranger flagged. "Now, Signora, about those cooking lessons?"

Signora Paloni was quite ready to talk about the lessons, and entered

heartily into the children's scheme. They were deep in the discussion

of ways and means when Mummy arrived, cold, wet, but cheerful as usual.

Then the landlady had to tell her news all over again, and Mummy

listened and sympathized while she dried her skirts, and sipped the cup

of hot tea the twins had prepared for her. But though always kind and

sympathetic, the twins noticed that their mother did not seem quite

as attentive as she usually was to Signora Paloni's long stories, and

when the landlady was leaving the room at last, Mummy suddenly roused

herself from a fit of abstraction to ask--

"May I have a little talk with you in your room this evening, Signora?

I want to consult you about something."

It was Mummy's custom to teach the twins for an hour or two every

evening, and, on the whole, they rather enjoyed the lessons. Mummy

was a good teacher, and had a way of making history and geography

interesting, although she was often very tired after her hard day's

work, and would much have preferred going to bed to teaching little

girls. She was a conscientious little woman, and seldom allowed

inclination to interfere with duty, so it was a great surprise to the

children on this particular evening, when the frugal supper had been

eaten, and the dishes washed and cleared away, that Mummy, instead of

getting out the lesson books as usual, drew the arm-chair close to the

stove, and seated herself, as if for a comfortable chat.

"I think we will take a holiday this evening," she said. "There is

something I want to talk to you about."

"Oh, Mummy, how nice!" cried Lill, immediately perching herself on one

arm of her mother's chair, while Jill took possession of the other.

This had been one of their favorite positions ever since they had

grown too heavy to sit on Mummy's lap.

"Is it something pleasant?" Jill asked, with a rather anxious glance

into Mummy's face. "Are you going to have more pupils?"

"Not exactly, though it may lead to my having more pupils in the end,"

said Mummy, smiling. "It is about an offer I have received, and that I

don't intend to accept until I have talked to my little girls about it."

Jill slipped an arm affectionately round Mummy's neck.

"Tell us all about it, Mummy dear," she said, softly.

"I am going to tell you; that is why we are not having lessons this

evening. Miss Dexter--the English lady who is at the head of the school

where I teach--sent word that she wished to see me this afternoon after

the class. It seems, some of the older girls, who are not going home

for the Christmas vacation, are very anxious to take a little trip into

Sicily. Miss Dexter cannot very well go with them herself, and she is

trying to find some one whom she can send as a chaperon."

"And she wants you to go--oh, Mummy, how delightful!" cried the twins,

and Lill added rapturously--

"I know you'll love it. You have always said you wished you could see

Sicily."

"I should like to go very much, and I consider it a great honor that

Miss Dexter should consider me able to fill such an important position,

but there are several drawbacks. The principal one is that I should

have to be away at least two weeks, and that is a long time to leave my

little girls."

The twins were silent. Never in their lives had their mother left

them for more than a night at a time, and the thought of a two-weeks'

separation was not pleasant. Jill was the first to speak; she had

always been the more unselfish of the two.

"It would be hard to have you go, Mummy, but you would have such a good

time, and Signora would take care of us."

"I know she would. Otherwise nothing would induce me to leave you. I

know, too, that you would both be good children, and not give her any

trouble, but there is something else. The girls want to start next

Friday, and that means that they will be away over Christmas."

"Oh, Mummy, we can't be without you on Christmas!" cried Lill, in

dismay. "It would be dreadful."

Jill gave her sister a warning glance.

"We might wait and keep Christmas when Mummy came back," she suggested.

"Then she could tell us all about Sicily, and the interesting things

she saw there. It wouldn't be quite the same thing, of course, but it

would be better than not having any Christmas at all."

"But it would be so queer not to hang up our stockings, and have Mummy

give us our presents the first thing Christmas morning," objected Lill.

"We've always had such good times on Christmas."

"I know that," said Mummy, "and it was my chief reason for hesitating

about accepting Miss Dexter's offer. I have always tried to make your

Christmases as happy as possible, because I loved the day so much

myself when I was a little girl. I have told Miss Dexter I will give

her my answer to-morrow."

There was a pause, during which nobody spoke for fully three minutes.

Both twins were looking very serious, and Lill's lip was trembling a

little. Again it was Jill who was the first to speak.

"It will be very sad to have Christmas without you, Mummy," she said,

"but you will have such a good change, and you haven't had a change in

ever so long. If you are only away two weeks, you will be back in time

for New Year's, and we can hang up our stockings and do all the nice

things then, and pretend it's Christmas; can't we, Lill?"

"Yes," said Lill in a very low voice, and she swallowed hard to keep

down the big lump in her throat.

Mummy bent and kissed both grave little faces.

"My own dear, brave little girlies," was all she said, but the twins

felt as happy as if she had given them each a present.

The rest of that evening was rather forlorn. Mummy went downstairs, to

talk things over with Signora Paloni, and as soon as she had left the

room Lill broke down and indulged in a good, hearty cry. Jill also shed

a few tears, but with characteristic cheerfulness, soon dried her eyes,

and began to look on the bright side as usual.

"Oh, just think of all the interesting things Mummy will have to tell

us when she comes home," she said. "It will be almost as good as going

to Sicily ourselves. Have you noticed how tired her eyes have looked

lately? She does work so hard, and the change will do her so much good."

"I know it will," sobbed Lill, "and I don't want to be selfish, but

it's so dreadful to think of her being away on Christmas. We shall miss

her so. I don't really see how we are going to live without her for two

whole weeks."

"Two weeks isn't such a very long time," said Jill, with a little catch

in her voice, "and Signora will be very good to us. Besides," she

added, brightening, "it will be such a good time to learn to cook while

Mummy's away."

Lill took out her handkerchief, and dried her eyes.

"We can do that, can't we?" she said, in a more hopeful tone, "and

won't Mummy be surprised when she comes home. Oh, Jill, don't let me be

selfish! I feel awfully like being, but I don't want to spoil Mummy's

good time."

"We won't either of us be selfish," said Jill, slipping an arm lovingly

about her sister's waist. "We'll just make the best of it, and try to

let Mummy think we don't mind much."

And they did try to make the best of it, but I doubt very much if Mummy

was deceived by appearances. She didn't say much, but when bedtime

came, she took them both in her arms at once, and hugged them.

"You precious kiddies," she said. "You make Mummy's heart ache, but

she's prouder of you than if you had won all the prizes at Miss

Dexter's." And there were actually tears in her eyes, although she

tried to laugh.

CHAPTER III

It was Christmas afternoon, and the twins were alone in the tiny

apartment. It had been a very strange, dull Christmas, although every

one had been kind, and the Palonis had done their best to give the

little girls a good time. In the morning Signora Paloni had taken them

to the Christmas mass at the Duomo, and they had really enjoyed the

beautiful music, and the unfamiliar service. When Mummy was at home

they always attended the little American church, where the service

was very simple, a great contrast to the high mass at the cathedral.

Afterwards they had dined with their kind landlord and his wife, and

feasted on roast chicken stuffed with chestnuts, a delicacy very rare

in their simple lives, for meat costs money, and Mummy's means were

limited. And now it was late in the afternoon, and the Palonis had

gone out to spend the evening, leaving the twins in charge of Tessa,

the Italian maid-of-all-work, who had promised to give them their

supper, and see that they went to bed at their usual hour. They were

both feeling very forlorn and lonely. They missed their mother more

than they liked to talk about, and they had been obliged to "pretend"

very hard all the afternoon, in order to keep up even the faintest

semblance of cheerfulness. They had in turn personated most of their

favorite characters, including Queen Elizabeth, George Washington, and

Savonarola. They had heard a great deal about Savonarola through having

spent so much time in Florence. At last Jill proposed that they should

be the little Princes in the Tower.

"We haven't played that since that afternoon in the gallery," she said.

"It was the day Mummy told us about going to Sicily, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Lill, with a sigh, "and do you remember the gentleman who

talked to us and asked where we lived? We thought he might buy some of

Mummy's pictures."

"Well, you see he didn't," said Jill. "I didn't believe he really

would."

"He had a kind face, though," said Lill, reflectively. "I wonder if he

would have done it if he had known how much Mummy needed the money. He

said he had a little girl named Lilian once. I wonder when she died,

and what was the matter with her."

"That reminds me of something Tessa told me this morning," said Jill.

"You know the American gentleman, who has taken the first-floor

apartment, and who slipped on a piece of orange peel on the sidewalk,

and sprained his knee, the very day after he came here. Well, it's

dreadfully sad about him; his wife and little girl were both drowned

last summer."

"How did Tessa know about it?" Lill inquired, with interest.

"The gentleman told her. You see, after he had his accident he had to

have somebody to do things for him, so the doctor who attended to his

knee sent a man who can talk English, because Mr. Brown--that's the

gentleman's name--can't speak much Italian, and the man told Tessa all

about it."

"It must be dreadfully sad for him to be all alone, especially on

Christmas," said Lill, sympathetically. "I'm afraid he's having a worse

Christmas than we are."

"I'm sure he is," said Jill. "I wish we could do something for him,

don't you?"

"Yes, but I don't see what we could possibly do. We don't even know

him."

"I know we don't, but we might get acquainted. If Mummy were at home,

I'm almost sure she would get acquainted with him; she's always so

sorry for people who are unhappy."

"Do you mean that we might go to see him?" inquired Lill, in growing

astonishment.

"I don't think there would be any harm in our doing it, when he's

living right here in the same house with us. We wouldn't stay long, of

course, only just enough to wish him a Merry Christmas, and we might

take him a little present."

"But perhaps he doesn't want people to come to see him. He might think

we were very queer to do such a thing," objected Lill, who was more

shy, and less quick to make friends than her sister.

"I don't see how he could possibly think it queer. He's an American

just the same as we are, and in America Mummy says people always wish

each other a Merry Christmas. Besides, if we saw he didn't like our

coming, we could go right away again. I think it would be a kind,

neighborly thing to do."

"What sort of a present could we take him if we went?" questioned Lill,

glancing about the shabby little room, as if in the faint hope of

finding some inspiration from the furniture.

"We might take him one of those nice oranges Signor gave us, and a

piece of Signora's cake," suggested Jill, referring to the only two

Christmas presents which had come to the twins on that day.

The suggestion met with Lill's approval, and after a little more

discussion the matter was settled. Ten minutes later the twins were on

their way downstairs, Jill carrying a plate, on which was a large slice

of Signora Paloni's frosted cake, and Lill proudly bearing two oranges.

"We had better take two," she had declared. "There's nothing so good

as fruit to eat when you don't feel well, and if his knee hurts him a

great deal he may be feverish."

"It does seem very queer to go to see somebody you don't know at all,"

Lill said, hesitating, when they had reached the last landing, and were

standing outside Mr. Brown's door.

"We wouldn't do it on any other day but Christmas," said Jill,

resolutely, and without giving her sister time for any further

hesitation, she lifted her hand and knocked.

There was a moment's silence; then some one called "Come in" in

English; Jill turned the handle, and next moment the twins found

themselves in a comfortably furnished sitting-room, with a wood fire

crackling on the hearth.

In an arm-chair, drawn up before the fire, sat the owner of the

apartment, one leg supported on a stool. His back was towards the door,

but at the entrance of the children, he turned his head, and at sight

of his face both twins uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise.

"Why, it's the gentleman who talked to us in the gallery!" cried Jill.

"We didn't know you were Mr. Brown," added Jill, almost dropping the

oranges in her surprise.

The gentleman smiled.

"No, I don't suppose you did," he said. "I haven't seen many people

since I came here. I met with an unfortunate accident a few days ago."

"Yes, we heard about it," said Lill, sympathetically. "I suppose that's

why you didn't--"

She paused abruptly, admonished by a warning nudge from Jill.

"Didn't what?" the gentleman asked. His eyes were fixed earnestly on

Lill, and there was the same softened look in them that the twins had

noticed when he told them that he had once had a little Lilian of his

own.

Lill blushed scarlet, and her eyes drooped.

"I was going to say something," she explained, "but perhaps it wouldn't

be polite."

"Say it. I am not a very polite person myself, so I shall not mind

whether it is or not."

"Well," said Lill, slowly, "it wasn't anything important, only you

know you asked where we lived, and we told you about Mummy's pictures.

We thought perhaps you would come to look at them, but of course you

couldn't on account of your knee."

"That's true; I couldn't, even if I had intended to. This confounded

knee has upset a good many of my plans. But suppose you come in and

shut the door; it's rather chilly."

Lill complied with this request, and Jill hastened to explain the cause

of their visit.

"We didn't come to stay," she said, carefully depositing her plate on

the table. "We only stopped to wish you a Merry Christmas, and to bring

you some cake and oranges. We thought you might like them."

"I do like them very much indeed," said Mr. Brown, and it was wonderful

how kind and pleasant his face became all at once. "It was kind of you

to remember a solitary prisoner. Won't you both sit down?"

The twins promptly seated themselves on the sofa, which was directly

opposite Mr. Brown's arm-chair. They were beginning to enjoy the little

adventure.

"You see we knew you were an American, just like us," said Lill, "Mummy

says in America people always wish each other a Merry Christmas."

"Your mother is away, is she not?"

"Yes, she has gone to Sicily with some young ladies from the school

where she gives drawing lessons. It's the first time she has ever left

us, and it was dreadful to have her go, but she's having a lovely time."

"We had a letter from her this morning," chimed in Jill, giving the

pocket which contained the precious letter an affectionate pat. "She

sent it so we would surely get it on Christmas, and she told us so many

interesting, wonderful things. She was in Palermo when she wrote, but

she was going to Messina. Perhaps you would like to hear the letter;

it's so very interesting."

"I should be very glad to hear it," said Mr. Brown, and his voice

actually sounded almost eager.

Jill was delighted, and promptly produced the letter, which she already

knew almost by heart.

"I'll begin and read the first half, and Lill can finish it," she said,

magnanimously. "We both like to read it so much."

"I see," said Mr. Brown, and he smiled again, in what Lill afterwards

pronounced, "such a nice, understanding way."

So Jill began the letter, in a sweet, clear voice, and when she had

read the first half, she handed it to Lill, who read the rest, with

equal pride and satisfaction. Mr. Brown made no comments, but the twins

felt sure he was listening, and as they went on, his face grew very sad

and tender, and at last he turned it partly away from the light, and

shaded his eyes with his hand.

"Isn't it the most interesting letter you ever heard?" demanded Lill,

proudly, when she had finished the last sentence, and was replacing the

precious document in the envelope.

"It is a charming letter," said Mr. Brown, heartily. "You are very fond

of your mother, are you not?"

"Fond of her!" cried Lill. "I should think we were; we just adore her.

There isn't anybody in the world like Mummy. You can't think how she

works, and what a hard time she has when people won't buy her pictures."

"Tell me about it," said Mr. Brown, and there was something in his

voice that made Lill go on almost in spite of herself. Jill did not

feel at all sure whether Mummy would approve of having her private

affairs revealed to a stranger, and would have stopped her sister if

she could, but Lill had forgotten everything in the world except her

mother's cheerful bravery, and her anxiety that this strange gentleman

with the sad smile and kind eyes, should know and appreciate her. So

she told all about their father's sad death in Rome, of their coming to

Florence, and of all Mummy's struggles and difficulties.

"She never complains or says she's tired," finished Lill, with a break

in her voice, "but we can see the tired look in her eyes, and it makes

us feel as if we wanted to cry."

"Has your mother no friends or relatives who can help her?" Mr. Brown

was looking straight into the fire as he asked the question.

"She has a brother, but he doesn't ever do anything to help her," said

Lill, impulsively.

"Perhaps he doesn't know that she needs help. Does she ever write to

him?"

"I don't believe so, but even if she did, I'm sure he wouldn't help

her, because--"

"I don't think Mummy would like to have us talk about that," said Jill,

who had suddenly grown very red. "I'm afraid we shall have to go now,"

she added, rising. "We only came to wish you a Merry Christmas, and to

bring the cake and oranges."

"Well, you haven't wished me a Merry Christmas yet," said Mr. Brown,

"and I haven't thanked you for your presents. Don't be in a hurry. It's

pretty lonely shut up in this room all day. My man is out, or I would

offer you some tea."

"Mummy doesn't let us drink tea," said Lill, "but we often make it for

her. We will make some for you if you would like to have us."

"I should like it immensely," Mr. Brown assured her. "I have been

longing for a cup of tea for the past half-hour, and I have no idea how

soon my man will be back. I gave him the afternoon off to spend with

his family. I think you will find everything you need in that closet."

For the next ten minutes the twins were very busy. Their housewifely

little souls swelled with pride at this opportunity of displaying their

culinary abilities, and as they made the tea they chattered away to

their new acquaintance, telling all about their plan for learning

to cook a real dinner to surprise Mummy when she came home, and in

their innocent prattle divulging many of the details of their simple

lives. And Mr. Brown listened, almost in silence, and as the children

chattered on, the look of sadness deepened in his eyes.

"And now what can I offer you in the way of refreshments?" he asked,

smiling, as Lill triumphantly brought him a cup of steaming tea, which

he declared to be the very best he had ever tasted. "Suppose we begin

on the cake. It looks delicious."

"No, no, that's all for you," protested Lill. "Signora Paloni made us

a big cake, and we've got plenty more upstairs. Besides, we don't need

anything to eat. We dined with the Palonis, and they had such good

things."

"What did they have?" Mr. Brown inquired with interest, as he sipped

his tea.

"Roast chicken stuffed with chestnuts, and fried potatoes, and

artichokes cooked in cream. And for dessert there was fruit, and the

Palonis had wine."

"Not a very elaborate Christmas dinner, I should say," said Mr. Brown,

laughing. "How about the plum pudding and mince pie?"

"Oh, they don't have those things in Italy," Jill explained. "Mummy has

told us about them, and they must be delicious, but we are very fond of

roast chicken, and we very seldom have it."

Mr. Brown suddenly set down his cup.

"What do you usually have for dinner?" he asked, sharply.

Jill was a little startled at this question, which struck her as

somewhat curious, but Lill answered innocently--

"Oh, we have soup and vegetables and macaroni, and on Sundays we have

salad, and sometimes Mummy makes a pudding. Oh, we have very good

dinners, but of course they are not like the Palonis'."

"Come here," said Mr. Brown, in a voice that was not quite steady,

and he put out his hand and drew Lill to him. "I want to talk to you

a little before you go away. I had a little Lilian of my own last

Christmas, and she was very much like you."

"Yes, I know," said Lill, softly; "you told us in the gallery, and

Tessa, Signora Paloni's maid--told us about the dreadful thing that

happened. We were so sorry. That was one reason why we wanted to come

to see you to-day. We were afraid you might be lonely."

"Lonely!" repeated Mr. Brown, sadly. "Ah, my little girl, I hope you

may never know what loneliness like mine means. It was very good of

you to come to see me, and I appreciate it more than I can express.

You have each brought me a present, and now I want to give you one in

return."

He put his hand into his pocket, from whence he produced a shining gold

piece, which he held out to Lill.

"It's only a trifle," he said, carelessly, "but you can buy something

you want with it."

But to his surprise, Lill drew back, her cheeks crimsoning.

"You are very kind," she said timidly, "but please don't be angry, we

couldn't possibly take it; Mummy wouldn't like to have us."

"Nonsense," began Mr. Brown, impatiently; then checked himself at sight

of the children's embarrassment. "Do you really think your mother would

object to your accepting a little present?" he asked, kindly.

"I'm afraid she would," said Jill, coming to her sister's rescue. "I

am quite sure she wouldn't like to have us take money from some one she

doesn't know."

"Oh, that is the trouble, is it? Well, I think we may be able to get

over that difficulty when your mother comes home, and in the meantime,

you are quite right not to do anything you think she would disapprove.

How old are you, by the way?"

"We were eleven in October," said Jill, feeling much relieved at seeing

Mr. Brown put the gold piece back in his pocket, "but I am much taller

than Lill."

"Yes, Lill is small for her age; she is not any taller than my little

girl, and she was only nine."

"Do I really look so much like her?" inquired Lill, her big, innocent

eyes fixed earnestly on Mr. Brown's face.

"Very much indeed; so much that I sometimes almost fancy--but there,

there, we won't talk about sad things, especially on Christmas. Come

and see me again."

"Yes indeed we will," said Jill, heartily; "we've had a lovely time,

and we're ever so much obliged to you for letting us make the tea."

Lill said nothing, but with a sudden impulse, she slipped her hand

confidingly into Mr. Brown's. For a moment his fingers closed tightly

over the little hand, and then he bent and kissed her on the forehead.

"Good-bye," he said, in a low, unsteady voice. "God bless you, little

Lilian."

"What a very nice gentleman!" exclaimed Jill, as the twins went

upstairs together. "I think he was really very glad to see us. Aren't

you glad we went?"

"Yes," said Lill. "I like him very much, but, oh, Jill, he has such a

sad look in his eyes. I never felt so sorry for any one before. I do

wish we could do something for him that would make him really happy."

For several minutes after the door had closed behind his visitors, Mr.

Brown remained in the same position, staring into the fire with dim,

unseeing eyes. Then suddenly his head sank forward on the table beside

him, with a sigh that was almost a groan.

"God forgive me," he murmured brokenly. "My poor little Kitty! I never

dreamed it had been as bad as this. But I will atone, God helping me, I

will atone."

CHAPTER IV

Signora Paloni was teaching the twins to prepare _gniocchi_, which is

a favorite Italian dish, and tastes something like baked Indian meal

with cheese in it; and it would be difficult to say which of the three,

teacher or pupils, had enjoyed herself the most. It was three days

since Christmas, and that morning's post had brought another letter

from Mummy, containing the joyful news that they might expect her at

home again by the end of the week.

"It hasn't been so very dreadful, after all, has it?" remarked Jill,

as she put the precious letter carefully away in a place of safety. "I

don't believe things are ever as bad as people think they're going to

be." In which sentiment Lill was quite ready to agree.

"It does smell good," exclaimed Lill, surveying the result of their

afternoon's work with pardonable pride. "How I wish Mummy could come in

this very minute, and eat it all for her supper!"

"We'll cook some more the day she comes home, and have it ready for

a surprise," suggested Jill. "I wish we could give some of this to

somebody, though; we never can eat it all ourselves. Do you think

Signor would care for it for his supper?"

Signora Paloni replied that her husband was not fond of _gniocchi_

which he declared always gave him indigestion.

"I'll tell you what we might do," said Lill, with a sudden inspiration.

"Take some down to Mr. Brown. I'm sure he'd like it, and his man could

warm it up for supper."

"May we, Signora?" Jill inquired, a little doubtfully. Signora Paloni

had not altogether approved of their Christmas visit.

"Gentlemen do not like being disturbed in their apartments," she had

said, reprovingly, "and it is not the thing for young ladies to visit

strangers. You must not go there again till your mother returns."

The twins had felt sure that Mr. Brown had not objected to their

visit, and they did not believe Mummy would have objected, but a long

experience had taught them that there was never any use in arguing with

the good Signora, and so the matter had dropped. So it was something

of a surprise to both children when the landlady, instead of positively

refusing to allow them to take the dish to her lodger, only looked a

little troubled, and said doubtfully--

"I do not know what your mother would say to it, but I can see no harm,

provided you only take the plate to the door, and come away at once. He

seems a kind gentleman, and he is a countryman of yours."

"Of course he is," said Jill, "and you can't think how kind he was, and

how much he seemed to enjoy our tea."

"I think he is interested in you, for Tessa tells me he asks many

questions about you," said Signora Paloni, putting some of the

_gniocchi_ into a plate. "We will cover it with a napkin to keep it

warm. Which of you will take it to the gentleman's apartment?"

"You go, Lill," said Jill. "I think he likes you best on account of

your name."

"Be sure to return at once," were Signora Paloni's parting words, as

Lill left the room with her offering. To this Lill replied that she

wouldn't be gone five minutes.

As far as appearances went, Mr. Brown might not have moved since the

twins left him three days before, for Lill found him in precisely the

same position before the fire, his injured leg supported on a stool. He

was not alone this time, for his attendant, a pleasant-faced man with

gray hair, opened the door in answer to Lill's knock, and courteously

requested her to enter. Lill hesitated, mindful of Signora Paloni's

injunctions, and was just about to leave her plate with the man, when

Mr. Brown called out to know who was there.

"It's I, Lill Dinsmore," said Lill, stepping forward.

Mr. Brown threw down the book he had been reading, and held out his

hand.

"I'm glad to see you," he said. "I was beginning to think you'd

forgotten your promise to come again. What have you been doing all this

time?"

"We would have liked to come sooner," said Lill, relinquishing her

plate to the attendant, and slipping her hand confidingly into Mr.

Brown's. "We wanted to come yesterday, but Signora Paloni was afraid we

might bother you."

"Well, you can tell Signora Paloni that she doesn't know anything about

it. You don't bother me in the least, and I want you to come whenever

you choose."

"You're very kind," said Lill, flushing with pleasure. "I'll tell her,

and I'm sure she won't mind our coming when she knows you want us. I

can only stay a minute now, though, because Signora is giving us a

cooking lesson. I came to bring you something we made this afternoon,

that we thought you might like for your supper."

"I am sure I shall, but I wish you were going to stay and help me eat

it, for I should like that even better. It isn't exciting spending day

after day shut up in the house by one's self."

"It must be perfectly horrid," Lill agreed, sympathetically. "I hope

your knee is better."

"Oh, it's getting on as well as can be expected. The doctor was here

this morning, and he says I shall be about again in another week. Any

more letters from Sicily, eh?"

"We had one this morning," said Lill, her face brightening at the

recollection. "Mummy's having a lovely time, but the best news of all

is, she expects to get home on Saturday. That's why we're so anxious

about the cooking lessons. We want to take all we possibly can before

she comes, so as to be able to surprise her. I'm afraid I must be going

now, but I'll ask Signora to let us both come again to-morrow."

"Wait one moment; I want to ask you a question. It's about an uncle of

yours. I think you mentioned an uncle the other day, and I have an

idea I know something about him. Would you mind telling me his name?"

Lill's whole expression changed instantly, and she drew herself up with

an air of haughtiness, which might have amused some people, but which

did not appear to strike Mr. Brown as funny.

"His name is Mr. George Brooks," she said, "but if you don't mind, I'd

rather not talk about him. Jill thinks Mummy wouldn't like to have us."

"Doesn't Mummy ever talk about him herself?"

"Yes, sometimes, but it always makes her sad, and we don't like to have

her do it. You see, he's her only brother, and she used to love him

very much. Of course it must make her sad to think of him now; he's

such a wicked man."

"Did she tell you he was a wicked man?" Mr. Brown asked the question

rather sharply.

"Oh, no," said Lill, eagerly. "She wouldn't tell us for the world. She

always says kind things about Uncle George; she doesn't even know we

have any idea how wicked he is."

"How did you find it out?" There was no evading the direct question, or

the keen, searching glance that accompanied it, and although Lill was

beginning to feel decidedly uncomfortable, she felt impelled to answer.

"We heard an American lady talking about him in the gallery one day,"

she said, reluctantly. "She used to know Mummy a long time ago in New

York, and she was talking to another lady. She didn't know we heard

what she said, and we never liked to speak to Mummy about it."

"What did she say about your uncle? I have a reason for asking, for if

he is the George Brooks I know, I happen to have heard something about

him, too."

Lill's eyes flashed. For the moment she had quite forgotten Jill's

warning. She remembered nothing but the one dreadful fact, that

somebody had once been unkind to Mummy.

"She said Mummy used to live with her brother in New York, and he had

a great deal of money, but Mummy only had what he gave her, because

her father had made a queer will, and left everything to his only son.

Mummy wanted to go to Italy and study art, but her brother wouldn't let

her, because he was selfish, and wanted her to stay and keep house for

him. Mummy was very sweet about it, and gave it all up to please him,

but afterwards, when she wanted to marry father, Uncle George was very

angry. He told her if she did it he would never speak to her again, or

let her have any of his money. Of course Mummy married father, because

she loved him better than any one else in the world, and afterwards

when they were very poor, and father was ill, she wrote to Uncle

George, begging him to send them just a little money, but he sent back

her letter without reading it. That lady was in Rome when father died,

and Mummy said she and her husband were very kind to us, but she's paid

back all their money now, and she's so glad, because it made her very

unhappy to owe anybody money. But Uncle George was her own brother; he

ought to have helped her."

"Perhaps he never received the letter--perhaps he was away at the time,

and it was returned without his knowledge." Mr. Brown spoke quietly,

but there was a look of suffering in his eyes, which Lill was too

indignant and excited to notice.

"I don't believe it," she declared stoutly. "He was a very wicked man.

If he hadn't been he would never have told Mummy he wouldn't speak to

her if she married father. Just wait till you see how sweet and dear

she is, and then you'll know nobody but a wicked man could be unkind

to her. Oh, I hate Uncle George--I hate him! I hope I shall never have

to see him as long as I live."

Lill paused abruptly, rather ashamed of her vehemence, and struck by

something strange in the expression with which Mr. Brown was regarding

her. She blushed crimson, and turned away in sudden embarrassment.

"I'm afraid I'll have to go now," she said, uneasily. "Signora and Jill

won't know what has become of me. Good-bye; I hope you'll like our

_gniocchi_."

"Good-bye," said Mr. Brown, in a grave, quiet voice, but he did not say

he was sure he should enjoy the _gniocchi_, nor anything more about her

coming again.

Lill was feeling decidedly uncomfortable as she closed Mr. Brown's door

behind her, and started on her way upstairs.

"I wish I hadn't talked about Uncle George," she said to herself. "I

wonder what made me do it. He did ask me, but I needn't have told him

everything. Perhaps Uncle George is a friend of his, and it made him

unhappy to hear such dreadful things about him. I don't believe I'd

better tell Jill." Lill winked back a tear, for she was not accustomed

to keeping things from her twin and she did not like the idea.

At the top of the second flight she met Jill coming down, with her hat

on.

"Where in the world are you going?" Lill inquired in surprise.

"Only to the fruit stall at the corner, for some chestnuts. Signora is

going to show us how to do something with them. You were gone so long

we didn't know what had become of you. Did he like the _gniocchi_?"

"Yes--at least I think he did. He wants us to come to see him again. He

says to tell Signora we don't bother him at all."

"That's nice; did you say we'd come?"

"I said we would if she'd let us, and I hope she will, for I think he's

very lonely."

"Oh, I'm sure she will when she knows he wants us," said cheerful Jill,

and she tripped away on her errand, leaving Lill to go back to Signora

Paloni and the cooking lesson.

It was a glorious winter's afternoon, and as Jill stepped out into the

bright sunshine, and felt the crisp, frosty air in her face, she drew

in a long, deep breath of enjoyment.

"How good it feels to be out of doors!" she said to herself, as she

hurried along the quiet little street. "I shall be glad when Mummy

comes home, and we can have some walks again."

Signora Paloni was not much of a walker, and as she did not approve of

the twins going further than the corner of the street by themselves,

they had naturally been confined to the house more than they liked

since Mummy went away. She had taken them to market once or twice, and

on Sunday they had gone again to high mass at The Duomo, and afterwards

walked across the _Ponte Vecchio_--the long bridge over the Arno, which

is lined with gay shops--but when Mummy was at home, she generally

tried to give the children some exercise on pleasant days, and there

were few parts of the beautiful old city in which they could not have

found their way. Sometimes they would even walk as far as San Miniato,

and looking down from the height, would watch the sun set over the

city, coming home tired and hungry, but all the better for their long

walk.

It was too pleasant to hurry, and so, after the first few yards, Jill

slackened her pace to a leisurely walk.

"I wish it was a little further," she reflected regretfully. "If I

crawled every step of the way, I couldn't make it last more than ten

minutes. Why, what in the world are all those people looking at?"

Instinctively she quickened her steps, anxious to learn the reason why

a crowd of people should be gathered in front of the little fruit and

vegetable stall, from which Mummy and Signora Paloni procured most of

their simple wants. The crowd consisted of both men and women, and they

were all talking and gesticulating in a most excited manner. As she

drew nearer Jill saw that one of the men had an open newspaper, from

which he appeared to be reading aloud, and that several women were

crying and wringing their hands. Jill's heart began to beat very fast,

and almost without knowing it, she started on a run.

"What has happened?" she demanded eagerly of the first person she met,

a boy with a parcel under his arm.

The boy shouted something about "the earthquake," and ran on without

stopping.

"What earthquake--where is it?" cried Jill, but the boy was already

half way down the street, and did not seem to hear.

In two minutes she had reached the corner, and pushed her way through

the excited, chattering crowd to the door of the little shop.

The shop-keeper--a rosy-cheeked young woman, who had known the twins

for years--was crying, with her apron before her face. Jill went up to

her, and touched her on the arm.

"What's the matter?" she asked, tremulously. "Has there really been an

earthquake, and where was it?"

[Illustration: "HAS THERE REALLY BEEN AN EARTHQUAKE, AND WHERE WAS

IT?"]

"Oh, Signorina," cried the woman, with a fresh burst of tears, "it is

too terrible--too terrible! There has been a dreadful earthquake in

Sicily, and--"

"Sicily!" shrieked Jill, all the color going out of her face. "Oh, no,

it isn't Sicily, it can't be! Please say it isn't, quick!"

"Yes, Sicily," repeated the woman, mournfully, and another bystander,

anxious to impart the thrilling news, chimed in. "They say it is the

worst earthquake ever known in Italy. The whole country is devastated,

the town of Messina is in ruins, and every man, woman and child in the

place is dead."

For one awful moment everything grew black before Jill's eyes, and the

figures and the faces seemed to fade away into dim distance. Then,

with a quick, gasping sob of terror, she turned, and ran with flying

feet back in the direction of home. It was not true, of course, she

told herself, such a horrible thing could not be true; it was all some

dreadful mistake! But she could not stay there, and listen to those

cruel people. She must get back to Signora Paloni and Lill; they would

take care of her, and convince her she had not heard the words aright.

Sicily, Messina! every one dead! No, no, it was not true, of course,

but, oh, to be at home! To have somebody tell her it was all a mistake!

Mr. Brown was still sitting where Lill had left him, staring moodily

into the fire, when the door opened, and his man--who had gone out for

a few minutes--came in with a newspaper in his hand.

"Shut the door, Fratini," said Mr. Brown, irritably; "I don't like that

draught. Why, man alive, what on earth is the matter? You look as if

you had seen a ghost."

But Fratini did not answer. Neither did he close the door. On the

contrary, he stood leaning against it, as if for support. His face was

very white, and he was trembling violently. Mr. Brown repeated his

question.

"In Heaven's name, what is the matter with you?" In his astonishment he

half rose from his chair, but sank back again, admonished by a sharp

twinge of pain in his knee.

"Oh, Signor," faltered Fratini, in his broken English, "I do beg ten

thousand pardons, but this terrible news--"

"What terrible news? Speak out, can't you? And don't stand there

staring like an idiot."

"The terrible earthquake in Sicily--the Signor has not heard? Thousands

of people have perished, they say, and the whole town of Messina--"

"Earthquake in Messina! What nonsense are you talking? Here, give me

that paper, and let me see for myself. Confound it, the thing's in

Italian!"

"Go and get me an English newspaper as quick as you can, or stay, wait

a minute; read me what this one says. You can translate as you go

along."

Fratini began to read, pausing at the end of every sentence to

translate it into English, and in his horror and excitement, making

even more mistakes than usual. But even in Fratini's broken English

the account was terrible enough to drive the color from Mr. Brown's

face as he listened; A look of horror came into his eyes, and several

times he made an effort to spring out of his seat, only to sink back

again, with a scarcely suppressed groan of pain. In the excitement of

the moment, Fratini had forgotten to close the door, and he was in the

midst of the most frightful details when a slight sound behind them

caused both men to turn, and there, standing in the doorway, supporting

herself against the wall, stood Jill, her face like marble, her eyes

filled by a great, nameless terror.

With an exclamation of dismay, Fratini dropped the paper, and hurried

forward.

"Signorina," he cried pityingly, "Oh the pauvera Signorina!"

But Jill did not seem to hear him. There was something in Mr. Brown's

face which terrified her more even than the dreadful news in the street

had done. Twice she moved her lips, in a vain effort to speak, and then

with a low cry, she darted forward, and almost fell at Mr. Brown's feet.

"Oh, it isn't true--say it isn't true!" she cried, despairingly. "Oh,

Mummy, Mummy!" And she broke into a wild paroxysm of sobs.

Mr. Brown raised her gently, and drew her down on the arm of his chair.

With a great effort, he controlled his own agitation sufficiently to

speak calmly.

"My poor little girl," he said, soothingly, "I am so sorry you have

heard this distressing story, but you must not let it trouble you

so much, indeed you must not. Such things are always frightfully

exaggerated at first."

"Then you don't think it's true?" cried Jill, catching eagerly at the

first ray of hope. "The people in the street said it was true, but it

can't be--it's too terrible."

"I think the report is doubtless greatly exaggerated," said Mr. Brown,

gently. "How much truth there may be in it I cannot tell. We must try

to wait patiently for more details."

"They said it was Messina," faltered Jill; "Mummy is in Messina."

Mr. Brown said nothing, but the look of suffering deepened on his face,

and he drew Jill a little closer, as if to shield her from something.

There was a pause. Fratini had picked up the paper, but he made no

effort to go on reading, and stood looking at Jill, with a great pity

in his eyes. At last Jill spoke, in a low, trembling little voice.

"I don't know what to do about Lill," she said. "Do you think we'll

have to tell her?"

"I am afraid it would be difficult to keep from her the news that there

has been an earthquake in Sicily, but we can make as light of it as

possible. Why do you object to her knowing?"

"It's on account of her heart," said Jill, with a sob. "It isn't very

strong, and the doctor told Mummy she must never be frightened or

worried about things. She is much better than she used to be, but Mummy

told me she shouldn't like Lill ever to have a shock of any kind."

Mr. Brown looked very grave.

"Do you think you can manage to break the news to her so it won't be a

great shock?" he asked, anxiously.

Jill was silent for a moment while her whole body shook with sobs. Mr.

Brown drew the little girl very close, and gently stroked her hair.

"Poor little Jill," he murmured softly, "poor little Jill!"

Then, with a mighty effort, Jill stifled her sobs, and slipped an icy

little hand into his.

"I'll try," she said steadily; "I won't let Lill be any more frightened

than I can possibly help."

Mr. Brown bent and kissed her.

"That's my brave little girl," he said huskily. "Now run upstairs

before Lill has a chance of hearing the news in any other way, and tell

Signora Paloni I want to speak to her at once."

Signora Paloni and Lill were growing decidedly impatient.

"What can be detaining her so long?" fumed the signora. "It is wrong of

her to linger so. I would never have let her go if I had thought she

would stay so long."

"It's a beautiful afternoon," said Lill, apologetically, "and we

haven't either of us been out all day. Please don't be cross, Signora;

I'm sure she'll be back in a few minutes."

"I do not wish to be cross, but I have work to do, and do not choose

to wait about all the afternoon for a naughty little girl who loiters

when sent on an errand. It will soon be time to go and see about my

husband's dinner."

"Here she is," exclaimed Lill, in a tone of relief, as the door opened.

"Why, Jill, what has kept you so long?"

Jill was very pale, and her lips twitched nervously, but her voice was

calm as she answered quietly--

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting, but I couldn't help it. I stopped to

speak to Mr. Brown. Signora, Mr. Brown wants to see you at once,

please."

"Now, what in the world can he want with me at this hour?" grumbled the

Signora as she left the room. "I will be back directly, children, and

in the meantime you can be opening the chestnuts."

"Why, where are the chestnuts?" inquired Lill, regarding her sister in

astonishment. "Jill, I do believe you never got them after all."

Jill made an effort to smile, but only succeeded in checking a rising

sob.

"I forgot all about the chestnuts," she said. "A boy said something

that frightened me, and I ran all the way home, but Mr. Brown says it's

nothing to be frightened about."

"What was it?" inquired Lill, looking a little worried.

Jill turned away abruptly, and went to the closet to hang up her jacket.

"Why," she said in a voice that surprised herself by its calmness,

"they say there was a little earthquake somewhere in Sicily. I don't

suppose it was very bad, but when I heard people say earthquake and

Sicily, of course I thought of Mummy, and I ran right home without

stopping to get the chestnuts. I stopped in Mr. Brown's room to tell

him about it, and he says it's probably dreadfully exaggerated. Now,

Lill dear, don't begin to cry like that. It's so silly when we don't

even know there really was any earthquake at all."

"But if there really was one," sobbed Lill, "and if Mummy was in it,

she must have been so dreadfully frightened. I don't like to think of

Mummy's being frightened when she went away to have a good time."

But though Lill cried, Jill saw, with a sensation of intense relief,

there were no signs of the blue lines about her lips, which she knew

her mother always dreaded to see. At least Lill had been spared the

shock of hearing the terrible news as she herself had heard it.

"How glad I am Signora sent me for the chestnuts instead of her!" she

said to herself. And then, with a sudden irresistible longing for love

and sympathy, she threw her arms round her sister's neck and hugged

her.

CHAPTER V

"Are you awake, Jill?"

"Yes," said Jill, lifting her head from the pillow with a start, and

speaking in a rather choked voice.

Lill sighed.

"I can't get to sleep," she said, mournfully, "I'm trying hard, because

I promised Mr. Brown, but it isn't any use. Do you suppose they've

heard anything since we went to bed?"

"I'm sure they haven't," said Jill, with decision. "Signora promised

to come and tell us the minute the telegram came. I do wish you would

go to sleep, Lill. I'm so afraid you will be ill if you don't, and it

would be dreadful to have you ill when Mummy comes home."

Lill began to cry softly.

"Oh, Jill, do you think she ever will come home?" she sobbed. "It's all

so dreadful, and I'm so frightened."

"Of course she will," said Jill, in a voice that sounded almost angry

in her effort not to break into a sob. "You know what Mr. Brown said

about all the telegraph wires being down. It must make Mummy dreadfully

unhappy not to be able to send us any news, but she'll come home the

very first minute she can."

"But so many people were killed," faltered Lill. "How do you know that

Mummy--"

"God wouldn't be so cruel as to let anything terrible happen to our

precious Mummy," Jill interrupted sharply. "She's all we have in the

world."

"God let father die," said Lill, mournfully, "and He let Uncle George

be unkind to Mummy. Jill, do you suppose Uncle George would be sorry if

he knew about her being in Sicily?"

"Of course he would," said Jill, with decision. "She's his own sister,

and he used to love her very much when she was a little girl."

"I wish he did know," cried Lill, with sudden vehemence. "I wish

something dreadful would happen to him--something that would make him

just as miserable and unhappy as we are now. Oh, Mummy, Mummy! To think

of any one's ever being unkind to you!" And Lill burst into wild,

uncontrollable sobs.

Three days had passed since the first news of the terrible earthquake

had reached Florence; three long, terrible, interminable days. Every

hour the news of the awful catastrophe grew more and more alarming. All

over the civilized world newspapers were ringing with the frightful

details, and in Italy people seemed almost paralyzed by the shock.

Already the king had started for the scene of the calamity, and the

brave young queen had accompanied him, ready and anxious to offer her

personal assistance to the wounded and the homeless. At the Palonis'

the news had been at first received with incredulous amazement, then

with ever-increasing horror and belief. Signora Paloni cried all day

long, and went to the Duomo to pray whenever she could leave the house,

and her husband went about with a look on his jolly, good-humored face

that no one had ever seen there before. It had not been possible to

keep Lill long in ignorance of at least some of the terrible details.

Jill had saved her the first great shock, but grief and anxiety were

rapidly telling on her never strong constitution, and Signora Paloni

and Jill watched her in hourly increasing terror. There was only one

person in the house who appeared to have any influence over the poor

child, and that person, strange to say, was the lodger, Mr. Brown. Lill

had only known Mr. Brown for a few days, but she had taken an odd

fancy to him from the first, and now as the terrible days dragged on,

bringing no news from the absent mother, she grew to lean upon him, and

cling to him in a kind of despair, as if he, of all the world, were the

only one who could help them in their awful anxiety.

"I don't know what makes me feel that way about him," she told Jill,

when her sister questioned her on the subject, "but he seems so strong,

and--and I feel almost sure he is just as unhappy as we are."

"But he can't be," reasoned Jill. "He never even saw Mummy. He's sorry

for us, of course--everybody is sorry--and it was lovely of him to send

Fratini to Sicily to try to find out something, but he can't possibly

care as much as Signora or Miss Dexter."

But Lill was not convinced.

"I don't know why he cares, but I'm sure he does," she maintained, and

Jill, feeling it useless to argue the subject any further, was silent.

And now it was the last night of the old year. In two hours more the

new year would begin--a sad new year for many in Italy, whose friends

or relatives had perished in the terrible earthquake. The twins had

almost forgotten that it was New Year's Eve, but as Jill lay listening

to her sister's sobs, trying hard to keep her own grief from having its

way, she suddenly remembered, and the recollection added a new pang to

her sorrow.

"Lill dear," she said, softly, "do you remember what night it is?"

"No," said Lill, drearily.

"It's New Year's Eve; don't you remember what a good time we had last

year?"

"Yes, I do. Mummy let us sit up to see the old year out, and we made

taffy, and she read Dickens' 'Christmas Carol' to us."

"Yes, and we made good resolutions for the new year. Don't you think

Mummy would be pleased if we made some good resolutions to-night? We

could tell her about them when she comes home."

But Lill was not comforted; her sobs were becoming more and more

violent every moment. Jill was at her wits' end. The night before

Lill had cried herself into a state of hysteria, which had frightened

Signora Paloni very much. At the request of Mr. Brown, a doctor had

been summoned, who had given the child a powder to quiet her nerves,

and gone away looking rather grave.

"Lill dear, don't cry so, please don't," pleaded Jill, clasping her

hands in despair. "You'll be ill, and then Mummy will be so worried

and unhappy. Don't you want to be happy when she comes back from that

dreadful Sicily?"

"She isn't coming back--she'll never come back!" wailed Lill. "She's

dead, I know she's dead! Oh, Mummy, Mummy!"

Jill sprang out of bed; she was almost beside herself with terror and

distress.

"You've got to stop that, Lill," she cried; "I tell you you've got to!

I'm going down to call Signora."

"No, don't, don't, please don't! First she'll scold, and then she'll

cry and wring her hands, the way she always does. She isn't any use. I

want somebody strong, who doesn't cry and make a fuss--somebody like

Mr. Brown."

"Very well, let's go down to Mr. Brown then," said Jill, desperately.

"It's only just ten; I don't believe he's gone to bed yet. I'll get

your clothes. Never mind about putting everything on; your wrapper and

slippers will be enough. We'll only stay a few minutes, and when we

come back you'll go right to sleep, won't you?"

"I'll try," promised Lill, humbly. "But won't Signora be very angry if

we go down to Mr. Brown?"

"I can't help it if she is," said Jill, thrusting her sister's arms

into her wrapper sleeves, for Lill seemed almost too weak and dazed to

do anything for herself. "I only know I can't let you go on crying this

way, and if you think Mr. Brown can make you stop, why, we've got to go

and see him, that's all."

Mr. Brown was alone in his sitting-room. He had been there for hours,

scarcely moving, and always gazing into the fire with dim, unseeing

eyes. His knee was better, but he was still confined to his room, and

the awful inaction of the past three days had caused him to look years

older than when the twins had made him their first visit on Christmas

afternoon. Twice he had risen, startled by some fancied sound in the

street, and limping painfully to the window, had thrown it open, and

leaned out listening. But everything was quiet, and in a few moments

he had closed his window again, and gone back to his seat by the fire.

Tessa, who now attended to all the lodger's wants, had brought him his

supper, but he had bidden her take it away again, intimating by signs

that he was not hungry, and wished to be left alone.

A distant church clock struck ten. Mr. Brown counted the stroke and

heaved a deep sigh. Another day gone, and still no news--no lessening

of this awful suspense. A few minutes later there was a timid knock

at the door, the handle was gently turned, and Mr. Brown turned in

astonishment to see two little figures dressed just alike in blue

flannel wrappers, with pig-tails hanging down their backs, come into

the room.

Lill ran to him, with a sob, and without uttering a word, he gathered

the trembling child in his arms.

"I had to bring her," Jill explained apologetically. "She wouldn't go

to sleep, and I was afraid she would cry herself ill again. She said

she wanted somebody strong like you."

"May we stay a little while?" whispered Lill, letting her head rest

wearily on her friend's shoulder. "You are so big and strong; I don't

feel half so frightened when I am with you."

"You may stay just as long as you like," Mr. Brown said, his arms

tightening about the little figure as he spoke. "Poor little Lill; it

is very hard to be patient, isn't it?"

"Oh, so hard!" answered Lill, with a catch in her voice. "I wish I

could be brave like Jill, but I get so terribly frightened when I

think about the earthquake, and that Mummy may never come home." A

shivering sob finished the sentence.

Mr. Brown said nothing, but held the little girl close in his strong

arms, and in a little while the nervous trembling began to subside,

and at last ceased altogether. Jill--who had been watching her sister

anxiously--looked relieved, and Mr. Brown smiled at her reassuringly,

and held out his hand.

"Come here, Jill," he said, and Jill came and knelt on the hearth rug,

and Mr. Brown stroked her hair gently. They were all silent for a few

minutes; then Lill spoke.

"I feel ever so much better," she said, softly. "I wonder why you

always make me feel better. You never cry or make a fuss like Signora.

Jill says you can't possibly care about Mummy, because you've never

seen her, but I'm sure you do care very much."

"Indeed I do, little girl; I care far more than you dream. This is a

terrible time for us all, but we must try to be patient and hope for

the best. We ought surely to have some word from Fratini to-morrow."

"And from Mummy, too," said Jill. "I know Mummy will send us some news

just as soon as she possibly can. She knows how worried we are."

"I am quite sure she will," said Mr. Brown in a tone of forced

cheerfulness, and then they were all silent again until Lill remarked

wonderingly--

"I've been trying to think why you should care about Mummy when you've

never seen her. I suppose it must be because you're sorry for us. You

must have been very unhappy when your little Lilian was drowned, and

that makes you more sorry for other unhappy people."

Jill looked uncomfortable, and gave her sister a warning glance, but

Lill went on without heeding it.

"You must have loved your little Lilian very much, or you wouldn't have

liked me right away, just because my name happened to be Lilian, too."

"I did indeed," said Mr. Brown in a very low voice.

"And when you heard about her being drowned, it must have been just as

much of a shock as it was to Jill when she heard about the earthquake.

Do you like talking about Lilian?"

"I have not talked to many people about her, but I should not mind

talking to you if you would care to hear."

Lill was much impressed, and Jill laid a kind little hand on Mr.

Brown's knee.

"Was she pretty?" she asked softly.

"We thought her very pretty. She had big blue eyes, and long yellow

curls, and she was a bright little girl for her age. Her mother and I

were very proud of her."

"Her mother," repeated Jill, with a sudden recollection. "Oh, I

remember; her mother was drowned, too."

Lill felt the arms that held her tremble slightly, but Mr. Brown's

voice was quite calm when he answered, though the look of suffering had

deepened on his face.

"It was a bathing accident," he said. "We had a cottage at the

seashore, not far from New York. I was obliged to go to town every day,

to attend to business, and my wife and little girl used to drive me to

the station. They drove me as usual that last morning, and Lilian asked

me to bring her home a particular story-book she wanted. I promised

to get the book if I did not forget, and as the train was moving out

of the station, I heard her little voice calling to me from the pony

carriage; 'Don't forget, Daddy, be sure you don't forget.' I turned

for one last look, and they both smiled and nodded to me. Lilian kissed

her hand. I never saw either my wife or my little girl again."

"Oh!" gasped Lill, and she suddenly drew Mr. Brown's face down and

kissed him.

"I think we know now why you are so sorry for us," said Jill, softly.

"Would you mind telling us what happened?"

"They went bathing in the surf as they had often done before. My wife

was a good swimmer, and she had taught Lilian to swim a little, too.

They were both very fond of it. The sea was high that day, and there

was a strong undertow. Nobody knows just what happened, but they think

Lilian swam out too far, and her mother tried to save her. They were

both drowned before help came."

"How terrible!" said Jill in a shocked voice. "I shouldn't think you

would ever want to see the sea again. I wish we could do something for

you to show how sorry we are."

"You are showing me that without doing anything at all," said Mr.

Brown, kindly. "There, there, Lill, don't cry so; I shall be sorry I

told you about my little girl if it makes you so unhappy."

"Oh, it isn't that," said Lill, choking back her sobs. "It was good of

you to tell us, and I loved hearing it, only--only there are so many

unhappy people in the world."

"But there are a great many happy people in the world as well as

unhappy ones," said Mr. Brown, soothingly. "Why think so much about the

sad things?"

"Do you really think there are?" asked Lill, somewhat comforted by

this assurance. "Everybody seems so unhappy here now. I said something

wicked to Jill upstairs, and I wish I hadn't--oh, I do wish I hadn't!"

"What did you say?" Mr. Brown inquired, with a faint smile.

"It was about Uncle George. I said I wished he knew about Mummy's being

in Sicily, and that it would make him very unhappy. I thought I wanted

him to be unhappy, because he was once unkind to Mummy, but it was a

wicked thing to say. I don't really want any one in the world to be

unhappy, not even Uncle George."

"Not even Uncle George," repeated Mr. Brown sadly. "Don't you think

that you may be just a little hard on this uncle of yours? You may not

know all the circumstances."

"I know he was unkind to Mummy," said Lill, and there was a suspicion

of the old obstinacy in her tone.

"But suppose your uncle never received the letter your mother wrote

him asking for help? Suppose he had no idea that she was poor and in

trouble--did not even know her husband was dead. Would you hate him

quite so much if you knew that?"

"No, I don't suppose I should," Lill admitted. "If he never got Mummy's

letter, and didn't know about father--but then he was very unkind to

Mummy before."

"He may have been very sorry for that. I happen to know George Brooks

very well, and I am sure he never received that last letter."

"Oh," cried Jill, her face lighting up with sudden hope, "do you think

he would help Mummy now if he knew how poor she was, and how hard she

worked?"

"I know he would. I know he would gladly share everything he has in the

world with her, if only for the sake of gaining her forgiveness. He

would have tried to find her long ago, but they were both very proud,

and they had quarrelled. He was afraid she might not care to see him."

"But she would, I know she would!" cried Jill, eagerly. "She used to

love him very dearly. She often talks to us about the time when she was

a little girl and she and Uncle George were everything to each other,

just as Lill and I are now. It makes her sad to talk about it, but she

likes to just the same. Is Uncle George a--a nice man?"

"He has been a hard man, I am afraid," said Mr. Brown, with a sigh,

"but a great sorrow has come into his life, and I think he is less hard

now than he used to be. What's the matter, Lill?"

"I'm sorry I said I hated Uncle George," said Lill, remorsefully,

burying her face on Mr. Brown's shoulder. "It was unkind, and I don't

like to be unkind."

"Never mind, little girl; don't think about it any more. Your uncle

won't bear you any malice, you may be sure of that. He has far too

many unkind acts of his own to account for without blaming a little

girl, who only hated him because she thought he had been unkind to her

mother."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," exclaimed Jill, with a sudden

inspiration. "It's New Year's Eve, and we always make good resolutions

for the new year. Let's resolve never to judge people until we are

perfectly sure we know all about them."

"But you won't need to make that resolution," said Lill, loyally,

"because you never do say unkind things about anybody--not even about

Uncle George."

"Oh, well, perhaps I think them just the same," said Jill, blushing.

"Let's make the resolution anyway. It will seem more like New Year's

Eve if we make resolutions. Shall you write to Uncle George about

Mummy, Mr. Brown?"

"I shall certainly speak to your mother on the subject as soon as she

comes home," said Mr. Brown, and then they were all silent again, for

the same dreadful thought was in all their minds; suppose Mummy never

came home. At last Jill rose reluctantly.

"I think we had better go now, Lill," she said. "It's getting late, and

Mr. Brown will want to go to bed."

"I am in no hurry," said Mr. Brown, and he looked almost as if he would

be sorry to have them go. "Stay as long as you like."

But Jill still looked doubtful.

"I'm afraid Signora Paloni wouldn't like to have us stay any longer,"

she said. "She always comes up to see us before she goes to bed, and if

she doesn't find us she will be frightened."

"Bother Signora Paloni!" said Mr. Brown, impatiently. "We will hear her

when she comes up, and I will explain matters to her. We'll see the old

year out and the new one in--that is if you don't get sleepy in the

meantime."

So the children stayed, and when Signora Paloni came up a little

later, Mr. Brown called her in, and made her understand in his halting

Italian, that he wished to keep the twins with him a little longer.

And, somewhat to Jill's surprise, the Signora--whose eyes were red

from crying--made no objection, but merely nodded her head, and crept

quietly away again. It was very still for a long time after that. Lill

fell into a doze, with her head on Mr. Brown's shoulder, but Jill sat

with wide-open eyes, gazing into the fire, and pondering many things.

At last the stillness was broken by the sound of wheels in the quiet

street. Lill was wide awake in a moment.

"What is it?" she demanded, sitting up, and staring about the strange

room in a bewildered way.

"Only a carriage passing," said Mr. Brown.

"It's stopping here," cried Jill, and she was on her feet and half way

to the door before she had finished her sentence. Lill tried to rise,

too, but she trembled so much that Mr. Brown put his arm round her,

saying reassuringly--

"It is nothing, dear, nothing; probably the carriage has stopped next

door."

A loud ring at the door-bell cut him short, and next moment Lill

had darted away into the hall, after Jill, who was already half way

downstairs. Mr. Brown grew very pale, and sank back in his chair.

"It is Fratini's telegram," he murmured. "Thank God for any news;

anything is better than this frightful suspense."

But it was not Fratini's telegram. Jill had the door open before the

Palonis could reach it, and then there was a wild, joyful cry of

"Mummy! Mummy!" and after that nothing but a confused hubbub, in which

everybody seemed to be talking, and crying, and kissing all at once.

It was nearly half an hour later when Mummy and the twins came upstairs

together. Mummy was very tired--almost exhausted, in fact--but her

eyes were shining with the light of a great thankfulness, and she had

an arm round each little girl. She had not been at Messina, owing to

the slight illness of one of the girls she was chaperoning, which had

detained the party at Palermo longer than they had originally intended,

but they had been through enough trying and painful experiences to give

them the horrors whenever they recalled that time for years to come. It

had not been possible to telegraph the news of their safety to anxious

friends at home, as all the lines were down, but they had left Sicily

on the first available boat, and hurried back to Florence as fast as

the Naples express could bring them.

Outside Mr. Brown's door the twins paused.

"Let's go in and speak to him," said Jill. "He'll be so interested to

hear all about it. He has been so good to us, Mummy dear; he even sent

his man all the way to Sicily to try to find you."

"Indeed I want to thank him," said Mummy, eagerly, and in her quick,

impulsive way, she hurried through the open door, straight into Mr.

Brown's sitting-room.

"It's Mummy!" cried Lill, joyfully, running to her friend's side.

"She wasn't in that dreadful Messina at all, only in Palermo, and the

earthquake wasn't nearly so bad there. Oh, isn't it glorious to have

her back again, and in time for the new year, too?"

"I want to thank you for your great kindness to my little girls," began

Mummy, then stopped short, and stood staring in blank astonishment at

Mr. Brown, while all the color went out of her face.

"Kitty," he said, in a low, unsteady voice, "thank God you are safe. It

has been a terrible time of suspense for us all."

"George!" gasped Mummy, her face lighting up with a new and sudden joy,

"oh, George dear, this is the best of all, but I never knew--I never

dreamed--"

"Of course you didn't," said Mr. Brown, smiling, though there were

tears in his eyes. "These little people didn't dream either, but we

have settled several things to-night; among others that it isn't

wise to judge people until we know all the circumstances in the case.

I came to Florence three weeks ago, and in a chance meeting with these

two little girls learned some things I had never known before. I

engaged this apartment, under an assumed name, and moved in here a few

days later. I wanted to see for myself how things were with you, and

feared to come forward openly at first, in case the old pride should

stand in the way of your telling me all I wanted to know. Unfortunately

I met with an accident the very day after my arrival, which delayed

matters considerably, and the next news I heard was that you had gone

to Sicily. These dear little twins of yours took pity on a lonely

invalid, and brought him a Christmas present. We made friends, and then

came the terrible news of the earthquake. God alone knows what these

three awful days have been to me. Kitty, for the sake of our mother,

and our own happy childhood, say you forgive me."

"Forgive you?" cried Mummy, between laughing and crying, "why, George

dear, there isn't anything to forgive, and if there ever was I forgave

it long, long ago." And to the utter amazement of the twins, Mummy went

straight into Mr. Brown's outstretched arms, and kissed him.

"And to think," cried Lill five minutes later, "to think you were Uncle

George all the time, and I said I hated you."

"Well, you don't hate me any more, you know," said Uncle George,

smiling, and he drew Lill to him, and kissed her tenderly.

"She is the very image of my little Lilian, Kitty," he said,

tremulously. "I think I loved her from the first moment I saw her,

and yet the very first opinion I heard her express was that uncles in

general were wicked."

"But I don't think so any more," said Lill, blushing. "Oh, Uncle

George, I think you must be the best man in the world not to be angry

with me for saying such dreadful things, and I love you better than

anybody except Mummy and Jill."

"Hark!" cried Jill, "there are the bells; they are ringing in the

new year, and the church clock is striking twelve. Happy New Year,

everybody."

"Happy New Year! Happy New Year!" echoed Uncle George and Lill, and

Mummy added softly, with the tears shining in her eyes--

"It is a glad new year for us, but don't let us forget the thousands of

homes rendered desolate by this frightful calamity. God has been very

good to us, and we must be very grateful for our blessings."

"We have been making good resolutions, Mummy," said Lill. "Mine is to

try not to be unjust and say things about people until I know all their

reasons. What's yours, Jill?"

"To try to like lessons better, and not give Mummy so much trouble,"

said Jill. "Have you made one, Mummy?"

"Yes, darling, and it is to try to have more faith and to believe that

God knows what is best for us, even when things seem darkest."

"I have made a resolution, too," said Uncle George. "It is to try to

make three dear people as happy as I can. I have a good deal more

money than I care to spend on myself, and now that my dear wife and

little girl aren't here any longer, I want to share it with the three

people I care most for in the world. Will you help me to carry out my

resolution, Kitty?"

Mummy didn't answer in words, but she slipped her hand into her

brother's, and the smile she gave him, though a little tremulous, was

very bright and loving.

HOW REGGIE SAW THE SPHINX

CHAPTER I

The Cunard steamer, _Caronia_, had left Naples, and was making her way

through a high sea, across the Mediterranean to Alexandria. It was very

rough, and before they had left Naples harbor far behind, most of the

passengers who were not proof against seasickness had retired to their

cabins. Reggie's mother, who was a very poor sailor indeed, had been

one of the first ladies to disappear from the deck, and she had been

speedily followed by Reggie's nurse, Ellen. Reggie himself had never

felt better in his life, but he had really tried to be sympathetic.

"I suppose you can't help it," he remarked in a puzzled tone, as he

stood in the doorway of the cabin he shared with Ellen, and regarded

the maid, who lay prone upon her bed, the picture of misery and

despair. "It does seem very queer, though; I can't see what makes

people feel that way."

A groan was the only response he received.

"Well, I guess I'll go and see if I can find Daddy," Reggie went on.

"Perhaps he'll let me stay with him on deck. It's very stuffy down

here."

Ellen opened her eyes and raised her head from the pillow.

"Don't you go wandering off by yourself, Master Reggie," she

admonished; "you'll be falling overboard or something dreadful'll

happen to you if you do. O my goodness, this is awful! I shall be dead

before we get to Egypt, that's sure."

"You do say very silly things, Ellen," remarked Reggie, rather

scornfully. "You know perfectly well you won't be dead when we get to

Egypt. Daddy says people never die of seasickness. You said just the

same thing when we were coming over from America, and when we got to

Rome you said you were so glad you'd come because now you could die

happy, because you'd seen the Pope. I don't see why people are always

saying things they don't mean."

"Oh, do try and keep still, there's a good little boy! I can't talk; my

head's just ready to burst."

Reggie sighed. It struck him that nurses were tiresome persons, and

that Ellen in particular was very slow of comprehension.

"But I don't like it down here," he argued. "It isn't nice; it's

stuffy. I want to go on deck with Daddy."

"Well, go and ask your mother, then, but I know she won't let you."

Reggie waited for no second bidding, but darted across the passage to

the cabin occupied by his parents. There he found his mother also lying

upon her bed, and also looking very miserable.

"Mother," he began eagerly, "may I go on deck and look for Daddy?"

Mrs. Starr opened her eyes with a faint moan. "Reggie darling, I don't

like to have you running about this ship by yourself. Can't Ellen look

after you?"

"Sick," said Reggie shortly.

"O dear, is she sick, too, poor thing? It really is frightfully rough.

Can't you manage to keep still for a little while? Your father will be

coming down before long, and I will ask him to look after you."

"But I've been still for a very long time. I've looked at all the

pictures in that book Grandma sent me, and I've played three games of

'old maid' all by myself."

"Will you promise to come back in five minutes unless you find your

father, and will you be very, very careful not to get into any mischief

if I let you go?"

"Of course, I won't get into any mischief. I'm eight, and Daddy says a

boy of eight ought to be able to take care of himself."

Mrs. Starr smiled faintly in spite of her suffering.

"Well, be sure you do take care of yourself, then," she said. "Don't

lean over the railing or go near the machinery, or--" But at that

moment the ship rose on the crest of a big wave and came down again

with a sickening lurch and Mrs. Starr's sentence ended in a groan.

Reggie gave the required promise and without waiting for any further

directions sped away in search of his cap and warm coat. Five minutes

later he was climbing the stairs that led to the promenade deck.

It was very beautiful on deck, or at least so it seemed to Reggie.

The sea was very high, and the wind was blowing a stiff gale, but the

afternoon sun was shining brightly, and the great waves seemed to

dance and sparkle beneath its rays. A few ladies were lying back in

steamer chairs but there were not many people about, and Reggie had

no difficulty in discovering his father, standing by the door of the

smoking-room, talking to another gentleman. Reggie was very fond of his

father; he was such a very pleasant person and he never fussed about

wet feet or warm flannels, as his mother and Ellen were apt to do. At

sight of his little son, Mr. Starr smiled and remarked cheerfully--

"Hello, young shaver! feeling pretty fit, eh?"

Reggie liked being called "young shaver," it sounded like something

manly and he promptly thrust his hands into his pockets and assumed his

most grown-up air.

"I'm all right," he responded, jauntily; "Mother and Ellen aren't,

though."

"Poor things! I think I had better go and have a look at your mother."

"She doesn't want anything. She only wants to be left alone, and so

does Ellen. Mother said I might come up here and look for you."

"Oh, she did, did she? I suppose that means that I must give up my game

of bridge, and look after you for the next hour."

"Oh, I say, that's too bad!" exclaimed the other gentleman, a

broad-shouldered young Englishman, with sandy hair and mustache. "We

want you to make up our table. Can't the kiddie take care of himself

for a bit?"

Mr. Starr glanced doubtfully at Reggie.

"Can I trust you to keep out of mischief if I leave you to yourself for

half an hour?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said Reggie, returning his father's questioning glance,

with steady brown eyes.

"Honor bright?"

"Honor bright," repeated the little boy, and Mr. Starr was satisfied.

"Very well," he said. "You may stay here on deck as long as you like,

but don't go anywhere else without letting me know. I shall be right

here in the smoking-room, and when I have finished my game I'll take

you up to see the Marconi station."

Mr. Starr went into the smoking-room with his friend, and Reggie

sauntered along the deck, feeling very much grown-up indeed. It always

gave him a delightful feeling to have his father trust him, and put him

on his honor. His mother and Ellen never seemed to believe it possible

that he could keep out of mischief if he were not constantly watched,

but when he had looked into his father's eyes, and said "honor bright"

he would no more have broken his word than "the boy on the burning

deck" would have deserted his post.

He took several turns up and down the deck and as he walked he wondered

whether the people in the steamer chairs were watching him and thinking

what a big, independent boy he was. He tried to whistle, in imitation

of his father, but only succeeded in producing such a very faint sound

that he was afraid nobody heard it. But walking on deck in a high sea

is not very easy, and by the time he had taken half a dozen turns, it

occurred to him that it might be wiser to sit down for a little while.

He was looking out in search of a steamer chair, when his attention

was attracted by the sight of a little girl of about his own age,

leaning out of the window of one of the deck staterooms. She was a

very pretty little girl, with blue eyes, and long yellow hair, and

there was something in her expression that made Reggie feel sure she

would like to talk to somebody. He was not, as a rule, particularly

fond of little girls, and it is probable that had there been any boys

present, he would have passed this one without noticing her, but it

happened that she was, at the moment, the most attractive person in

sight, and Reggie--who was not accustomed to remain silent for long at

a time--paused before the open window, and remarked cheerfully:

"How do you do?"

[Illustration: REGGIE PAUSED BEFORE THE OPEN WINDOW.]

"How do you do?" returned the little girl, and her face brightened. She

was evidently pleased at being spoken to.

"Are you going to Egypt, too?" Reggie inquired with interest.

"Yes, of course; that's where the ship's going. Aren't you going there

yourself?"

"Yes I am. I've come all the way from New York, but we went to Rome and

Naples first. Where did you come from?"

"From England," said the little girl; "I live near London. Have you

ever been to London?"

"No, but we're going there in the spring, before we go back to America.

Do you like travelling on ships?"

"Not much. I never was on a ship before, were you?"

"Oh, yes; we came over from New York on the _Mauretania_, and that's a

much bigger ship than this one. Are your father and mother seasick?"

"My father's in Cairo, and my mother died when I was a baby, but my

nurse is very sick, and I'm rather frightened about her; she looks

so queer, and keeps groaning all the time."

"Oh, there isn't anything to be frightened about," said Reggie,

reassuringly. "Ellen does that all the time, and mother does it a

little, too. I guess ladies are generally seasick on ships, but men

aren't. Why isn't your father on the ship with you?"

"Because he's a soldier and has to stay with his regiment. There isn't

any one with me but nurse, and that's why it frightened me so to have

her sick. If she should die there wouldn't be any one to take care of

me."

"She won't die," said Reggie; "seasick people never do. Are you going

to see your father in Cairo?"

"Yes, that's why we're going there. I don't believe my father was ever

seasick; he's so big and strong and splendid. I haven't seen him since

I was five, but I remember just how he looks."

"How funny not to see your father since you were five," remarked

Reggie, in a tone of some disapproval. "My father goes to his office

every day, but of course he always comes home in the evening in time

for dinner."

"But I told you my father is a soldier. He's a colonel, and colonels

can't leave their regiments. He was in India for two years, and then

the regiment was ordered to Egypt, and of course he had to go there."

"And do you and your nurse live all alone?" Reggie inquired. He did not

think he would enjoy living alone with Ellen.

"Oh, no, I live with my Aunt Helen, and she's awfully nice and pretty,

but she says I keep her from having a great many good times, because

she has to stay and take care of me. My grand-mamma used to take care

of me, but she died last year, and now there isn't any one but Aunt

Helen. We went to Italy to spend the winter, but when we got to Naples,

Aunt Helen met some friends who wanted her to go to Greece with them.

At first she thought she couldn't go, on account of me, but then she

remembered how my father wanted her to bring me out to Egypt to see

him this winter, and she decided she'd send me right off to Cairo with

Nurse. She didn't have time to write, because her friends wanted to

start for Greece this week, but she telegraphed to my father to meet us

at Alexandria, and we came right off on this ship."

"I should think you'd love having your father a colonel," said Reggie.

"I suppose you'll see lots of processions while you're in Cairo. Don't

you love processions?"

"I don't think I ever saw one, but I should like to. My father is a

very brave soldier. They made him a colonel in South Africa, and I

shouldn't be surprised if he got to be a general some day."

"I hope I shall see him," said Reggie, admiringly. "Perhaps I shall,

for we're going to Cairo, too. What's his name?"

"Colonel Willoughby, and my name's Phyllis Willoughby. What's yours?"

"William Reginald Starr, but people generally call me Reggie. I'm going

to be Reginald when I grow up. I say, don't you want to come out? It

must be stuffy in there."

"I should love to, but I don't believe Nurse would let me; she's so

fussy."

"Go and ask her. Tell her a boy's going to take care of you. Maybe

she'll let you come then."

Phyllis looked rather doubtfully at the small figure outside the

window. She thought William Reginald Starr a very grand name, and its

owner certainly had a nice face, but then, he did not look any older

than herself.

"You're not a very big boy," she remarked sceptically. "How old are

you?"

"I shall be nine next October."

"Well, it's only January now, so you're not much more than eight. I was

nine in November. Do you really think you can take care of me?"

"Of course I can. My father's playing cards in the smoking-room, and

he said I could stay here on deck by myself till he gets through. Come

along. It's great round the other side where the wind blows."

Phyllis disappeared from the window, but was back again in a moment.

"Nurse is asleep," she whispered. "I'm afraid it will make her very

cross if I wake her up to ask."

"Then don't ask, but just come on," said Reggie, recklessly. "Maybe she

won't wake up for ever so long, and then you can tell her it was all my

fault. I'm not afraid of nurses."

Phyllis hesitated for a moment. She was an obedient child, but the

afternoon had been long and dull, and the temptation was strong.

"All right," she said, "just wait till I get my coat and hat."

When Mr. Starr, having finished his game of bridge, came to look for

his small son, he found Reggie sedately pacing the deck, in the company

of a very pretty little girl, with blue eyes and yellow hair. Both

children looked the picture of smiling contentment.

"Her name's Phyllis Willoughby, and her father's the colonel of a

regiment," Reggie announced by way of introduction. "She's going to

Cairo, because her father lives there, and she hasn't seen him since

she was five. Her nurse is seasick, and her aunt has gone to Greece.

I'm taking care of her."

"You're beginning early, young man," laughed his father, and the young

Englishman, who had accompanied Mr. Starr from the smoking-room, added:

"It's the little Willoughby girl. Her father made a name for himself in

South Africa. I know her aunt, nice jolly girl. She's gone to Greece

with a party of friends, and sent the kiddie out here to join her

father in Cairo."

"Perhaps your little friend would like to inspect the Marconi station

with us," said Mr. Starr, good-naturedly, and Phyllis, who had quite

forgotten about Nurse by this time, readily accepted the invitation.

Reggie and his father proved two very delightful companions, and

Phyllis spent a most enjoyable half-hour with them, on the hurricane

deck, inspecting the wonderful new invention, which has changed the

whole course of life at sea. It was not until they were on their way

down again, that she suddenly remembered Nurse.

"I think perhaps I'd better hurry," she said, a little anxiously. "If

Nurse wakes up and doesn't find me, I'm afraid she'll be frightened."

They quickened their steps, but they were still some distance from the

cabin, when Phyllis saw an approaching figure, at sight of which she

uttered a little gasp of dismay.

"It's Nurse!" she exclaimed, "and she must be very much frightened

indeed, for she's come out without her false hair, and she's got her

dress on right over her nightie."

The wrath of Nurse when she caught sight of the little truant, was

truly awful to behold. Even Mr. Starr was rendered speechless beneath

the torrent of reproaches poured upon his head, and poor little Phyllis

was quickly reduced to repentant tears. Reggie alone stood his ground

unflinchingly.

"It was all my fault," he exclaimed to the irate nurse. "She said you

were asleep, and she didn't want to come, but I said I'd take care

of her, and I did, too, till Daddy came, and then he took care of us

both." But Nurse was not easily appeased.

"You're a very naughty, disobedient little girl, Miss Phyllis," she

declared. "You shall be put to bed at once, and kept there for the rest

of the day."

"Well," remarked Reggie to his father, as he watched his little friend

being led away to her cabin in disgrace, "I used to think Ellen was

cross sometimes, but I'm glad she isn't like this one. I'm glad we

haven't got a nurse like that, aren't you, Daddy?" To which his father

responded heartily:

"I most certainly am, my son."