“No wonder, poor child!” exclaimed Madame.  “But I hope the little one is some comfort to her.”

“She ha’n’t taken much notice of him, or anything else, since Massa Duroy told her that news,” rejoined Tulee.

Madame took the baby and tried to look into its face as well as the lopping motions of its little head would permit.  “I shouldn’t think she’d have much comfort in looking at it,” said she; “for it’s the image of its father; but the poor little dear ain’t to blame for that.”

An animated conversation followed concerning what had happened since Tulee went away,—­especially the disappearance of Flora.  Both hinted at having entertained similar suspicions, but both had come to the conclusion that she could not be alive, or she would have written.

Rosa, meanwhile, left alone in the little parlor, where she had listened so anxiously for the whistling of Ca ira, was scarcely conscious of any other sensation than the luxury of repose, after extreme fatigue of body and mind.  There was, indeed, something pleasant in the familiar surroundings.  The parrot swung in the same gilded ring in her cage.  Madame’s table, with its basket of chenilles, stood in the same place, and by it was her enamelled snuffbox.  Rosa recognized a few articles that had been purchased at the auction of her father’s furniture;—­his arm-chair, and the astral lamp by which he used to sit to read his newspaper; a sewing-chair that was her mother’s; and one of Flora’s embroidered slippers, hung up for a watch-case.  With these memories floating before her drowsy eyes, she fell asleep, and slept for a long time.  As her slumbers grew lighter, dreams of father, mother, and sister passed through various changes; the last of which was that Flora was puzzling the mocking-birds.  She waked to the consciousness that some one was whistling in the room.

“Who is that!” exclaimed she; and the parrot replied with a tempest of imitations.  Madame, hearing the noise, came in, saying:  “How stupid I was not to cover the cage!  She is so noisy!  Her memory is wonderful.  I don’t think she’ll ever forget a note of all the melange dear Floracita took so much pains to teach her.”

She began to call up reminiscences of Flora’s incessant mischief; but finding Rosa in no mood for anything gay, she proceeded to talk over the difficulties of her position, concluding with the remark:  “To-day and to-night you must rest, my child.  But early to-morrow you and the Signor will start for New York, whence you will take passage to Marseilles, under the name of Signor Balbino and daughter.”

“I wish I could stay here, at least for a little while,” sighed Rosa.

“It’s never wise to wish for what cannot be had,” rejoined Madame.  “It would cause great trouble and expense to obtain your freedom; and it is doubtful whether we could secure it at all, for Bruteman won’t give you up if he can avoid it.  The voyage will recruit your strength, and it will do you good to be far away from anything that reminds you of old troubles.  I have nothing left to do but to dispose of my furniture, and settle about the lease of this house.  You will wait at Marseilles for me.  I shall be uneasy till I have the sea between me and the agents of Mr. Bruteman, and I shall hurry to follow after you as soon as possible.”