Marie shook her head, and a light crept into her eyes as she thought of Le Boss.  “I have nobodies’” she said.  “I am with myself, sauf le violon; I mean, wiz my fiddle.  Monsieur likes not music, no?”

She looked wistfully at him, and something seemed to rise up in the man’s throat and choke him.  He made a violent motion, as if to free himself from something.  What had happened to him,—­was he suddenly possessed, or was he losing his wits?  He tried to force his voice back into its usual tone, tried even to speak gently, though his heart was beating so wildly at the way she looked, at the sweet notes of her voice, like a flute in its lower notes, that he could hardly hear his own words.  “No, no music!” he said.  “There must be no music here, among Christian folks.  Put away that thing, young woman.  It is an evil thing, bringing sin, and death, which is the wages of sin, with it.  How came you here, if you have no one belonging to you?”

Falteringly, her sweet eyes dropped on the ground, with only now and then a timid, appealing glance at this terrible person, this awful judge who had suddenly dropped from the skies, Marie told her little story, or as much of it as she thought needful.  She had been with bad people, playing for them, a long time, she did not know how long.  And then they would take away her violin, and she would not stay, and she ran away from them, and had walked all day, and—­and that was all.  A little sob shook her voice at the last words; she had not realised before how utterly alone she was.  The delight of freedom, of getting away from her tyrants, had been enough at first, and she had been as it were on wings all day, like a bird let loose from its cage; now the little bird was weary, and the wings drooped, and there was no nest, not even a friendly cage where one would find food and drink,

A sudden passion of pity—­he supposed it was pity—­shook the strong man.  He felt a wild impulse to catch the little shrinking creature in his arms and bear her away to his own home, to warm and cheer and comfort her.  Was there ever before anything in the world so sweet, so helpless, so forlorn?  He looked around.  The children were all gone; he stood alone in the street with the foreign woman, and night was falling.  It was at this moment that Abby Rock, who had been watching from her window for the past few minutes, opened her door and came out, stepping quietly toward them, as if they were just the people she had expected to see.  De Arthenay hailed her as an angel from Heaven; and yet Abby did not look like an angel.

“Abby!” he cried.  “Come here a minute, will you?”

“Good evening, Jacques!” said Abby, in her quiet voice.  “Good evening to you!” she added, speaking kindly to the little stranger.  “I was coming to see if you wouldn’t like to step into my house and rest you a spell.  Why, my heart!” she cried, as Marie raised her head at the sound of the friendly voice, “you’re nothing but a child.  Come right along with me, my dear.  Alone, are ye, and night coming on!”