“Over the sea?” said Abby.  “You mean the bay, don’t you,—­some of those French settlements down along the shore?”

But Marie meant the sea, it appeared; for her village was in France, in Eretagne, and there she had lived till the day when Mere Jeanne died, and she was left alone, with no-one belonging to her.  Mere Jeanne was not her mother, no! nor yet her grandmother,—­only her mother’s aunt, but good, Abby must understand, good as an angel, good as Abby herself.  And when she was dead, there was only her son, Jeannot, and he had married a devil,—­but yes!—­as Abby exclaimed, and held up her hands in reproof,—­truly a devil of the worst kind; and one day, when Jeannot was away, this wife had sold her, Marie, to another devil, Le Boss, who made the tours in the country for to sing and to play.  And he had brought her away to this country, over very dreadful seas, where one went down into the grave at every instant, and then up again to the clouds, but leaving one’s stomach behind one—­ah, but terrible!  Others were with them, oh, yes!—­This in response to Abby’s question, for in spite of her good resolutions, curiosity was taking possession of her, and it was evidently a relief to Marie to pour out her little tale in a sympathetic ear,—­many others.  La Patronne, the wife of Le Boss, who was like a barrel, but not bad, when she could see through the fat, not bad in every way; and there was Old Billy, who took care of the horses and dogs, and he was her friend, and she loved him, and he had always the good word for her even when he was very drunk, too drunk to speak to any one else.  And then there was the daughter of Le Boss, who would in all probability never die, for she was so ugly that she would not be admitted into the other world, where, Mere Jeanne said, even Monsieur the Great Devil himself was good-looking, save for his expression.  Also there were the boys who tumbled and rode on the ponies, and—­and—­and ozer people.  And with this Mane’s head dropped forward, and she was asleep.

It seemed a pity to wake her when supper was ready, but Abby knew just how good her rolls were, and knew that the child must be famished; and sure enough, after a little nap, Marie was ready to wake and sit up at the little round table, and be fed like a baby with everything good that Abby could think of.  The fare had not been dainty in the travelling troupe of Le Boss.  The fine white bread, the golden butter, the bit of broiled fish, smoking hot, seemed viands of paradise to the hungry girl.  She laughed for pleasure, and her eyes shone like stars.  It was like the chateau, she said, where everything was gold and silver,—­the chateau where Madame la Comtesse lived.  As for Abby herself, Marie gravely informed her that she was an angel.  Abby laughed, not ill pleased.  “I don’t look special like angels,” she said; “that is, if the pictures I’ve seen are correct.  Not much wings and curls and white robes about me, Maree.  And who ever heard of an angel in a check apurn, I want to know?”