“When you are as old as I am, my dear,” rejoined Madame Marillac, “you will not think quite so positively as you think now.  I have learned some hard lessons,” she proceeded, turning to Stella, “and I hope I am the better for them.  My life has not been a happy one—­”

“Your life has been a martyrdom!” said the girl, breaking out again in spite of herself.  “Oh, my father! my father!” She pushed aside the work and hid her face in her hands.

The gentle mother spoke severely for the first time.  “Respect your father’s memory!” she said.  Blanche trembled and kept silence.  “I have no false pride,” Madame Marillac continued.  “I own that we are miserably poor; and I thank you, my dear young lady, for your kind intentions toward us, without embarrassing you by any inquiries.  We manage to live.  While my eyes last, our work helps to support us.  My good eldest daughter has some employment as a teacher of music, and contributes her little share to assist our poor household.  I don’t distrust you—­I only say, let us try a little longer if we cannot help ourselves.”

She had barely pronounced the last words, when a startling interruption led to consequences which the persons present had not foreseen.  A shrill, wailing voice suddenly pierced through the flimsy partition which divided the front room and the back room.  “Bread!” cried the voice in French; “I’m hungry.  Bread! bread!”

The daughter started to her feet.  “Think of his betraying us at this moment!” she exclaimed indignantly.  The mother rose in silence, and opened a cupboard.  Its position was opposite to the place in which Stella was sitting.  She saw two or three knives and forks, some cups and saucers and plates, and a folded table-cloth.  Nothing else appeared on the shelves; not even the stray crust of bread for which the poor woman had been looking.  “Go, my dear, and quiet your brother,” she said—­and closed the cupboard door again as patiently as ever.

Stella opened her pocketbook when Blanche had left the room.  “For God’s sake, take something!” she cried.  “I offer it with the sincerest respect—­I offer it as a loan.”

Madame Marillac gently signed to Stella to close the pocketbook again.  “That kind heart of yours must not be distressed about trifles,” she said.  “The baker will trust us until we get the money for our work—­and my daughter knows it.  If you can tell me nothing else, my dear, will you tell me your Christian name?  It is painful to me to speak to you quite as a stranger.”

Stella at once complied with the request.  Madame Marillac smiled as she repeated the name.

“There is almost another tie between us,” she said.  “We have your name in France—­it speaks with a familiar sound to me in this strange place.  Dear Miss Stella, when my poor boy startled you by that cry for food, he recalled to me the saddest of all my anxieties.  When I think of him, I should be tempted if my better sense did not restrain me—­No! no! put back the pocketbook.  I am incapable of the shameless audacity of borrowing a sum of money which I could never repay.  Let me tell you what my trouble is, and you will understand that I am in earnest.  I had two sons, Miss Stella.  The elder—­the most lovable, the most affectionate of my children—­was killed in a duel.”