“But I ask about you, your work.”

“Ah! and I’m telling you.  Mamma she had the same connoisseur talent as papa, and even amongs’ that people where she was raise’, and under the shadow, as you would say, of that convent so famouz for all those weavings, laces, tapestries, embro’deries, she was thought to be wonderful with the needle.”

Chester interrupted elatedly:  “I see what you’re coming to.  You, yourself, were born needle in hand—­the embroidery-needle.”

“Well, ad the least I can’t rimember when I learned it.  ’Twas always as if I couldn’ live without it.  But it was not the needle alone, nor embro’deries alone, nor alone the critical eye.  Papa he had, pardly from grand-pere, pardly brought from France, a separate librarie abbout all those arts, and I think before I was five years I knew every picture in those books, and before ten every page.  And always papa and mamma they were teaching me from those books—­they couldn’ he’p it!  I was very naughty aboud that.  I would bring them the books and if they didn’ teach me I would weep.  I think I wasn’ ever so naughty aboud anything else.  But in the en’, with the businezz always diclining, that turn’ out fortunate.  By and by mamma she persuade’ papa to let her take a part in the pursuanze of the businezz.  But she did that all out of sight of the public——­”

“Had you never a brother or sister?”

“Yes, long ago.  We’ll not speak of that.  A sizter, two brothers; but—­scarlet-fever——­”

The story did not pause, yet while it pressed on, its hearers musing lingered behind.  Why were the long lost ones not to be spoken of?  For fear of betraying some blame of the childlike aunts for the scarlet-fever?  The unworthy thought was put aside and the hearer’s attention readjusted.

“Even mamma,” the girl was saying, “she didn’ escape that contagion, and by reason of that she was compelled to let papa put me in her place in the businezz; and after getting well she never was the same and I rittained the place till a year avter, when she pas’ away, and I have it yet.”

“And who filled M. Alexandre’s place?”

“Oh, that?  Tis fil’ partly by Mme. Alexandre and partly by that diminishing of the businezz—­till the largez’ part of it is ripairing—­of old laces, embro’deries, and so forth.  Madame’s shop is the chief place in the city for that.  Of that we have all we can do.  ’Tis a beautiful work.

“So tha’z all I have to tell, Mr. Chezter; and I’ve enjoyed to tell you that so you can see why we are so content and happy, my aunts and I—­and Hector—­and Marie Madeleine.  H’m?”

“That’s all you have to tell?”

“That is all.”

“But not all there is to tell, even of the past, mademoiselle.”

“Ah! and why not?”

“Oh, impossible!” Chester softly laughed and had almost repeated the word when the girl blushed; whereupon he did the same.  For he seemed all at once to have spoiled the whole heavenly day, until she smilingly restored it by saying: