“‘How happy they look, those pretty young ladies,’ the lonely little girl said to herself.  ’How happy I should be if I had a sister, for I have no one to talk to, no one to kiss me and play with me and if ever I say I am sad my aunt is angry.  O mother! why did you go away and leave me?’”

“Could you hear all that from up here on the roof?” said Jeanne.  “Dear me, Dudu, you must have good ears.”

“Of course I have; I told you so, Mademoiselle,” said Dudu drily.  “I had better ears than your great-grandmother and her sister, for they heard nothing, not even when the poor little girl took courage to push her face farther forward between the railings, and to say very softly and timidly,

“’Mesdemoiselles, Mesdemoiselles, might I come and walk with you?  I am so tired of being here all alone.’

“They did not hear her.  They were talking too busily about the fete of their mother, I think, which was to be in a few days, and of what they were to prepare for her.  And the poor little girl sat up there for more than an hour watching them with longing eyes, but not daring to call out more loudly.  It made me quite melancholy to see her, and when at last our young ladies went in, and she had to give up hopes of gaining their attention, it made me more melancholy still, she looked so disappointed, and her eyes were full of tears; and I felt quite upset about her, and kept turning over in my head what I could do to make her happier.  I thought about it for some time, and at last I decided that the first thing to do was to find out more about the little stranger and the cause of her grief.  For this purpose I stationed myself the next morning just below the window of the kitchen of her house, which, by hopping from the balcony, I was easily able to do, and by listening to the conversation of the servants I soon learned all I wanted to know.  She was, as I had supposed, a little English girl.  Her mother had died in Italy but a short time before, and she was now in the charge of her mother’s aunt, an elderly and severe lady, who understood nothing about children, and took no pains to make poor little Charlotte happy.  So it was a sad life for the child, whose father also was dead; and as from the talk of the servants I gathered that she was a good and gentle little girl, I felt more sorry for her than before; and as I hopped back on to the balcony I looked to see if she was again at the window.  Yes, there she was, her face pressed against the glass, staring out in the direction of the terrace walk, watching, no doubt, to see if our young ladies were coming out again.  I hopped in front of the window backwards and forwards two or three times to catch her attention, and a smile lit up her little pale face when she saw me.

“‘Good day, Mr. Raven,’ she said politely.  ’Have you come to see me?  It is very kind of you if you have, for I have nobody to play with.  But, oh! if you could tell those pretty young ladies how I should like to walk about their garden with them, how pleased I should be.’