Zelie Dionne rose and acknowledged the introduction with a French girl’s pretty grace.  A bit of a flush lighted the dusky pallor of her cheeks when Farr bent before her.  The bow in her hair was cocked with true Gallic chic and her gown was crisply smart in its simplicity.  Her big, dark eyes were the wonderful feature of her face, and Farr looked into them and seemed to lose a bit of his cool self-possession; he faltered in speech, groping for words in the first commonplaces.

“You must talk together.  I must work,” said the good woman.  She hurried back into her kitchen.

The child ran to Farr and climbed upon his knees.

“You have been good to Rosemarie.  I thank you,” he said.  “I suppose the good woman has told you how it has happened.”

“Yes, when I came at noon.”  Her tones were peculiarly sweet and compassionate.  A touch of accent gave piquancy to what she said.  She looked at him meaningly.  “I have been talking to our little Rosemarie and she will not cry any more for her good mamma who has gone up to the green hills because she is sick and must rest.  So Rosemarie will be patient and live here and I will be play-mamma.”

“Yes, play-mamma,” agreed the child.  “Good play-mamma!  Two mammas!  But only one papa!” She put up her arms and tucked them about his neck and snuggled down with a happy sense of complete understanding of his protection.  At last, so it seemed to her, she had recovered the father she had never known.  Poor, little, caged bird, her release from that lonely prison was dated in her happy consciousness from his appearance in the doorway, and all things had been well for her after he came—­sunlight, the trees, the blue sky, and tender care, and the companionship of human beings.  Therefore, the rush of a love her child’s comprehension could not analyze had gone out to him.

Farr returned with significance the look Zelie Dionne’s dark eyes gave him.

“I found the note.  It made me go a-meddling.  It left a legacy to somebody—­and I accepted—­without understanding why I did so.”  He stroked the child’s curls.

“I did not understand at first—­when Madame Maillet told me,” she confessed, with a smile.  “Old Etienne came at noon to tell her and she has told it to me.  It is very sad—­but yet it is comical when I look at you.  But as I look at you I understand better.  You have a good heart.  I can see!”

“I am only a strolling stranger—­here to-day and there to-morrow,” protested Farr.  “I think the heat must have affected my head.  It has been very warm lately.  But when I saw her—­” He choked suddenly.

“Oh, it is easy to understand,” said the girl, reassuringly.  A mist of tears came across her big eyes, though her mouth did not lose the wistful smile.  “The poor folks help one another—­and they understand.”

“It wouldn’t be right to give her to an orphanage,” insisted Farr.  “She has missed too much already.  Of course I don’t pretend to know what a little girl needs—­but I am willing to be told.”