to be dark and soft, too; but with what fire in their depths, what
sunny light of joy,--the joy of a child among children! De Arthenay
started, and his hands clenched themselves unconsciously. Marie
started, too, as she met the stern gaze fixed upon her, and the joyous
light faded from her eyes. Rudely it broke in upon her pleasant
thoughts,--this vision of a set, bearded face, with cold blue eyes that
yet had a flame in them, like a spark struck from steel. The little
song died on her lips, and unconsciously she lowered her bow, and stood
silent, returning helplessly the look bent so sternly upon her.

When Jacques de Arthenay found himself able to speak at last, he
started at the sound of his own voice.

"Who are you?" he asked. "How did you come here, young woman?"

Marie held out her fiddle with a pretty, appealing gesture. "I
come--from away!" she said, in her broken English, that sounded soft
and strange to his ears. "I do no harm. I play, to make happy the
children, to get bread for me."

"Who came with you?" De Arthenay continued. "Who are your folks?"

Marie shook her head, and a light crept into her eyes as she thought of
Le Boss. "I have nobodies'" she said. "I am with myself, _sauf le
violon_; I mean, wiz my fiddle. Monsieur likes not music, no?"

She looked wistfully at him, and something seemed to rise up in the
man's throat and choke him. He made a violent motion, as if to free
himself from something. What had happened to him,--was he suddenly
possessed, or was he losing his wits? He tried to force his voice back