"Pray say no more about me," interposed his companion. "Is the child
asleep?"

"This one is; the one in the other room is awake."

"Then let us go to her and tell her what we have decided." He lifted the
two-branched candlestick from the table; his companion carefully closed
the iron doors of the fireplace; then the two went into the adjoining
chamber, leaving the room they had quitted in darkness.

The elder gentleman had made a mistake: "this" child was _not_ asleep.
She had listened attentively, half sitting up in bed, to as much of the
conversation as she could hear.

A ray of light penetrated through the keyhole. The little girl sprang
nimbly from the bed, ran to the door, and peered through the tiny
aperture. Suddenly footsteps came toward the door. When it opened,
however, the little eavesdropper was back underneath the covers of the
bed. The old gentleman entered the room. He had no candle. He left the
door open, walked noiselessly to the bed, and drew aside the curtains to
see if "this" child was still asleep. The long-drawn, regular breathing
convinced him. Then he took something from the chair beside the bed, and
went back into the other room. The object he had taken from the chair
was the faded red shawl in which the stray child had been wrapped. He
did not close the door of the adjoining chamber, for the candles had
been extinguished and both rooms were now dark.

To the listening child in the bed, however, it seemed as if voices were
whispering near her--as if she heard a stifled sob. Then cautious