tears.

"What is the matter?" asked Modeste, looking innocently at her friends
and not betraying the slightest fear.

"It is all about a young man who is hanging round the house," cried
Madame Latournelle.

"Well!" said Modeste, "why should Dumay kill him?"

"Sancta simplicita!" ejaculated Butscha, looking at his master as
proudly as Alexander is made to contemplate Babylon in Lebrun's great
picture.

"Where are you going, Modeste?" asked the mother as her daughter rose
to leave the room.

"To get ready for your bedtime, mamma," answered Modeste, in a voice
as pure as the tones of an instrument.

"You haven't paid your expenses," said the dwarf to Dumay when he
returned.

"Modeste is as pure as the Virgin on our altar," cried Madame
Latournelle.

"Good God! such excitements wear me out," said Dumay; "and yet I'm a
strong man."

"May I lose that twenty-five sous if I have the slightest idea what