the chimney with her feet on a bench, and her chin in her hand,
interested to the point of silence. Something in her eyes made it very
galling to be overhauled and have my blemishes enumerated before her and
Croghan. What had uplifted me to Madame de Ferrier's recognition now
mocked, and I found it hard to submit. It would not go well with the
next stranger who declared he knew me by my scars.

"What do they call you in this country?" inquired Madame Tank.

I said my name was Lazarre Williams.

"It is not!" she said in an undertone, shaking her head.

I made bold to ask with some warmth what my name was then, and she
whispered--"Poor child!"

It seemed that I was to be pitied in any case. In dim self-knowledge I
saw that the core of my resentment was her treating me with
commiseration. Madame de Ferrier had not treated me so.

"You live among the Indians?" Madame Tank resumed.

The fact was evident.

"Have they been kind to you?"

I said they had.

Madame Tank's young daughter edged near her and inquired in a whisper,