upon her back when she knocked at the door of her neighbor the ant.

Poor little gypsy!

I mount the stairs on tiptoe, and stop at the sound of singing that I
hear up in my room.

It is undoubtedly Chrysanthème's voice and the song is a cheerful one!
This chills me and changes the current of my thoughts. I am almost
sorry I have taken the trouble to come.

Mingled with the song is a noise I cannot understand: _dzinn! dzinn!_
a clear metallic ring as of coins being flung vigorously on the floor.
I am well aware that this vibrating house exaggerates every sound
during the silence of night; but all the same, I am puzzled to know
what my mousmé can be doing. _Dzinn! dzinn!_ is she amusing herself
with quoits, or the _jeu du crapaud_, or pitch and toss?

Nothing of the kind; I fancy I have guessed, and I continue my upward
progress still more gently, on all fours, with the precautions of a
Red Indian, to give myself for the last time the pleasure of
surprising her.

She has not heard me come in. In our great white room, emptied and
swept out, where the clear sunshine pours in, and the soft wind, and
the yellowed leaves of the garden; she is sitting all alone, her back
turned to the door: she is dressed for walking, ready to go to her
mother's, her rose-colored parasol beside her.

On the floor are spread out all the fine silver dollars which,