glass. "Well, I guess it's sour," she said in a moment; and she gave
a little shake of her head.

M. Pigeonneau stood staring with his syrup in his hand; then he
slowly turned away. He looked about at the rest of us, as if to
appeal from Miss Ruck's insensibility, and went to deposit his
rejected tribute on a bench.

"Won't you give it to me?" asked Miss Church, in faultless French.
"J'adore le sirop, moi."

M. Pigeonneau came back with alacrity, and presented the glass with a
very low bow. "I adore good manners," murmured the old man.

This incident caused me to look at Miss Church with quickened
interest. She was not strikingly pretty, but in her charming
irregular face there was something brilliant and ardent. Like her
mother, she was very simply dressed.

"She wants to go to America, and her mother won't let her," said Miss
Sophy to me, explaining her companion's situation.

"I am very sorry--for America," I answered, laughing.

"Well, I don't want to say anything against your mother, but I think
it's shameful," Miss Ruck pursued.

"Mamma has very good reasons; she will tell you them all."

"Well, I'm sure I don't want to hear them," said Miss Ruck. "You