"Oh, yes, you have read of it to me in your Shakespeare.
It is one of his unpleasant stories. Come, Bebe. It
grows damp."

As she climbed the stone stairway with the child, Colette
lingered to gossip with the portier. "Poor lady! You
will adore her! She is one of us. But she makes of that
bete Anglais and the ugly child, saints and gods!"

When George presently came up to their bare little room,
Lisa was singing softly, as she rocked Jacques to sleep.

"Can't you sing the boy something a bit more
cheerful?" he said. "You used to know some jolly catches
from the music halls."

"Catches for HIM?" with a frightened look at the
child's shut eyes.

"The `Adeste Fideles' is moral, but it is not a merry
air. You sing it morning, noon, and night," he grumbled.

"Yes," she whispered, laying the child in its crib. "One
never knows how much HE understands, and he may
remember, I thought. Some day when he is a great boy, he
may hear it and he'll think, `My mother sang that hymn.
She must have been a good woman!'"

"Nonsense, Lisa," said George kindly. "You'll teach him