played games with his little girls. How odd it is, the way one meets old
friends!"

What is it that Amedee feels? His entire childhood rises before him.
The bitterness of the thought that he had known this poor girl in her
innocence and youth, and the Gerards' name spoken in such a place, filled
the young man's heart with a singular sadness. He could only say to
Rosine, in a voice that trembled a little with pity:

"You! Is it you?"

Then she became red and very embarrassed, lowering her eyes.

Maurice had tact; he noticed that Rosine and Amedee were agitated, and,
feeling that he was de trop, he arose suddenly and said:

"Now then, Margot. Come on! these children want to talk over their
childhood, I think. Give up your acrostic, my child. Take my arm, and
come and have a turn."

When they were alone Amedee gazed at Rosine sadly. She was pretty, in
spite of her colorless complexion, a child of the faubourg, born with a
genius for dress, who could clothe herself on nothing-a linen gown, a
flower in her hat. One who lived on salads and vegetables, so as to buy
well-made shoes and eighteen-button gloves.

The pretty blonde looked at Amedee, and a timid smile shone in her nut-
brown eyes.

"Now, Monsieur Amedee," said she, at last, "it need not trouble you to