baby. At these times, when the door was safely barred against the
outside world, it was a different Jan Thoreau who crouched upon his
knees beside the cot. His face was aflame with a great, absorbing
passion which at other times he concealed. His beautiful eyes glowed
with hidden fires, and he whispered soothing, singsong things to the
child, and played softly upon his violin, leaning his black head far
down so that the baby Melisse could clutch her appreciative fingers in
his hair.

"Ah, ze sweet leetle white angel!" he would cry, as she tugged and
kicked. "I luf you so--I luf you, an' will stay always, ah' play ze
violon! Ah, mon Dieu, you will be ze gr-r-r-eat bea-utiful white angel
lak--HER!"

He would laugh and coo like a mother, and talk, for at these times Jan
Thoreau's tongue was as voluble as his violin.

Sometimes Melisse listened as if she understood the wonderful things
he was telling her. She would lie upon her back with her eyes fixed
upon him, her little red fists doubled over his bow, or a thumb thrust
into her mouth. And the longer she lay like this, gazing at him
blankly, the more convinced Jan became that she was understanding him;
and his voice grew soft and low, and his eyes shone with a soft mist
as he told her those things which John Cummins would have given much
to know.

"Some day you shall understand why it happened, sweet Melisse," he
whispered, bringing his eyes so near that she reached up an inquiring
finger to them. "Then you will luf Jan Thoreau!"