MAISIE'S MERRY CHRISTMAS

By NINA RHOADES

Author of "Brick House Books,"
"Marion's Vacation," and "Dorothy Brown"

ILLUSTRATED BY ELIZABETH WITHINGTON

BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

Published, March, 1911

Copyright, 1911
By Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.

All Rights Reserved

Maisie's Merry Christmas

NORWOOD PRESS
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
NORWOOD, MASS.
U. S. A.

CONTENTS

MAISIE'S MERRY CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

JILL AND LILL

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

HOW REGGIE SAW THE SPHINX

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

ILLUSTRATIONS

"Oh, may I really take it?"

She laid a kind little hand on one of the blind child's shoulders.

"And may I ask what your mother does in the galleries?"

"Has there really been an earthquake, and where was it?"

Reggie paused before the open window.

"She's pretty, isn't she?" whispered Phyllis.

MAISIE'S MERRY CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER I

"I wish there wasn't going to be any Christmas at all this year."

Maisie made this startling assertion in a tone of conviction, but there was a quiver in her voice, nevertheless, and a suspicious moisture in her eyes. The remark caused quite a shock to the members of her family, who were all assembled in their private sitting-room at the Hotel de Nice. Mr. Barton looked up from his American newspaper, that had arrived by the last mail, Mrs. Barton paused in the letter she was writing home to Grandma, and Auntie Belle—who was playing on the piano—whirled around on her stool, and regarded her little niece with an expression of horrified amazement.

"Why, Maisie," she exclaimed indignantly; "how can you say such a dreadful thing? Think of the wonderful winter we are having! You must really be a very unappreciative child."

"I'm not an unappreciative child," declared Maisie, who did not like the long word, although she was not quite sure she knew what it meant, "and I'm not having a wonderful winter at all. It's been horrid ever since we went away from Morristown. First there was that dreadful ocean. You didn't mind that, because you weren't seasick, and didn't have to lie in bed and hate things to eat. Then there was London. I hated London, it was so foggy and rainy, and Françoise was always making me wash my face and hands because of the smoots. We had to go to stupid churches and galleries, and papa made me say history to him every day. I hate history even worse than geography and arithmetic. After that came Paris, and there were more churches and pictures, and everybody talked French. Now we've come here, and it's going to be Christmas next week, though I don't see how it really can be, with all the roses out just the way they are at home in June. I don't see any use in Christmas without any people to give presents, and I just wish there wasn't going to be any, so there!"

"But, Maisie darling," began Mrs. Barton, eagerly, "there will be presents. Grandpa and Grandma and all the aunties and uncles have sent money to spend for our Christmas, and we are planning a very merry day."

But Maisie's cross little face did not brighten.

"It won't be like Christmas at home, anyway," she persisted. "How can it be, without any party, and with nobody but you and papa and Auntie Belle and Françoise to buy presents for? Even if we had a tree, there wouldn't be any people to come to it."

Auntie Belle opened her lips as if she were going to say something, but at a glance from her brother she closed them again. Mrs. Barton looked really distressed, but Mr. Barton only smiled.

"Come here, Maisie," he said, laying down his newspaper, and lifting his little daughter on his knee. "So Europe is a failure in your estimation, and you would much rather have spent the winter in Morristown, New Jersey, than in France or Italy."

"Much rather," said Maisie, with decision; "I wish we hadn't come."

"That is really a very sad state of affairs, especially when mamma and Auntie Belle and I are all enjoying ourselves so much. But I thought we agreed that the pantomime and the Zoo in London were rather good fun, after all, and that the Bois in Paris was even nicer than Central Park. Then how about the ponies?"

Maisie was beginning to look a little ashamed of her outburst.

"London and Paris weren't so very bad," she admitted, reluctantly, "and I do like the ponies, but it's Christmas—oh, Papa, it's dreadful not to be at home on Christmas!" And Maisie took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

"We are all sorry to be away from our dear ones on Christmas, of course," said Mr. Barton, "and we shall miss them very much; but you know people can't expect to have all the good things in the world at the same time. Now, I have an idea. You have always had very 'Merry Christmasses' at home, but you are afraid this one isn't going to be quite the same thing. How would it do to try to make this Christmas just as merry for some one else as your friends made yours for you last year?"

"I don't think that would be any fun," said Maisie, who did not look much impressed by her father's suggestion. "Besides, we don't know any people here."

"It is true that we don't know any one as yet, but Christmas is nearly a week off, and in the meantime we might be on the look out. Suppose you think the matter over for a day or two, and see how it strikes you."

Maisie did not look as if she considered her father's suggestion at all an interesting one, but at the moment her ear was caught by the sound of distant music, and glad of any opportunity to change a conversation which was threatening to become personal, she slipped down off her father's knee, with the remark.

"There are some more musicians; I want to see them." And promptly disappeared through the open French window on to the balcony, which overlooked the garden, where roses bloomed all winter long.

"Poor mite!" said Mrs. Barton, when Maisie had left the room, "we forget what a baby she really is. Of course she cannot be expected to enjoy the things that we do. I almost wish I had taken mother's advice, and left her at home, though it would have been very hard to part from her."

"I don't agree with you at all," said Mr. Barton smiling. "Has it ever occurred to you, Alice, that our small daughter is just a trifle selfish?"

"I don't consider her in the least selfish," Mrs. Barton declared indignantly. "She is the most generous little thing in the world. Why, only this morning I had to prevent her giving a whole franc to some of those ridiculous street musicians she is so fond of. She is always giving away her pocket-money, and one of her chief reasons for being unhappy just now is because she has so few people for whom to buy Christmas presents this year."

"All very true. Maisie loves to shop, and when her pocket-money is all gone she will come to us for more, but honestly now, Alice dear, has the child ever been obliged to give up anything she really wanted?"

Auntie Belle gave her brother a quick, comprehending glance, and with difficulty repressed a laugh. She was really very fond of her little niece, but there had been times lately when she had found Maisie just a little tiresome. But Mrs. Barton looked really unhappy. She was very conscientious, and honestly tried to bring up her little girl in the best way, but Maisie was such a funny, sweet-tempered little person, that it was hard to keep from spoiling her. She was an only child, and the joy of her mother's heart.

Before Mrs. Barton could reply, however, Maisie herself reappeared.

"It's a boy and a little girl this time," she announced, with the air of a person imparting most interesting news. "The little girl isn't much bigger than me. She sings and the boy plays the mandolin. Please give me some money for them, Papa. They look very poor; they haven't any shoes or stockings on."

"I have known boys who preferred going without shoes and stockings to wearing them," said Mr. Barton, laughing, but he handed Maisie some small coins, and the little girl once more disappeared from view.

"Hark!" exclaimed Auntie Belle, in a tone of sudden interest; "listen to that child's singing."

They were all silent for a moment, and through the open window came the sound of a child's voice, singing a little French ballad. It was a very sweet, clear little voice, though as yet quite untrained, and there was a strange pathos in it, which touched the hearers in a way that they could hardly have explained.

"Rather better than one usually hears," Mr. Barton said, when the ballad came to an end. "It is shameful, though, that a child of that age should be allowed to go about the streets singing. She ought to be at school or at home with her mother."

Just then there was a tap at the sitting-room door, and Françoise, Maisie's French maid, appeared, with the announcement that the ponies were at the door.

"I gave them the money, but I don't think they were very polite," remarked Maisie, coming from the balcony at Françoise's summons. "The boy took off his hat, but the little girl didn't even smile, and she never looked up once."

"Perhaps she has never been taught to be polite," said Mrs. Barton. "Now run along, my darling, and have a pleasant drive. Don't stay out late, and do be careful of those dreadful motor cars."

Ten minutes later, Maisie, seated by Françoise's side in the pony cart, was driving the pretty little pair of cobs down the boulevard in the direction of the sea. A small boy in livery occupied the seat behind, but beyond an occasional word to the ponies, he had nothing to do. Maisie had always lived in the country, and had ridden her first pony when she was five. Although only just ten, she could already both drive and ride better than many people twice her age. She had always cared more for animals than for toys, and the leaving her pony and other pets had been one of the hardest things about going abroad for the winter. It had been a great delight to her, when, on their arrival at Nice—where they expected to spend several weeks—her father had hired the little pair of cobs for her use, and the afternoon drives into the country, or along the esplanade by the sea, were by far the pleasantest hours of the day.

To-day she chose the esplanade. It was a glorious afternoon; the air was soft and balmy, and felt much more like April than December. The sea was very calm, but the little waves danced and sparkled in the sunshine. Françoise—who loved everything connected with her native land—was enchanted, and asked Maisie if she did not think it was "magnifique," but Maisie—who was still feeling rather aggrieved on the subject of Christmas—replied crossly that she thought Morristown was much prettier, and the maid was forced to fall back on the small groom for sympathy. Antoine had spent three winters in Nice, and was quite ready to talk about the attractions of the place, and he and Françoise became so enthusiastic, and repeated the words "magnifique" and "charmante" so many times that Maisie grew quite tired of hearing them.

"I wish you'd talk about something else," she said at last. Maisie had had French nurses all her life, and spoke that language quite as fluently as her own.

"You have no love for the beautiful," said Françoise, severely.

"I have, too, but I get tired hearing people always talking about the same thing. I'm not going to stay here any longer. I'm going to buy Christmas presents." And she resolutely turned the ponies' heads in a homeward direction.

"Your mamma does not wish you to shop in the afternoon," remonstrated Françoise; "she says you are to be out in the fresh air."

"I don't like the fresh air, and I've got twenty francs that papa gave me yesterday to buy Christmas presents with. Next Saturday will be Christmas, though I don't see how it can be with all the roses out, and last year I shopped every day for two whole weeks."

Françoise was still inclined to object, but Maisie was in one of her obstinate fits, and the argument was threatening to become a serious one, when the little girl's attention was attracted by something, which for the moment directed her thoughts into a new channel.

"Look at that little girl crying on the bench," she exclaimed, with suddenly aroused interest. "She's bigger than I am; I should think she'd be ashamed to have people see her crying in the street. Why, I do believe it's the same little girl who was singing in front of the hotel just before we went out! What's the matter, Antoine?" For Antoine had suddenly uttered a startled exclamation, and half risen in his seat.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle, but might I be permitted to speak to the little girl for a moment? It is poor little Celeste Noel, and she is alone."

"Why shouldn't she be alone?" Maisie inquired, as she brought the ponies to a stand-still. "She must be ten or eleven."

"Because she is blind, and it always frightens her to be left alone."

"Blind! Oh, how sad! I think I will go and speak to her too."

"Indeed you will do nothing of the kind, Mademoiselle Maisie," cried Françoise, indignantly. "Your mamma would never—"

But already Maisie, with characteristic impetuosity, had sprung out of the pony cart, throwing the reins to Françoise, and the maid, who did not like driving, and was in constant fear of the horses running away, was too frightened to finish her sentence. Meantime Antoine had already reached the bench, on which the little blind girl was crouched, her face buried in her hands, shaking from head to foot with sobs. He was quickly followed by Maisie.

"What is the matter?" she inquired in her pretty, fluent French, before Antoine had had time to utter a word, and she laid a kind little hand on one of the blind child's shoulders.

She laid a kind little hand on one of the blind child's shoulders.

At the sound of the friendly voice, the little girl lifted her head, and an expression of relief came into her face. It was a pretty, pathetic little face, in spite of the tear stains, and there was nothing repulsive or painful in the sight of the downcast eyes.

"Pierre has left me all alone," she said, with a mighty effort to check the rising sobs. "I am afraid to be alone."

"Don't cry, Celeste," said Antoine, soothingly; "you are quite safe here; nothing can harm you. Pierre will soon be back."

Celeste turned her head eagerly in the direction of the new voice.

"It is Antoine Dupont," she said eagerly; "I know your voice. Pierre said he was tired of playing for me to sing, and that I must stay here until he comes for me. He may stay away all the afternoon; he did one day last week, and I am so afraid of the horses and those terrible motor cars; they come so near and make such a dreadful noise. Besides, I am afraid Pierre will spend all the money for sweets and marbles, and there will be nothing to take home to poor Maman Remo."

Antoine's eyes flashed angrily.

"Pierre is a beast," he muttered. "If my father could catch him, he would beat him as he deserves."

"Where do you live?" inquired Maisie, whose interest and sympathy were growing stronger every moment.

"It is a long way from here; I could not possibly go there myself."

"No, of course you couldn't, but we could take you in the pony cart, if Antoine knows the way. Would you like to go with us?"

"It is little Mademoiselle Barton," Antoine explained. "She drives the cobs. I told you about her the other day."

Celeste's face brightened perceptibly.

"I remember," she said, "the little American girl, with the long soft hair, that you said you would like to have me feel. Yes, I will go with you. You are very kind; you gave Antoine chocolates, and he gave them to me."

Antoine blushed at this mention of his generosity, but Maisie was pleased.

"Antoine is a nice boy," she said, approvingly, "and I will give him some more chocolates when we go home. I have a whole box full, that Auntie Belle gave me yesterday. I will send you some, too, if you like them. Now come along."

Celeste rose promptly, and held out her hand, and as Maisie took it, and led the way to the waiting pony cart, her heart was suddenly filled with a great pitying tenderness, such as she had never felt before in her life, and she felt suddenly as if she wanted to cry.

At the sight of Maisie returning with her strange companion, Françoise once more found her voice.

"Leave that child alone, and get in at once, Mademoiselle Maisie," she commanded. "You are a very naughty little girl, and I shall certainly tell your mamma what you have done. Antoine, come here this instant, and hold these ponies. You know it terrifies me to be left alone with a horse."

Antoine, feeling considerably conscience-smitten, sprang to the ponies' heads, but Maisie had no intention of relinquishing her charge.

"I'm going to take the little blind girl home," she explained. "Her brother ran away and left her, and she is frightened. Please move up, Françoise, so she can sit between us on the seat."

"Indeed you will do nothing of the kind," returned Françoise, decidedly. "Your mamma would never allow it. Take the child back to the bench where you found her, and then we must go on. It is getting late, and we must hurry if you wish to shop before going home."

But Maisie did not move.

"The little girl is blind, Françoise," she said, reproachfully, "and she is frightened. I know papa and mamma wouldn't mind my taking her home. They like to have me do kind things for people. Please let us take her. Antoine knows her."

Françoise wavered. She was not really an unkind woman, and she noticed that, although very poorly dressed, the little blind girl was not at all dirty. But now, to the surprise of every one, it was Celeste herself who drew back.

"I—I would rather not go, please," she said, her cheeks crimsoning, and she took a few quick steps backward, in the direction of the bench where she had been sitting.

"Why not?" inquired Maisie, in surprise, and she grasped her new friend's hand still more firmly.

"The lady does not want me. I would rather wait here for Pierre. Please take me back to the bench."

"There, you see, Françoise, you have hurt her feelings," cried Maisie, indignantly. "Please do come, Celeste; I want you very much, and so does Françoise. You do want her, don't you, Françoise?"

"Yes, come, my child," said the maid, in a much gentler tone, and she made room for Celeste to sit beside her on the seat. "Now, Antoine, if you know where the little girl lives, direct us there at once."

Thus urged, Celeste though still looking a little uncomfortable, allowed herself to be lifted into the cart, and in accordance with Antoine's directions, Maisie turned the ponies' heads, and they trotted away towards the home of her little protégée.

"Does your brother often leave you like that?" Maisie inquired, sympathetically, as the little blind girl settled back in her seat, with a sigh of unmistakable enjoyment.

"Pierre is not my brother; he is Maman Remo's boy. My brother would never be so cruel. He was always kind, and once he beat a boy who teased me."

"Why does your brother let you go out with that horrid Pierre—why doesn't he take you himself?"

A shadow crept into the child's face, and her lip trembled.

"He is not here," she said, sadly. "He went away four years ago, to seek his fortune, and he has never come back since."

"To seek his fortune?" repeated Maisie, looking puzzled. "I thought it was only in fairy tales that people did that. Where did he go?"

Celeste shook her head.

"I do not know," she said. "Maman Remo thinks he may have gone to America. We have never heard from him since he went away. He told Maman Remo he would not come back until he had made his fortune."

"And who is Maman Remo?"

"She is the lady who has taken care of me ever since my own maman died. She promised Louis she would let me stay with her until he came back."

"And is she kind—do you love her?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, she is very kind, and I love her very much. She was so good to my poor maman when she was ill, and so was Papa Remo, too, but he is dead now. He was run over by a motor car, two years ago, in Paris. That is why I am so afraid of them. We lived in Paris then, and Papa and Maman Remo had a house where they took lodgers. There was a shop on the first floor, and they sold beautiful flowers. But after papa was killed maman could not pay the rent, and so we came here to Nice, and she does washing for the people in the hotels, and Pierre and I earn money, too."

"I know you do," said Maisie eagerly. "I heard you sing in front of our hotel this afternoon. I threw you some pennies, and I wondered why you never looked up or smiled, as the other musicians do."

Celeste flushed. "That was because I could not see you, and Pierre does not always tell me when people throw pennies. He is afraid I will keep the account, and tell Maman Remo if he does not bring all the money home."

"Pierre must be a very bad boy," said Maisie, with conviction.

"I am afraid he is not always good, and it is a great pity, because his mother loves him so much, and it makes her so unhappy when he does mean, bad things."

"When did you first come to live with Maman Remo?" inquired Maisie, who was beginning to find this new acquaintance very interesting.

"It was five years ago, just after my own papa died, that maman and Louis and I came to her house to live. My papa was a great singer. He had a wonderful voice, and he sang at the opera in Paris. But he caught a terrible cold one winter, and lost his voice, and after that we were very poor. He was ill for a long time, and maman nursed him, and after he died she was ill too. Maman Remo says it was because she had worked so hard to nurse papa and take care of us all. She used to sew all day to earn money for us, and they paid her so little at the shops. She lived a year after we came to the Remo's, and then she died too, and Louis and I were left alone. Louis used to help in the shop, but he never liked it. He had a beautiful voice; even more beautiful than papa's, and he loved music better than anything else in the world. So when maman was dead, he went away to seek his fortune."

"It's very interesting," said Maisie; "it sounds just like a story. Why doesn't your brother ever write to you or let you know where he is?"

"He would not know where to write. You see, there was no way of telling him when we left Paris, after Papa Remo was killed. Maman Remo cannot write."

"How queer," said Maisie. "I thought all grown-up people could write. Suppose your brother comes home some time, and wants to find you; how will he be able to do it?"

"I do not know," said Celeste, mournfully. "It is very sad, and I often cry about it. I am sure he will come some time, and if he does not find us he will be so unhappy, for he was always good, and we loved each other very much."

The little blind girl looked so sad and distressed, that Maisie thought it might be as well to change the subject, so, after they had both been silent for a moment, and Antoine had given a direction about the next turning, she inquired whether Celeste was not glad Christmas was so near.

"Oh, yes, very glad," said the child, her face brightening. "I love Christmas. Maman used to say I must always love it, because my name, Celeste Noel, means Celestial Christmas."

"I think it is a beautiful name," said Maisie, much impressed. "I wish mine were half as pretty, but it's just plain Mary Barton, though everybody calls me Maisie. Do you always have a good time on Christmas?"

"I used to have beautiful times when maman was alive, and Louis was at home, and even now I love it very much."

"What are you going to do this year?" Maisie inquired, with interest.

"Oh, Maman Remo will take me to High Mass at the cathedral, and the music will be beautiful. I think I love music as much as Louis does, though I have not his wonderful voice. In the afternoon perhaps she will take me to the concert in the Public Gardens. She is too busy to take me other days, and Pierre does not like music, though he plays the mandolin for me to sing, but no one ever works on Christmas, not even Maman Remo."

"And don't you expect any presents? I thought everybody had some kind of presents on Christmas."

"I used to have presents when maman and Louis were here, but Maman Remo is very poor; she has no money to spend for such things."

Maisie was silent for a moment. The thought of a Christmas without presents was such a new one, that it took time to accustom herself to it. She really could not imagine what such a Christmas would be like. Then another idea flashed into her mind, and she inquired, eagerly—

"But suppose you knew you were to have a present—what would you rather have than anything else?"

"I know what I would like best, but I could never have it; it is too expensive."

"What is it? Do please tell me."

"The little statue of the Blessed Mother with the Baby Jesus in her arms. It is in the window of a shop on the Boulevard Messina. Pierre told me about it, and one day we went into the shop, and the man was very kind. He let me hold it in my hand, it was so beautiful to feel the dear Mother's face and the precious Baby's. I would rather have it than anything else in the world."

"And how much does it cost?" Maisie asked anxiously.

"Oh, a great deal of money; nearly twenty francs. Certainly we could never buy such a beautiful thing."

"Twenty francs is four dollars, isn't it?" said Maisie reflectively. "Four dollars isn't very much. I spent five for mamma's Christmas present last year, and nearly six for papa's."

Celeste's astonishment was almost too great for words.

"You Americans must be very rich indeed," she said. "We heard about how rich you were. That is why Louis wanted to go to America to seek his fortune."

"There are a good many poor people in America, too," said Maisie. "I think there must be poor people everywhere. I think I would rather be poor in Nice than in New York. New York is such a big, noisy place, but Morristown, where my home is, is lovely."

Celeste began to look troubled again.

"I hope Louis is not very poor," she said, in a tone of real distress. "Sometimes I am so afraid he may be, even poorer than we are. I lie awake thinking about it at night."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said practical Maisie. "He may not be poor at all, you know, and if he isn't, you are worrying all for nothing. Auntie Belle says it is very foolish to worry about things until you are sure they are going to happen. That's what she said to mamma when I was ill last winter, and mamma thought I was getting scarlet fever. It turned out not to be scarlet fever, at all, only German measles, so Auntie Belle was quite right. How old was Louis when he went away to seek his fortune?"

"Just eighteen, and I was eight. He is ten years older than me. He is twenty-two now, and I am twelve."

"A big boy of eighteen ought to be able to take care of himself," Maisie remarked, with cheerful conviction. "I really don't believe you need worry about him. Perhaps he will be very rich when he comes home. In stories the people who go to seek their fortunes always come home rich."

"I don't think I care very much about his being rich if he is only well and strong," said Celeste, with a sigh. "I do miss him so much. Sometimes it seems as if I couldn't wait, but Maman Remo says I must pray to the good God every day, and by and by He will let Louis come home and find us."

"Oh, I am sure He will," said Maisie, "and I know Louis will be rich, too, like the people in books. I don't suppose you ever have to go to school or learn lessons, on account of being—the way you are, you know."

"No," said Celeste, "but I wish I could. I don't want to grow up ignorant like Maman Remo."

"But I don't see how you can help it; you couldn't learn to read and write like other people, could you?"

"Not just the same, but I could learn to read and write the way blind people do. If I could only go to the school for the blind in Paris, I should be so happy."

Maisie was more surprised by this remark than by anything her new friend had said yet. That any person in her senses should actually wish to go to school and to learn lessons, was a state of affairs that she had never even contemplated as the wildest possibility.

"I never heard of a school for the blind," she said, doubtfully; "is it a nice place?"

"Oh, it is a beautiful place! I was there once, when I was a very little girl. Maman and Louis went with me, and a kind gentleman took us around, and told us such interesting things. There were books full of little dots that the blind children read with their fingers, and raised maps to teach them geography, and they let me take them, and told me how they used them. And, oh, so many other wonderful things! But the best of all was the music. Some of the children played and sang for us, and it was beautiful. I wanted to stay there, but the gentleman said they did not take any children under eight, and I was only six."

"Well, you are more than eight now, so why don't you go, if you think you will like it so much?" Maisie inquired, with interest.

"Because Paris is so far away, and it costs so much money to go there. Besides there is no one to take me, and I cannot go by myself. If Louis were here, I know he would take me."

"I should think you would be glad you didn't have to go," said Maisie cheerfully. "I know I should be if I were you. You are the first girl I have ever met who was sorry because she couldn't go to school. I go to school at home, but the very best part about coming abroad this year, was that I wouldn't have to go all winter. At first mamma thought of taking a governess, and that would have been dreadful, but papa said he was sure I would learn enough travelling in different countries, so mamma changed her mind, and I only have to do history and spelling for an hour every morning with her or with Auntie Belle."

Celeste said nothing, and there was a short silence, which was broken by Antoine's direction—

"This is the street, Mademoiselle; it is the first house on the left."

They turned into a little narrow back street, lined on both sides with small, shabby houses, before the very smallest and shabbiest of which the ponies were brought to stand, and the groom sprang to the ground, and came round to the side of the cart, to help the little blind girl out.

Françoise, who had been feeling far from comfortable during the short drive, looked decidedly relieved.

"Bid the little girl good-bye at once, Mademoiselle Maisie," she said; "it is getting late."

But Maisie was in no hurry.

"Good-bye," she said, reluctantly. "Are you sure you will find some one at home? I don't like to leave you alone again."

Celeste smiled, and explained that she did not in the least mind being alone at home; it was only in the street that she was afraid.

"Besides, I am quite sure Maman Remo will be in this afternoon," she added. "She is ironing some clothes that must go back to one of the hotels to-night."

But Maisie insisted that Antoine should take the little blind girl in, and make sure that she was quite safe before leaving her. She would have greatly enjoyed going in herself, and making Maman Remo's acquaintance, but that she dared not suggest, well knowing that Françoise would never consent to such a proceeding. So she bade Celeste good-bye regretfully, and watched the little figure disappear with Antoine into the small, shabby house. In a few moments the boy returned.

"Was Maman Remo at home?" she inquired anxiously, as Antoine resumed his seat, and the ponies started off at a leisurely trot.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, and she was very angry when she heard what had happened. That Pierre of hers is a beast. No one but a beast would leave a little blind child alone in the streets like that. He deserves a good beating."

"Have you known the family long?" asked Françoise, who was, perhaps, more interested in poor little Celeste than she cared to show.

"Oh, yes, a long time. Every one knows Madame Remo, and every one is sorry for the child; she is such a dear little thing. Madame Remo works very hard, and Pierre is too lazy to be of any help. The only thing he will do is to play his mandolin for Celeste to sing, and even that he is getting tired of. You see how he treats her. Madame Remo is a very good woman; my mother respects her greatly."

"She must be a good woman to keep that child all these years," observed Françoise, sympathetically. "I do not suppose she receives a penny for it."

"No, indeed, not one. People often ask her why she does not send Celeste to the asylum, but she says she loves the child like her own, and nothing will induce her to part with her."

"Françoise," said Maisie, with sudden determination, "I'm not going shopping; I'm going straight home. I've got a beautiful plan, and I want to tell papa and mamma all about it."

Mr. and Mrs. Barton and Auntie Belle were just starting out for an afternoon walk when the pony cart drew up once more before the Hotel de Nice. With one bound, Maisie was on the sidewalk, and had seized her father's hand in both her own.

"I've found somebody, Papa," she cried, joyously. "You said a good many things might happen in a week, and one has happened already. She's a little blind girl, the same one that sang in front of the hotel this afternoon, only then I didn't know she was blind. She hasn't any father or mother, only a brother, and he's gone away to seek his fortune. She doesn't expect a single Christmas present because Maman Remo, who is a very good woman, Antoine says, is very poor, but she loves Christmas just the same, because her name is Celeste Noel, which means Celestial Christmas. The thing she wants most in the world is a little statue that costs twenty francs. I want to buy it for her, and a lot of other things besides. Please say I can. You said I could make somebody else's Christmas as merry as mine was last year. I thought I wouldn't care much about doing it at first, but I've changed my mind, and just think what a beautiful surprise it will be for poor little Celeste!"

CHAPTER II

"Are you ready, Auntie Belle?"

"I'll be ready in five minutes. Now do be quiet, Maisie, like a good girl, and let me finish this letter. I want it to catch the next mail."

Maisie heaved an impatient sigh, and shifted her position from one foot to the other. She was standing in the doorway of her aunt's room, ready dressed for a morning walk, and Auntie Belle was hurriedly finishing a letter, begun several days before, to a girl friend at home. There was a short silence, and then Maisie broke out again—

"Seems to me you are always writing letters, Auntie Belle, how can you think of so many things to say to people?"

Auntie Belle made no answer, but continued scribbling away in silence.

"I never can think of things to say when I write letters," Maisie went on, ignoring her aunt's silence. "Mamma said I must write to Grandma yesterday, and I did, but the letter was only a page long. How many pages is yours?"

"Maisie, if you don't go away and leave me to finish this letter in peace, I shall never be ready to go Christmas shopping with you this morning. I told you I would be through in five minutes, and so I will if you will only leave me alone. Do run away and talk to some one else, and I'll find you when I'm ready."

"All right, I'll go downstairs, and you can meet me in the hall, but be sure you do come in five minutes. If you don't I shall have to come and hurry you up. We've got a great deal of shopping to do this morning, and if we don't start soon we won't be through in time for lunch."

Auntie Belle murmured something unintelligible, and Maisie departed reluctantly. When her aunt came hurrying downstairs some ten minutes later, with her letter in her hand, she found the little girl in the lower hall, in earnest conversation with Madame Strobel, the pleasant-faced landlady.

"I've been telling Madame all about my plan," she explained, "and she's so interested. She knows Celeste and Maman Remo, too."

"Yes, I do indeed," said the landlady, heartily. "Madame Remo has washed for us ever since she came to Nice, and a very good and worthy woman she is. As for the little blind girl, every one is interested in her. Has Mademoiselle perhaps heard her sing?"

"Only once," said Auntie Belle, "and then it was in the distance, but I remember thinking the child had an unusually sweet voice."

"Isn't it pleasant to be doing kind things for 'worthy' people?" remarked Maisie, as she and her aunt walked down the street together. "I think it's one of the pleasantest things I've ever done. Do you know, I've decided to be a philanthropist when I grow up? It's so interesting making other people happy."

Auntie Belle laughed.

"You will have to have plenty of money if you are going to be a philanthropist," she said. "It might be as well to begin to save a little now, don't you think so?"

Maisie's bright face was clouded for a moment, and she looked a little puzzled.

"I hate saving money," she said; "there are always so many things I want to spend it for. Besides, philanthropists are always generous. I don't see how I can save my allowance and be generous at the same time."

"That is a problem which has troubled older heads than yours, I fancy," said Auntie Belle, "but I don't think I would worry about it just yet if I were you. You have had a good many plans for your future, and you know you might happen to change again. I think the last idea was to be a circus rider, wasn't it?"

Maisie felt sure her aunt was laughing at her, and as she objected to being laughed at as much as most little girls do, she hastened to change the subject by saying—

"I keep thinking of more and more things that I want for the tree. It won't do to have candles, because Celeste couldn't see them, and might burn herself if she went too near. I want her to be able to feel all the things, and even take them off the tree herself if she would like to. I suppose it must be a great comfort to a blind person to feel things, don't you?"

Auntie Belle said she supposed it must be, and Maisie chatted on happily.

"First of all, we must buy the statue, because that is the most important. Won't she be happy when she gets it? Then we must have some candy, of course, and a sachet. Françoise says she is sure Celeste would like a sachet with perfume in it. I think I'll get a bottle of cologne, too—blind people must like nice things to smell. Then I want to get a pretty little purse for her to keep her pennies in, and a pair of soft lined gloves to keep her hands warm. I suppose she's too old for toys, but perhaps we can find some pretty little things that she'd like to feel. Mamma's going to give an envelope with money in it, so Maman Remo can buy her some shoes and stockings, but I want all the other things to come from me."

Auntie Belle—who had been much interested in all she had heard of the little blind girl—was quite ready to listen, and sympathize, and the two chatted on pleasantly till they reached the Place Messina, the principal shopping district in Nice.

"It's so much more fun shopping with you than with Françoise," Maisie remarked, with a little skip of delight, as they turned into the busy thoroughfare. "I suppose I ought to be very sorry for her headache, but if she hadn't one this morning, you would have gone off somewhere with papa and mamma, and I shouldn't have had you to help me choose things. Oh, look at those Christmas trees! Don't they smell like home? I was afraid nothing over here was going to seem a bit like Christmas, but it's beginning to, just a little."

It was a glorious morning, and the Place was crowded with busy Christmas shoppers. Many of them were English and Americans, who were wintering at the gay resort, but there was a goodly sprinkling of natives as well, and it seemed to Maisie and her aunt that everybody was looking unusually happy. They had no difficulty in finding the shop with the little statues in the window and Maisie at once recognized Celeste's favorite, the Virgin Mother, with the infant Jesus in her arms.

"I want that one," she announced, before the obliging shop-keeper had time to inquire their wishes. "It costs twenty francs, I know."

The man looked surprised, and Maisie hastened to explain in her friendly way.

"The reason I know how much it costs is because a little blind girl told me. She said you were very kind, and let her take it in her hand one day. She wants it more than anything else in the world, and I'm going to give it to her for a Christmas present."

The shop-keeper's face lighted up with pleasure.

"I remember the child well," he said. "Indeed I would gladly have given her the little image, but alas! we are poor people, and cannot afford to be generous."

Maisie thought he must be a very good man, even if he could not afford to be generous, and she made several other purchases at his shop, as well as the little statue, which Auntie Belle privately considered very ugly.

It took Maisie a long time to buy all she wanted, as each article required a great deal of thought and consideration, and a good part of the morning was passed in the shops. Auntie Belle was most kind and sympathetic, but she grew a little tired after a time, and when at last Maisie's money was nearly all gone, and at least a dozen parcels had been ordered to be sent to their hotel, she proposed that they should not shop any more that morning, but go to Rumpelmeyer's, the big confectioner's, and have a cup of chocolate before going home.

"All right," agreed Maisie, readily, "and please let me treat; I've got nearly three francs left."

Auntie Belle thanked her, but insisted on doing the "treating" herself this time, and ten minutes later they were sitting at a little table, sipping delicious chocolate, with whipped cream on the top.

"My, but this is good!" exclaimed Maisie rapturously. "Do you suppose that poor little Celeste ever has anything as delicious as this?"

"Perhaps she wouldn't consider it delicious," said Auntie Belle. "I once asked a little girl in my mission class whether she liked ice cream, and she replied that it was first rate, but she liked olives and sausage better."

"What a queer taste she must have had," said Maisie, looking disgusted, "but I'm sure Celeste isn't that kind of person at all. Her father was an opera singer, and she has such pretty manners. Even Françoise says she is very refined, and you know Françoise doesn't generally care for poor children."

"I am really very anxious to see that Celeste of yours," said Auntie Belle. "From your description she must be quite a paragon."

"You can see her whenever you want to," said Maisie, eagerly. "Let's go to her house now, on the way home. I know the way, and I can invite her to the Christmas tree."

Auntie Belle glanced doubtfully at her watch.

"It's after twelve," she said; "I'm afraid there won't be time before luncheon."

"Oh, yes there will; we don't have it till half-past one, and you know papa is always late. Mamma said I might stop and ask her this afternoon, when I am out with the ponies, but it would be so much nicer to have you with me."

Auntie Belle yielded. She had really some curiosity to see the child about whom she had heard so much, and besides, she was a very good-natured girl, and was always glad to give any one pleasure.

"Very well," she said; "finish your chocolate, and we will go. I don't suppose it can be far."

Maisie replied that it was not far at all, and proceeded to drink her chocolate so fast that it burnt her tongue.

Just as they were rising to leave the shop, a party of ladies came in, one of whom recognized Auntie Belle as an old acquaintance.

"Why, if it isn't Isabel Barton!" she exclaimed in surprise, as she hurried forward, and smilingly held out her hand. "I had no idea you were here."

"I have been here for over a week," said Auntie Belle, returning her friend's greeting heartily. "I came over in November with my brother and his wife and little girl, and we expect to spend some time here before going to Italy."

"How delightful! We are here for the winter, and have taken a villa. My sister is just over typhoid, and the doctor has sent her to The Riviera to recuperate. We like it immensely here, don't you?"

Auntie Belle said she thought the place beautiful, but rather quiet so early in the season.

"It is rather early for gaiety," her friend agreed, "but we have enjoyed every moment. Of course you have been to the opera."

Auntie Belle replied that they had not been as yet, but that her brother had promised to take them some evening, whereupon her friend—who was an enthusiastic young person—launched forth on an account of a wonderful performance that she and her family had witnessed the previous night.

"You must go," she declared, "if only for the sake of hearing that wonderful young tenor. His voice is simply divine, and every one is wild about him. He made his début in Paris in the autumn, and I believe Hammerstein has engaged him to sing in New York next season. He isn't much more than a boy, and the best-looking creature you ever saw."

"Would you like to be a tenor, Auntie Belle?" Maisie asked, when she and her aunt had at last escaped from the talkative young lady, and were hurrying along the street in the direction of the shabby little house where Celeste Noel lived with Maman Remo.

Auntie Belle laughed heartily. "You funny child," she said; "why in the world should I want to be a tenor?"

"Why, because every one would admire you, and come crowding to hear you sing. I should love to have people admire me. Could a lady be a tenor if she was very fond of music, and studied very hard?"

"Hardly, but she might be a soprano, which I should think would be equally satisfactory."

"Perhaps that is what Celeste will be," said Maisie reflectively. "She has a beautiful voice, and so has her brother Louis, and her father was an opera singer before he caught cold and lost his voice."

Auntie Belle admitted that it might be possible, and then she asked a question about something else, and no more was said on the subject of singers. A brisk walk of ten minutes brought them to the little back street Maisie remembered, and Auntie Belle looked about her with considerable interest. She was used to poverty at home, having spent some months in a New York settlement, and it surprised her to find how much more thrifty foreigners of a similar class appeared to be. Poor and small as these houses were, each one was occupied by a single family, and in many windows she saw blooming plants, while some even boasted a canary in a gilt cage.

"This is where she lives," announced Maisie, pausing before the door through which she had watched the little blind girl disappear two days before. "There doesn't seem to be any door-bell, so I suppose we'd better knock. Oh, listen; she's singing."

One of the windows was open, and through it could be distinctly heard the sound of a clear, childish voice singing an old Christmas Carol. "Noel, Noel, tous chantantes!" Auntie Belle loved music dearly, and both played and sang herself. And as she listened to the little blind girl's singing, her expression changed from good-natured curiosity to real interest.

"That child has a beautiful voice," she said, decidedly; "she should not be allowed to strain it."

Maisie was delighted. "I told you what a lovely voice she had," she said triumphantly; "now you see it's true."

Just then Celeste's song came to an end, and the sound of a broom could be heard.

"Maman Remo must be sweeping," said Maisie. "I hope she won't mind our coming before she's finished her work."

Auntie Belle said she did not believe Maman Remo would mind being disturbed, and promptly knocked at the door. There was a moment's silence, then footsteps approached, and the door was opened by the little blind girl herself.

"How do you do, Celeste?" said Maisie, in her friendly way. "I'm Maisie Barton, the girl who brought you home in the pony-cart the other day."

Celeste's face was suddenly irradiated by the brightest of smiles.

"I know you," she cried, eagerly; "I remember your voice. Will you please come in?"

"My aunt is here, too," Maisie explained. "I brought her to see you."

Celeste turned her bright welcoming face in the direction where she believed the stranger to be, and held out her hand.

"It was very kind of you to come," she said, in her pretty, refined little voice. "I am sorry Maman Remo is out."

"We have come to see you," said the young lady, kindly, and she took the little outstretched hand and held it. Auntie Belle spoke French as well as Celeste herself, for she had been educated at a Paris boarding-school.

Celeste led the way into the house, which appeared to consist of but one room on the first floor, and drew two chairs for her visitors. Maisie gazed at her in astonishment, for the little blind girl moved about with as much ease as any seeing person, and appeared to know just where to find everything she wanted. There was a large hole in the bottom of one chair, and the other was also sadly the worse for wear. Maisie was sure she had never seen such a poorly furnished room, but Auntie Belle, accustomed to the homes of poor people at home, took in all the details at a glance, and noticed with satisfaction that the little house was scrupulously neat. Celeste was also neat, though her calico dress had two large darns in the skirt, and her feet were bare.

"We heard some one sweeping before we knocked," remarked Maisie, curiously. "We thought it must be Maman Remo."

"Oh, no, Maman Remo has gone down to the river to wash. I am all alone, but I am never afraid of being alone in the house."

Maisie glanced at the broom, which had been hastily thrust into a corner and her wonder and interest grew.

"Can you really sweep?" she demanded, incredulously.

"Oh, yes, I can do many things. Maman Remo will not let me touch the stove for fear of being burned, but I sweep and wash the dishes, and make the beds."

"You are the most wonderful person I ever heard of," said Maisie, in a tone of conviction. "I always thought blind people just sat still all the time unless somebody led them about."

Celeste's laugh rang out merrily. She had a very musical laugh, and there was something contagious in it, for before they quite realized it, Auntie Belle and Maisie were both laughing, too.

"You should see the children at the school in Paris," said Celeste, when she had recovered her gravity. "They can do many more things than I. The girls sew and knit, and the boys do carpenter's work. Then you should hear them at their recreation. They shout and laugh, and chase each other about the garden. My brother said he had never seen boys play games better than they do."

"It must be a wonderful place," said Maisie, much impressed. "I am going to ask papa to take me there the next time we are in Paris. I shouldn't think it would be so very bad to be blind, after all."

A shadow crossed Celeste's bright face.

"It may not be so bad if one has money and people to take one about," she said, gravely, "but it is hard to be always dependent upon some one who does not want the trouble."

"Do you mean Pierre?" inquired Maisie, with a sudden recollection of what the little blind girl had told her about Maman Remo's boy.

Celeste nodded, and her lip quivered slightly.

"Pierre always hated taking me about," she said, "but there was no one else to do it, for poor Maman Remo is busy all day long. Now Pierre has run away, and I don't know how I am ever going to earn any more money."

"Run away?" repeated Maisie. "What a dreadful thing! What made him do it?"

"He has been threatening to do it for a long time. He wants to go to sea and be a sailor. We hoped he would not really go, at least not until he is older, for he is only fifteen, but the day he left me alone on the Promenade Anglaise, and you brought me home, Maman Remo was very angry, and she threatened to beat him if he ever did such a thing again, Pierre was furious, and went out, saying he would never come back. Maman Remo did not believe him at first, but when night came, and he did not come home, she was frightened, and at last she went out to look for him, but she could not find him, and when she came back again I heard her crying for a long time. That was two days ago, and Pierre has never come home since and now we are sure he has really gone for good. A man, Maman Remo knows, thinks he saw him far out on the road that leads to Marseilles, where the big ships are, but it is such a long way off, maman is afraid he may die of hunger before he reaches there."

"He is such a bad boy that I shouldn't think she would care very much what happened to him," said Maisie. But Celeste looked quite horrified.

"I think all mothers must love their children whether they are bad or good," she said. "Maman Remo loves Pierre, bad as he is, just as much as my own maman loved Louis, who was the best boy in the world. It has nearly broken her heart to have him run away like this. I would not mind myself, for Pierre was often very unkind, but now that he is gone there is no one to take me to sing in front of the hotels. I cannot earn any more money, and we need money so much."

"We heard you singing before we came in," said Maisie, "and Auntie Belle said you had a beautiful voice."

"I did indeed think so," said Auntie Belle, kindly. It was the first time she had spoken since coming into the little house, but it was never easy to break in upon Maisie's chatter, and she had really been interested in the conversation of the children. "I think you have a very sweet voice, and I hope that you may be able to have it properly trained when you are older."

Celeste looked much flattered.

"If I could go to the school for the blind," she said, "I could have regular singing lessons. That was one reason why maman and Louis were so anxious to send me there."

"Perhaps you will be a soprano when you grow up," remarked Maisie, glad of an opportunity of airing her new word. "You can't be a tenor because you are a girl. There is a very wonderful tenor singing at the opera here now. A young lady was telling Auntie Belle about him this morning."

"I know," said Celeste, eagerly; "I have heard of him, too. Madame Dupont—Antoine's mother—goes to the opera sometimes, and she heard him last week. She says he has the voice of an angel. Oh, what would I not give to hear him!"

"Have you ever been to the opera?" Maisie inquired, wonderingly. To her the opera was merely a rather tiresome place, where people were obliged to sit very still, and not even whisper, and where little girls were sometimes taken on Saturday afternoons, because their mammas hoped it might improve their taste in music. Celeste, however, appeared to have different ideas about it.

"No, I have never been," she said, regretfully. "I was too little to go when my papa sang there, and it is much too expensive for Maman Remo. Perhaps I shall go some day, if Louis ever comes home, for he loves the opera better than any other place in the world, and I am sure I should love it, too."

Maisie looked doubtful.

"Perhaps you might be disappointed," she said, "I was disappointed the first time mamma took me, but then I can't sing, and perhaps that makes all the difference."

At this moment Auntie Belle glanced at her watch, and rose to go.

"I am afraid we cannot stay any longer, Maisie," she said, "or we shall be late for luncheon. Don't forget to tell Celeste what you came for."

"Of course I won't forget," said Maisie, laughing; "I was just keeping it for the last. Celeste, I came to invite you to my Christmas Tree. We are going to have it on Christmas morning at eleven o'clock."

"A Christmas Tree!" gasped Celeste, clasping her hands rapturously. "Oh, how beautiful! I have never been to a Christmas Tree, but I have smelled of them in the street."

"Well, I hope you will do something more than smell one this time," said Maisie. "Mamma says she will be glad to see Maman Remo, too, if she can bring you. I think she knows our landlady, Madame Strobel."

"Oh, yes, Madame Strobel is our good friend, and I am sure Maman will bring me, for she never washes on Christmas. But—but—you are so good; is there not something I can do for you?"

"I don't want anything—" began Maisie, but Auntie Belle, noticing the child's eager, wistful expression, hastened to add kindly—

"You can do something for us now if you will. Let us hear one song before we go. We have only time for one."

Celeste was charmed, and standing with folded hands, and a look of quiet rapture on her face, she sang the beautiful Christmas song, beginning "Noel, Joyeuse Noel."

There were tears in Auntie Belle's eyes when the little blind girl had finished her song, and the tone in which she thanked her was not quite steady.

"Isn't she interesting and wonderful and dear?" burst out Maisie, the moment Maman Remo's door had closed behind them, and her aunt answered heartily—

"She is one of the sweetest children I have ever seen, and I am sure your papa will be fascinated by her voice."

CHAPTER III

It was Christmas Eve. All day the rain had fallen in a steady down-pour, but at about four o'clock the wind had suddenly changed, the sky cleared, and Nice had been treated to one of the glorious sunsets for which the place is famous. The wind blew in sharp gusts through the streets, giving an almost wintry feeling to the air, and Maisie, who had gone out for a brisk walk with her father, gave little skips of delight, declaring that it was really beginning to feel like Christmas.

But in Maman Remo's tiny house, where the wind found its way through every crack, it was not so pleasant. Indeed, it was most uncomfortably chilly, for the fire in the stove had gone out, and there was nobody to relight it. Maman Remo had not yet come home, and Celeste had been forbidden to go near the stove. When Pierre was at home he usually attended to the fire, but now the little blind girl was quite alone. It was growing dark, too, but that Celeste did not notice, for to her night and day were all the same, but the afternoon had seemed unusually long, and she was beginning to wonder what could have kept Maman Remo out so late.

"It cannot possibly have taken her all this time to bring home the clean clothes to the hotels," she said to herself. "I wish she would come."

But there was nothing to be gained by wishing, and so, being a practical little person, not given to fretting over what could not be helped, Celeste tried to think of something else. To-morrow would be Christmas, and she would go to the little American girl's Christmas Tree. How pleased Maman Remo had been to hear of the invitation! "Then you will have a happy Christmas, my little one," she had said. "Certainly I will take you to the hotel, and chat with the good Madame Strobel until you are ready to return." It was very kind of Maman Remo to be so much interested, for this would be a very sad Christmas to her. Troublesome and disobedient as Pierre had often been, his mother loved him dearly, and the thought of her only child wandering penniless through the country, perhaps suffering from cold and hunger, was a very terrible one to the poor woman. Celeste could hear her crying every night when she thought the child was asleep, and she found that it would not do to think much about Maman Remo if she wanted to be cheerful on Christmas Eve. So she fell back on her one never failing resource when she was sad or gay; she began to sing. She chose the gayest song she knew, and again, as on the day when Maisie and her aunt had made their call, the strains of "Noel, Noel, tous chantantes Noel!" echoed through the little house. When she reached the end of her song, she sang it over again. Indeed, she sang it half a dozen times, for it was one of her favorites, and she did not want to sing any but Christmas songs on Christmas Eve. But at last her throat grew tired, and she felt that she could not sing any more. Then it was very quiet in the little house. Outside the wind whistled and howled, shaking the crazy windows in their frames, but inside the only sound to break the stillness was the ticking of the old wooden clock. Celeste could hear the ticking, but she could not see the time. A mouse scuttled across the floor, with a little squeak, and the child shivered, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. She was never afraid to be left alone in the house in the day-time, but after dark it was different, and she felt sure it must be after dark now. What could be keeping Maman Remo out so late?

At last her quick ear caught the sound of an approaching footstep; the handle of the door was turned, and some one came in.

"Maman Remo," cried Celeste, joyfully, "is it Maman Remo?"

"Surely, my little one; who else should it be? I am sorry to be so late, but I was detained. Were you afraid?"

"Oh, no," said Celeste cheerfully, "not really afraid, but a little anxious. Your voice sounds tired, Maman."

"Ah, yes, I am tired—very tired, and it is cold. I will hasten to light the fire."

"How I wish I could do it for you while you rest," said Celeste, regretfully. But Maman Remo shook her head.

"No, no, that is strictly forbidden," she said, with decision. "Remember the poor blind woman Madame Dupont told us about, who was burned to death trying to light a fire, that her husband and son should find a warm house. Ah, but I am sorry you have been cold, my little one."

"It has not been so bad," Celeste assured her, "and it will soon be warm now. Where have you been to keep you so late?"

"I have told you I was detained. Children should not ask questions. Now bring me the matches and some wood, that you can do without danger."

Maman Remo's tone was cheerful, but perhaps it was as well that Celeste could not see how white and tired her face looked. The child ran eagerly for the matches, and the woman bent over the stove, trying to warm herself at the burned out embers. There was a worried, almost frightened look in her eyes, and in spite of all her efforts to appear as usual, the little blind girl felt sure something was wrong.

She stood by in silence while Maman Remo lighted the lamp, and started the fire, and the troubled look deepened in her own face.

"Have you had any news of Pierre to-day?" she inquired, timidly, when the fire had been coaxed into a blaze, and she and Maman Remo were warming themselves before it.

"Not one word. I fear he has left us forever—my poor Pierre."

Maman Remo heaved a sigh, but her voice sounded preoccupied, and Celeste feared it could not be only anxiety about Pierre that was troubling her kind friend to-night.

"Are we going to the midnight mass?" she asked, after a moment's pause.

Maman Remo started as if the question had brought her thoughts back from somewhere a long way off.

"Midnight mass," she repeated, vaguely. "Ah, surely, I had forgotten. Would it disappoint you very much to stay at home to-night, my little one? It is cold and I am very tired."

"Oh, no," said Celeste, eagerly, "I should not mind at all. I am sorry you are so tired, dear Maman; I am afraid you work too hard."

"It is not the work that troubles me," said Maman Remo, with another sigh. "I have worked hard all my life. If I can only keep my health, I shall not mind anything else."

"Are you not well, then—have you the pain in your back again?" Celeste spoke quickly, and her face grew very grave.

But Maman Remo did not seem disposed to talk about herself. With an effort she shook off the weariness or depression which seemed to be troubling her, and without answering Celeste's question, she began hurrying about preparing the frugal supper of brown bread and milk, which composed their usual evening meal. Celeste was very quiet all through supper, but oddly enough, Maman Remo, who was usually so quick to notice the child's every mood, did not seem to observe it. She was really disappointed about the midnight mass, to which she had been looking forward for weeks, but she did not want Maman Remo to know she cared. Then, too, she was worried, though she could not have explained why even to herself. It was very strange to hear Maman Remo, who had always been so strong, complain of being tired. Was it only the anxiety about Pierre that was troubling her, or was there some other cause, of which she, Celeste, knew nothing? She had always been old for her age—many blind children are—and perhaps few little girls of twelve are often visited by such serious reflections as those which troubled Celeste on that Christmas Eve.

"You do not eat your supper. Are you not hungry this evening?"

Maman Remo's tone sounded impatient, but it was the impatience of anxiety.

"I am not very hungry," Celeste answered, laying down her spoon. "I am never so hungry when I have stayed in the house all day."

"Perhaps you tire of the same food every day, but meat is so dear this winter."

"I do not care for meat," Celeste protested. "Have you eaten a good supper yourself?"

"Oh, good enough. It does not matter about me, but you must not lose your appetite. When I was your age I could eat nails."

"Nails would be very bad for the digestion," said Celeste, laughing. "But if you have finished, may I not clear the table and wash the dishes?"

Maman Remo said she might, and while Celeste bustled about, busy with the little household tasks she loved, the woman watched her sadly, with an expression in her eyes that it was well the little blind girl could not see. Once two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, only to be hastily brushed away, with a muttered exclamation, "What am I coming to? Crying at my time of life!" And then she rose hurriedly, and insisted on helping Celeste with the dishes.

Celeste was relieved to find her friend more like herself, and in her relief she began to sing. Maman Remo winced as the first words of "Noel, Joyeuse Noel," awoke the echoes in the little house, but before Celeste had reached the last verse, a look of something like peace had come into the woman's troubled face.

"Sing something else," she said; "I like to hear you." And Celeste, delighted at the request, sang song after song for the next half hour, at the end of which time Maman Remo sent her to bed.

"You must sleep well so as to be ready for the little American girl's Christmas Tree," she said, kindly.

Celeste smiled reassuringly.

"I should be ready for that even if I sat up all night," she said. "Oh, Maman dearest, won't it be beautiful? I cannot touch the candles, certainly, but I shall feel their warmth on my face, and smell the good smell. There will be chocolates on the tree, I am sure, and perhaps the little American will give me some to take home, like those she gave Antoine. And I shall wear my Sunday dress, and my shoes and woolen stockings. Oh, to-morrow will be a happy day, will it not, Maman?"

"Yes, yes, certainly; why should it not be, except that my Pierre is away?"

There was no trouble or anxiety on Celeste's face when she bade Maman Remo good-night, and climbed the narrow, rickety stairs to the loft where the family slept. She was only a little girl, after all, and it was the night before Christmas. But when she had undressed, and crept into the hard little bed that she shared with Maman Remo, sleep did not come as it usually did the moment her head touched the pillow. It was colder than usual, for one thing, and the blankets were not thick. She shivered and drew the thin coverings closer, but still sleep did not come. What was it that was worrying Maman Remo? Was it only anxiety about Pierre, or was there something else besides? What would become of them if maman should ever be ill, especially now that Pierre had gone away? She was glad for her own part that Pierre had gone, for he had never been kind, but maman loved him. Besides, if Pierre did not come back, there would be no one to take her to the hotels to sing, and to play her accompaniments. It was very sad to be blind and poor at the same time. What a mistake the little American girl had made when she said she did not think it was so bad to be blind! If she were not blind she would not need Pierre to take her about. She could go by herself, and earn money to help maman. But the little American girl was rich, and rich people never understood such things. She had never been rich, but once, long ago, when her papa sang in the Paris opera, they had not been so poor. She could just remember the pretty, comfortable little home, with her mamma looking so pretty and gay, and Louis coming home from his lessons at the conservatory. Maman Remo said it was because her papa had been extravagant that they had lost all their money, and that her mamma had had to work so hard. It was all very sad and perplexing. She was sure that if she ever had money she would not be extravagant. Not that it was likely she ever would have any, unless Louis came home rich, as the little American had said he might. But that same little American had told her there were many poor people in America. Oh, how she did hope Louis was not very poor! He was so big and strong and handsome—it did not seem possible that he could be so very poor. If the good God would only let Louis come home, what care he would take of her and of Maman Remo too, and how happy they would all be.

When Celeste's reflections reached this point, her eyelids began to droop, and she was just dropping off into a doze, when she was startled wide awake again by the sound of a knock at the house door. It was such an unusual thing for Maman Remo to have visitors at that late hour, that Celeste sat up in bed, and listened, wondering who it could possibly be. She heard maman go to the door, and then followed the sound of voices, maman's, and that of another woman, which she recognized at once as Madame Dupont's. Madame Dupont was Antoine's mother, and a great friend of Maman Remo's. Celeste lay down again, with a feeling of relief. She did not know what she had feared, but was glad it was only Madame Dupont. But the knock had thoroughly aroused her, and she lay listening to the voices in the room beneath. There was a hole in the floor of the loft, into which she and Maman Remo had to be careful not to step, so that it was really quite impossible to help hearing every word that was spoken in the room downstairs.

Maman Remo had brought her visitor to a seat near the stove, and was expressing surprise that Madame Dupont should be out so late.

"I shall be up late to-night on account of the midnight mass," her friend explained, "and I thought I would just stop to wish you Joyeuse Noel. I have brought you a bit of meat for to-morrow's dinner. I found I had more than I needed, and it seemed a pity to waste it."

Celeste smiled when she heard this, for she was fond of meat. "Oh, the good Madame Dupont," she murmured, "how generous she is!"

Maman Remo thanked her friend heartily for the meat, but there was the same strange, tired sound in her voice that had troubled Celeste, and Madame Dupont noticed it, too. She noticed something else, which Celeste could not see, and that was how white and worn her good friend was looking, but she had heard of Pierre's running away, and thought she knew the reason.

"Where is Celeste?" she questioned cheerfully, anxious to keep the conversation in safe and pleasant channels.

"In bed and asleep long ago, poor little one."

"You are not taking her to mass, then? She is so fond of the music, I thought she would certainly go with you."

"I am not going myself to-night," said Maman Remo, with a sigh.

"Not going! And it is Christmas Eve."

"I am very tired. I have had a hard day, and I must rest, the doctor says."

"The doctor! You have been to him at last, then?" There was eager anxiety in Madame Dupont's voice.

"Yes, I went this afternoon, before I came home."

"Well, and what did he tell you?"

"He says I must go to the hospital for an operation, and the sooner I go the more chance there is that I shall not die."

Madame Dupont threw up her hands in dismay, and began pouring forth a torrent of exclamations of sympathy. In the room above, little Celeste sat up in bed, trembling from head to foot, and straining her ears to catch every word. Maman Remo waited until her friend had finished exclaiming and sympathizing, and then she said in a dull, tired voice—

"It is a serious operation, and even when it is over I shall have to stay in the hospital for several weeks. And when I come out I shall not be strong enough to work as I have been doing for a long time. I told the doctor I would rather die."

"No, no," cried Madame Dupont, the tears of sympathy streaming down her honest face, "you must not say that; it is not right to wish to die. The good God will surely find some way to help you, and you have friends, remember, dear Madame Remo, you have friends."

"Friends are very good," said Maman Remo, gratefully, "but I would rather die than be a burden to those who have enough for themselves. There is no one of my own left to care for me. My husband is dead, Pierre has gone away, and poor little Celeste, what could she do?"

At the mention of the name Celeste, Maman Remo's voice faltered for the first time, and her sentence ended in a sob.

"It is the thought of the child that is the hardest of all to bear," she said, when she had recovered her composure. "She is such a gentle, tender little thing, and who will there be to care for her in all the months that I cannot work? I promised her mother and her brother that I would always take care of her, and I have grown to love her as my own child."

"You will have to send her to the orphan asylum," said Madame Dupont, who, though she was fond of the little blind girl, did not feel disposed to offer her a home in her already crowded house. "Truly it is not a bad place. The three little Roberts were sent there when their parents died, and they all look well and happy."

But Maman Remo only shook her head mournfully, and refused to be comforted.

"You do not know my little Celeste," she said. "She is not like ordinary children. Her mother was a lady. You should have seen her, so pretty and refined, and her father was a great singer. It is not people like that who are sent to the asylum. The child would pine away and die."

"Then what will you do with her?" Madame Dupont inquired practically.

"I do not know, and that is what is driving me mad. If I could only find her brother, but alas, I have no idea what has become of him, or if I could afford to send her to the school for the blind in Paris. She longs to go there, and she would be happy among kind people; but the ticket to Paris costs almost a hundred francs, and where could I get a hundred francs? Besides, there would be no one to take her, and the child could not take such a journey alone."

"You might borrow the hundred francs," suggested Madame Dupont, "and repay it when you are able to work again, and some one going to Paris might be willing to look after the child on the journey."

"I do not like to be in debt," said Madame Remo, proudly. "I would borrow the money for the child's sake, though, if I were sure of being able to pay it back. But suppose I should never be strong again. The doctor says I shall be as well as ever in six months if I do as he wishes, but doctors are sometimes mistaken."

Madame Dupont was very sorry for her friend, but she could not think of any other alternative, and spent the rest of her visit in assuring Maman Remo that she was not half as ill as the doctor had said, and that as soon as the operation was successfully accomplished, she would certainly be quite as strong and well as usual. Maman Remo listened, and was somewhat comforted. It was a great relief to have told her trouble to a friend, and perhaps, after all, Madame Dupont, who had brought a large family successfully through numerous illnesses, might know more about such matters than a young doctor not yet thirty.

"There is one favor that I must beg of you," she said, with a sudden recollection, when Madame Dupont at last rose to go. "Do not say anything to Celeste about this until Christmas is over. Some Americans at the Hotel de Nice have invited her to a Christmas Tree, and the child is looking forward to the day with so much pleasure. I cannot have it spoiled for her."

And Madame Dupont promised readily.

When Maman Remo came upstairs, soon after her friend had left, Celeste was lying very still, and appeared to be fast asleep, but when she had undressed and crept into bed beside the motionless little figure, the child stirred, and nestled close to her.

"Did I wake you, my little one?" Maman Remo asked, anxiously. "I thought you were sound asleep."

"No, Maman, I am not asleep. It is so cold, and—and—may I lie in your arms to-night, just as I used to do when I was little?"

"Surely you may, my child, and I will keep you warm. Thank God, it will be warmer again to-morrow; the cold does not last here as in Paris. Now go to sleep, and when you wake in the morning it will be Joyeuse Noel."

"Yes, I know," said Celeste, softly, "and I must always be happy on Christmas, on account of my name, Celeste Noel. Good-night, Maman."

"Good-night, my little one."

Maman Remo was asleep in a few minutes. She was very tired, and even anxiety could not keep her awake, but for a long, long time Celeste lay thinking.

"Oh, dear God," she whispered at last, "please, please do find a way to help us. I cannot think of one, and Maman Remo cannot either, and we are both so very unhappy. But maman must not know until Christmas is over, because it would make her so sad, and she wants me to have Joyeuse Noel."

And then the little blind girl fell asleep.

CHAPTER IV

"My dear Maisie, you know I am quite willing to consent to anything in reason. Indeed, I thoroughly approve of the Christmas Tree, and giving the little blind girl a good time, but when it comes to taking the child to the opera—I am really afraid I shall have to draw the line somewhere."

Mr. Barton set down his coffee cup, and regarded his little daughter with an expression that was half amused and dismayed. It was Christmas morning, and the Bartons were at breakfast in their sitting-room.

"But, Papa," persisted Maisie, her brow beginning to pucker into an unmistakable frown of perplexity, "you said I was to try to make this Christmas just as merry for somebody else as my friends made mine for me last year. Last Christmas was the very nicest I ever had, because you gave me my pony, and I had so many other lovely surprises. Surprises are the most interesting things about Christmas, and just think what a wonderful surprise it would be to Celeste to really go to the opera. She said she would give anything to hear that wonderful tenor, and she is sure the opera must be the most beautiful place in the world. Mamma said she would like to have me hear 'Mignon,' and there's an afternoon performance of it to-day. It would be so lovely to take Celeste to the opera on Christmas day, after the tree and ice cream, and everything. I am sure it would be giving her the very merriest Christmas a person could possibly have."

"But, Maisie darling," Mrs. Barton urged gently, "the poor little girl probably has no proper dress to wear to the opera. It might make her uncomfortable to feel that she was dressed differently from every one else."

"She wouldn't know," said Maisie. "She couldn't see how the other people were dressed, and of course nobody would tell her. Besides, you always say it doesn't matter what people wear so long as they are ladies and gentlemen at heart. I know Celeste is a lady at heart, even if she does sing in the street, and go around in bare feet."

Mrs. Barton looked a little troubled, but Auntie Belle burst into a hearty laugh.

"Seems to me, Alice," she said, "you had better give in. I believe Maisie is right when she says the poor child is a lady at heart. Just wait till you see her yourselves, and hear her sing. I don't know when I have ever been as much interested in any one as I was in that little blind girl. I'll tell you how we might arrange the matter. I know you two want to go motoring this afternoon, so suppose you let me take the kiddies to the opera. Françoise could go with us if you consider me too young to act as a proper chaperone."

Mr. Barton looked at his pretty sister and laughed.

"I believe you are as crazy about the child as Maisie herself," he said. "You are very kind to offer your services as chaperone, my dear, but I think if any one is to go to the opera this afternoon, we had better all go together. I rather like the idea of families keeping together on Christmas. 'Mignon' is a charming little opera, and I dare say we should all enjoy it. Besides, I confess I have considerable curiosity to hear this young tenor that every one is talking about. I advised Maisie to try to give somebody a merry Christmas, and now that she has set her heart on doing it, I suppose I ought to be willing to help her."

Maisie clapped her hands, and springing from her seat, ran round the breakfast table, to give her father a rapturous hug.

"I do believe this is going to be a beautiful Christmas, after all," she declared, "even if it isn't a bit like the ones at home." And she glanced rather disgustedly at the great bowl of freshly gathered roses the waiter had just brought in. "Now do let's hurry and finish breakfast, so we can put the last things on the tree."

Mrs. Barton still looked doubtful, but her husband and sister-in-law had evidently made up their minds, and as soon as the family rose from the table, Mr. Barton went away to see about securing seats for the opera.

It was a radiant morning. All the cold sharp wind of the previous night had disappeared as if by magic, and the air was as soft and balmy as June. But Maisie had little time to think of the weather that morning. Besides the opening and admiring of all her own presents, of which there were a goodly number, and the examining those of her family as well, there were the last things to be tied on the tree.

"It really does look very pretty," she remarked in a tone of satisfaction, pausing to take a final survey of her work, at a few minutes before eleven o'clock. "It looks a little queer without any candles, but it isn't bad. I wish we could have had a bigger tree, but then it couldn't have stood on the table, and Celeste couldn't have felt of it all so easily."

The tree—which was really very prettily decorated, in spite of the lack of the usual candles—had been placed on the sitting-room table, where the family took their meals.

"I wonder what she'll say when she feels the statue," said Maisie, skipping first on one foot and then on the other in her excitement. "Oh, I do wish she'd hurry; it's so hard to wait."

But Maisie did not have long to wait, for the clock had only just finished striking eleven, when there was a tap at the door, and Celeste appeared, led by a friendly waiter.

The little blind girl was looking rather pale, and was also painfully shy, this being the very first time within her remembrance, that she had ever been invited to a party. But no one could be shy for long in the presence of friendly Maisie, who flew to greet her visitor with as much warmth as if they had been friends all their lives.

"I'm so glad you are in time," she exclaimed joyfully. "I was afraid you might be late, and we've got such a lot of surprises for you. Did Maman Remo bring you? Why didn't she come up, too?"

"She brought me, but she is waiting downstairs with Madame Strobel," Celeste explained shyly.

"Oh, she needn't wait, unless she wants to spend the day with Madame Strobel, for you are going to stay with us a long time, and Françoise will take you home. You would like to stay all day, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, very much," said the little blind girl, whose shyness was rapidly melting away beneath the warmth of her new friend's greeting.

"That's all right then. Jean, please tell Madame Remo that she needn't wait, and that we will send Celeste home this evening."

The waiter departed smiling, for he, too, knew the story of little Celeste Noel, and was glad the child was going to have a holiday.

"These are my father and mother," Maisie went on, leading her visitor forward. "They are very glad to meet you, because they have heard a good deal about you from Auntie Belle and me. Auntie Belle will be here in a minute; she has just gone to speak to somebody at the telephone."

Mr. and Mrs. Barton received the little blind girl very kindly, and Mrs. Barton noticed with secret satisfaction, that, though Celeste's Sunday costume could scarcely have been called stylish, it was very neat, and the child's face and hands fairly shone from a vigorous application of soap and water.

"Now take off your things," Maisie commanded, when the introductions were over, "and then you must feel everything on the Christmas tree."

"I can smell it already," said Celeste, sniffing the air delightedly, "but may I really touch it? Won't I break something, or burn myself with the candles?"

"There aren't any candles," laughed Maisie, "and you can touch every single thing on it, for they are all yours."

The next half hour seemed to the little blind girl more like a bit out of a fairy tale than anything she had ever experienced before in her life. Mrs. Barton and Auntie Belle both had tears in their eyes, as they watched her delight over every new object that the eager little fingers touched, and even Mr. Barton found it necessary to blow his nose several times before he finally left the room rather hurriedly. When Celeste touched the statue, which Maisie had hung in the most prominent position on the tree, she started back with a little cry of astonishment.

"It is the blessed Mother with the little Jesus in her arms!" she exclaimed. "Oh, may I really take it in my hands again?"

"Oh, may I really take it?"

"Of course you may," cried Maisie, who was almost beside herself with delight and excitement. "Didn't I tell you everything on the tree was yours? You can take the statue home with you, and keep it forever."

That was almost too much for the little blind girl, and to Maisie's horror, she suddenly burst into tears.

"Oh, don't cry, please don't," cried Maisie, her brown eyes big with dismay. "You'll spoil everything if you do, and we are having such a good time."

Thus urged, Celeste dried her tears, and smiled instead, but when, a few moments later, Maisie was leading her round the table to examine new wonders, she suddenly slipped an arm about her new friend's neck and kissed her.

"I think you must be something like the angels in Heaven," she said, simply, at which astounding compliment Maisie felt herself blushing scarlet. But when all the excitement of the tree was over, and Maisie had taken her visitor to her own room, while Mrs. Barton and Auntie Belle went away to dress for the afternoon, Celeste grew suddenly very quiet. She still clasped the little statue to her heart, as if fearful that it might melt away or vanish if she put it down, but all the joy and brightness slowly faded out of her face, and a sad, anxious expression took its place.

Maisie watched her in growing anxiety, fearing she must be homesick.

"The surprises aren't nearly over yet," she explained, when she had finished showing Celeste her own presents, in which the little blind girl had not appeared quite as much interested as she had expected. "You haven't the least idea what is going to happen after luncheon."

"I think perhaps I should go home soon," Celeste said, anxiously. "Maman Remo is all alone."

"Oh, but you can't go home till after the—I mean till quite late," protested Maisie, feeling more certain than ever that her guest was suffering from homesickness. "I am sure Maman Remo won't mind your staying. She will love hearing all about everything afterwards. Mamma always loves hearing about my good times when I come home."

But Celeste still looked sad and unconvinced.

"Your maman is different," she said. "She is a rich lady, and I don't suppose rich ladies are ever lonely and unhappy."

"Oh, yes they are," said Maisie, with conviction. "My grandma was very unhappy for a long time after my grandpa died. I used to have to go and see her almost every day, and bring her flowers, and she stayed in her room with the shades all down, and cried. It was very uncomfortable going to see her while she was like that, but mamma said I had to do it. We were all so glad when she began to be cheerful again."

"Maman Remo is never like that," said Celeste. "She is always cheerful, and she would not have time to stay in her room and cry, but when she is anxious and unhappy I can always hear it in her voice."

"And is she anxious and unhappy now?" questioned Maisie.

"Oh, yes, very; I do not think she was ever quite so anxious before, even after Papa Remo was killed. She does not think I know, but I do."

"Is it about Pierre—hasn't he come home yet?"

"It is a little about that, but there is something else besides—something much worse. We have heard from Pierre, and he is well. A letter came to Maman Remo this morning, telling about him. It was from a man she knows in St. Raphael. Pierre walked all the way to St. Raphael, and this man—who is a sailor—met him in the street, and took him to his house. Pierre was very hungry, and maman's friend was sorry for him, and when Pierre had told how he had run away, and wanted to go to sea, he promised to help him find a place on a ship. He knows the captain of a ship that sails for Algiers this week, and he thinks he can get Pierre a place on board as cabin-boy. He wrote maman all about it, and he says he thinks letting Pierre go to sea will make a man of him. Maman cannot read herself, but Antoine Dupont came in to wish us Joyeuse Noel, and he read the letter to her."

"Well, if she knows Pierre is all right, I don't see why she should be so unhappy."

"Ah, but I told you there was something much worse than about Pierre. I only heard it last night, and maman must not know that I have found out until to-morrow, because she wants me to have Joyeuse Noel, and she would be still more sad if she knew that I was unhappy too."

Celeste's lip quivered, and the tears started to her eyes, but she winked them back resolutely, remembering what Maisie had said about spoiling everything if she cried. The two children were sitting on the sofa together, and Celeste's lap was filled with the trinkets her friend had been showing her. With a sudden, kindly impulse, Maisie slipped an arm round her little visitor's waist.

"Would you mind telling me about it?" she said, in an unusually gentle voice. "Perhaps we may be able to help you."

"I am afraid you could not help us," said Celeste, sadly, "but you are very kind, and I don't mind telling you. I heard Maman Remo talking to Madame Dupont last night after I was in bed. They were downstairs, but I could hear every word through the hole in the floor. Maman went to see the doctor yesterday, and he says she must go to the hospital and have an operation, and when she comes out again she will not be strong enough to work for a long time."

"One of my aunts had an operation," said Maisie, deeply interested. "She was very ill, but she is all right again now, and I heard her tell mamma she hadn't felt so strong in years."

"The doctor says maman will be strong again in six months if she does what he tells her to, but how can she live if she cannot work for six months?"

"Won't her relations help her? Everybody was very good to Aunt Nelly when she had her operation, but she didn't need any money, because her husband—my Uncle George—has a great deal."

"Poor maman has no relations except Pierre, and he has gone away. Madame Dupont said her friends would help her, but maman is very proud, she does not like to take money from people. If I could only work for her, but there is nothing I can do. I cannot even sing in the streets any more now that Pierre is not here, and maman is so unhappy because she is afraid she will have to send me to the orphan asylum."

"Oh, that would be dreadful!" exclaimed Maisie, who had once been taken to a fair at an orphan asylum at home, and remembered thinking it a very dismal place, where all the little girls dressed just alike in very ugly clothes. "Why can't she send you to that school in Paris that you were telling us about?"

"She would send me there if she could, but the journey costs so much, and there would be no one to take me so far."

This was a new idea, and for a moment Maisie was silent, being really unable to think of any suggestion to make. But it was only for a moment; then her usual hopefulness asserted itself once more.

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you," she said, reassuringly. "Don't you remember what I told you the other day about not worrying over things? Just as likely as not something nice will happen. Perhaps Maman Remo won't have to go to the hospital, after all, or if she does, perhaps somebody will just happen to be going to Paris, and will offer to take you and buy your ticket. I don't believe it costs such a great deal. We came from Paris on the night train, and slept in such funny little staterooms, smaller than the ones on the steamers. Papa didn't say anything about it's being so very expensive. You know you thought the little statue was very expensive, but it really wasn't."

"Ah, but you are so rich," said Celeste, with a sigh; "nothing seems expensive to you."

"Well, don't worry, anyway, at least not till Christmas is over. I do want you to have a good time all day, and people can't have good times when they are worrying."

Celeste smiled faintly. She was really only two years older than Maisie, but to her the little American seemed very young indeed.

"I will try not to worry," she said, "and indeed you have given me a beautiful Christmas." And she laid her hand lovingly upon the little statue, which was lying beside her on the sofa.

"That's right," said Maisie, much relieved. "Now, here comes Françoise to get me ready for luncheon, and after luncheon we are going—you will never guess where, and I shall not tell you, because I want it to be the greatest surprise of all."

Mr. and Mrs. Barton and Auntie Belle watched the little girl with a good deal of interest during luncheon.

Maman Remo was a very ignorant woman, who could neither read nor write, but she had once lived as housemaid in a French family, and she had never forgotten the things she had seen there. Celeste's mother had been a lady, and it was only right and proper that her little daughter should be taught to do things as ladies did them. Celeste's table manners were as neat and dainty as those of Maisie herself, and although rather shy and silent in the presence of these strange, grand people, she was so sweet and gentle that before the meal was over, she had won the hearty liking of the whole family. When the ice cream appeared, and Celeste was helped to a bountiful supply, Maisie watched her with deep interest.

"Do you like it?" she demanded, as Celeste put the first spoonful into her mouth, and her friend answered heartily, even shyness forgotten for the moment—

"Oh, but it is delicious!"

"I knew she wouldn't say that horrid thing about sausages and olives," Maisie remarked triumphantly in English, to her aunt, at which remark everybody laughed, and Celeste, who did not understand English, blushed, and hoped she hadn't said anything wrong.

It was necessary to hurry a little, as the afternoon performance at the opera began at two o'clock, and Celeste had only just swallowed her last spoonful of ice cream when they all rose from the table, and Maisie took her away to put on her hat. Celeste wondered very much as to where they could be going, but Maisie had said it was to be a surprise, and she refrained from asking any questions. But when they had all left the hotel, and she had been helped into Mr. Barton's big limousine motor car, her curiosity became too great to be borne any longer.

"Are we going for a ride in this?" she whispered to Auntie Belle, who sat next to her. She somehow felt more at ease with Maisie's pleasant-voiced young aunt than with the other grown-ups. Auntie Belle laughed.

"You will know in a few moments where we are going," she said, and just then the car started with a jerk, and Celeste, who had never been in a motor car before in her life, could do nothing but hold on to the side with all her might, and gasp for breath.

"Don't you like it?" laughed Maisie. "Oh, you will get used to it in a minute, and then you will think it great fun! I remember that I was a little frightened at first."

But before Celeste had had time to "get used to it," the car had stopped again, and they were all getting out. There seemed to be a great crowd of people, through which she was safely piloted, and then she was in a seat, with Auntie Belle on one side of her and Maisie on the other.

"Now guess where we are," cried Maisie, delightedly; "can't you really guess?"

But Celeste was too much puzzled and bewildered to form any clear ideas about anything.

"We talked about this place the other day," Maisie went on, too much excited to waste any more time in guessing. "You said Madame Dupont came here sometimes, but Maman Remo couldn't afford it. Your brother, Louis, liked it better than any other place in the world, and your father—"

"The opera!" gasped Celeste, with a sudden recollection. "Oh, mademoiselle, is it really the opera?"

"Of course it is," said Maisie, joyously. "Aren't you glad?" But to her surprise, Celeste did not answer. She had grown rather pale, and there were actually tears in her eyes.

"Don't you like it, dear?" Auntie Belle asked, giving the little hand beside her an encouraging pat.

"Like it! Oh, but it is too wonderful! I never believed that I should truly go to the opera."

"Well, you are here, you see," said Maisie, much relieved by this expression of feeling. She was beginning to fear her friend was not as much pleased as she had expected her to be. "It's going to be a beautiful opera, too. It's called 'Mignon,' and papa says the music is lovely, and the best of all is, that tenor you wanted to hear so much is going to sing."

"Oh!" said Celeste, and that was all, but her radiant face was more expressive than any words could have been.

"Auntie Belle heard him the other night," Maisie chattered on. "Some friends invited her, and she says he really has got a beautiful voice. He's awfully handsome, too. Auntie Belle bought his photograph. O dear, there's the orchestra beginning, and we can't talk any more!"

If any one had doubted the fact that the little blind girl loved music with her whole soul, it would have required only one glance at the child's radiant face during the overture, to banish all such doubts at once, and forever. The Bartons all watched her with keen interest, as she sat leaning forward in her seat, with hands clasped, and lips apart, drinking in the music as if it were her very life. Maisie gazed at her new friend with eyes round with astonishment. Was it possible that any human being could really love music like that? She thought of how often she had grumbled at being obliged to go to concerts with her mother, and what a bore she had found them. If only she and Celeste could have changed places on those occasions. Auntie Belle, who loved music almost as much as Celeste did, felt suddenly drawn to the little stranger by a bond of sympathy. Mrs. Barton remembered her doubts of the morning, and her kind heart smote her for having hesitated even for a moment to give the child such a pleasure.

When the curtain rose upon the gay scene of gypsies and villagers, Maisie's attention wandered a little from Celeste's face to the stage and for a few moments she almost forgot her friend in her interest in the scene before her. Suddenly there was a slight rustle among the audience as the sound of a rich, clear tenor voice was heard drawing nearer; and as Wilhelm-Meister stepped out upon the stage, almost every head was craned forward to catch the first glimpse of the popular young singer.

"He looks just like his picture, doesn't he?" Maisie whispered to her aunt. "I think he's the handsomest—"

Maisie paused abruptly, attracted by a slight sound from Celeste, and turning to see what the matter was, she was rendered fairly speechless with astonishment by the look on the little blind girl's face. Auntie Belle also heard the half-suppressed cry, and she, too, turned to look at Celeste.

"What is the matter, dear?" she whispered anxiously, bending over the child. "Don't you feel well?"

"Oh, yes, thank you, but—but—pardon, Mademoiselle, but might I ask you to tell me the gentleman's name?"

"The gentleman," repeated Auntie Belle, looking puzzled; "what gentleman? Oh, you mean Wilhelm-Meister. His name is Claude Lorraine. Why, my poor child, what is it? You must be ill. You had better let my brother take you out."

"No, no," gasped Celeste, who was trembling from head to foot, and whose face had grown ghastly white; "I do not want to go out. I want to stay and hear him sing. Oh, mademoiselle, the good God has been very kind to us!"

Auntie Belle stared at the child in amazement; she had never been so puzzled in her life, but into Maisie's eyes there flashed a sudden light, and forgetting for the moment where she was, and all her mother's cautions about not talking at the opera, she almost sprang out of her seat, crying excitedly, "It's Louis, I know it is!"

"Oh, Celeste, tell me, is it really Louis?"

"Yes," said Celeste, in a breathless whisper. "I knew his voice the moment I heard it, and Claude Lorraine was my papa's stage name; Louis must have taken it too. Oh, Mademoiselle Maisie, Mademoiselle Maisie!" and the poor little blind girl burst into tears.

But by this time the little excitement was beginning to be noticed by the audience, and indignant hisses were heard on all sides. Mr. and Mrs. Barton turned to discover what had caused the disturbance, and were not reassured by the sight of Celeste in tears, Auntie Belle looking the picture of dismay, and Maisie jumping up and down in her seat, and acting very much as though she had lost her senses. And during all the commotion the clear tenor voice sang on, its owner quite unconscious of the fact that his presence had caused any unusual excitement.

Strange to say, it was Celeste herself who was the first to recover. She checked her sobs, with a mighty effort, and slipped one little trembling hand into Auntie Belle's, and the other into Maisie's.

"We must be very quiet," she whispered, "or the people will be angry. Let us listen. I want to hear every note Louis sings."

"What in the world is the matter?" Mr. Barton whispered to his sister, and Auntie Belle replied that she did not know but believed the tenor must be a friend or relative of Celeste's, and that she had recognized him by his voice.

During the rest of that act not one of the party had eyes or thoughts to spare for anything that was going on the stage. The music and singing were of the best, and the acting excellent, but the Bartons looked only at Celeste. Maisie was the only one who knew what had really happened, and she had been so frightened by those ominous hisses, that she did not dare open her lips again, even to whisper the wonderful news to Auntie Belle. But it was easy to see that the little blind girl was very much excited, and that something unusual had occurred. After the first few moments the child had ceased to tremble, and by degrees a little color began to creep back into her face. She sat, leaning forward in her seat, as if afraid to miss a single note, and gradually her expression settled into a look of such radiant happiness, that her kind new friends could do nothing but gaze at her, in ever increasing astonishment.

At last the curtain fell upon the first act, amid a thunder of applause, and instantly Maisie's tongue was loosed.

"It's her brother!" she cried, jumping out of her seat in her excitement. "She hasn't seen him in four whole years. He went away to seek his fortune, and she hadn't any idea what had become of him. She was so afraid he might be poor, but I told her I was sure he would come back rich, the way people always do in stories. Oh, isn't it the most wonderful, interesting thing you ever heard of in all your lives? Don't you want to go right off this minute and see him, Celeste?"

But Celeste shook her head.

"I would rather wait till the opera is over," she said. "If he saw me before he might not be able to sing so well. I want to hear him sing the whole opera before he knows I am here. After that if your papa will be so kind—"

But when Mr. Barton had at last been made to understand the wonderful story, he did not look as much impressed by Celeste's good fortune as Maisie and Auntie Belle expected he would.

"You had better let me have a talk with the fellow first," he said in English to Auntie Belle. "He has been singing here in Nice for weeks. If he had really been anxious to find his little sister, it seems incredible that he should not have found her before. I haven't as much faith in these long-lost brothers as some of you have, and I don't want that poor child's innocent little heart broken if I can help it." And Mr. Barton glanced pityingly at Celeste's radiant face.

Fortunately for Celeste, she could not understand one word of English, and so was spared all the discussion which followed. She continued to smile the smile of unutterable rapture, and sometimes her lips moved as if she were saying her prayers. Auntie Belle and Maisie both felt lumps in their throats whenever they looked at her, and Mrs. Barton was seen to wipe her eyes more than once.

"I feel just as if I were in heaven," Celeste whispered to Maisie, when the curtain had risen on the second act, and the beautiful tenor voice was heard again. Maisie dared not answer, for fear of those dreadful hisses, but she slipped an arm around her friend, and hugged her, in a burst of sympathy that said more than any words could have done.

"Now, Celeste," said Mr. Barton in his kind, sensible voice, when the opera was over, and they were making their way out through the crowd, "we are going to take you back to the hotel. I have sent a line to your brother, asking him to meet me there as soon as possible on a matter of importance. It will be much pleasanter for you both to meet at the hotel than in all this crowd and confusion."

Celeste—who was trembling again so that she could scarcely stand—made no objection, and allowed herself to be helped into the motor car, without uttering a word. She spoke only once on the way home, and then it was to ask in a timid voice, how soon Mr. Barton thought Louis would come to the hotel, to which he replied that he was sure her brother would come as soon as he could get away from the opera house.

"Curiosity will bring him if nothing else does," he added in English, but that Celeste did not understand.

Arrived at the hotel, Maisie was told to take Celeste to her room, and keep her there till she was sent for, and the elders waited in the sitting-room, in a state of breathless anticipation.

"I feel as if I were acting a part in a play," Auntie Belle said, with a little hysterical giggle. "Oh, Harry, if that poor child is doomed to a disappointment, I really don't know what I shall do! Did you ever see such a look of rapture on any human face? But it is all right, I know it is. No man with a voice like that could be anything but good."

Auntie Belle paused abruptly, for at that moment there was a knock at the door. The tenor had evidently been curious to learn the meaning of Mr. Barton's mysterious summons, for he had followed them almost immediately.

He was a tall, handsome young fellow, with a frank, boyish face, and as he came forward into the room, Mrs. Barton and Auntie Belle felt their hopes rise instinctively.

"Monsieur Lorraine, I believe," said Mr. Barton, courteously, as he shook hands with the young man. "I trust you will pardon my sending for you so unceremoniously. Allow me to present my wife and sister. We have all been to the opera this afternoon, and have been charmed by your singing."

The tenor bowed deeply to the two ladies, and blushed boyishly at the compliment. Indeed, he looked so young, and so honest and pleasant as well, that Mr. Barton found himself addressing him in a much more friendly tone than he would have believed possible five minutes earlier.

"I have sent for you to talk over a matter which interests us all very much," he said, when they were seated, and Monsieur Lorraine had somewhat recovered from his first embarrassment. "I said before that we have been charmed with your singing. May I ask how long you have been on the stage?"

"I made my début in Paris last autumn," said the young man, in a pleasant, refined voice, that somehow reminded them all of Celeste's.

"Indeed? Then I presume you have never been to America."

"On the contrary," said the tenor, smiling, "I have spent over two years in America. Indeed, it is to the kindness of an American gentleman that I owe my present good fortune. I was singing at a vaudeville theatre in Chicago about three years ago, and was about as poor and discouraged as one could well be, when this gentleman—a Mr. Richardson of New York, who had happened to drop into the place, out of mere curiosity—became interested in my voice. He spoke to me after the performance, gave me his card, and advised my coming to New York and studying at the conservatory there. I followed his kind advice, he became my friend and benefactor, and it is to him that I owe everything. I have good reason to love America and the American people."

The young man spoke earnestly, and Mr. Barton felt his good opinion rising.

"You are a Frenchman, I know that by your accent," he said. "Is your home in this part of the country?"

"No, monsieur. I have never been in Nice before. My parents lived in Paris, and my father sang at the Opera Comique for several years before his death."

"Are your parents both dead?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"You are young to be alone in the world—have you no near relatives?"

A shadow crossed the young man's face. Auntie Belle's heart was beating so fast that she was almost afraid the tenor would hear it.

"I have one little sister," he said sadly. "She is still but a child, many years younger than I."

"Ah, I see, and is this little sister with you now?"

"Alas, no, monsieur, but I would gladly give all I have in the world to find her."

Auntie Belle could not repress a little chuckle of delight, and she gave her brother a triumphant glance, but Mr. Barton went quietly on with his questioning.

"What do you mean by that? Surely you must know where your little sister is."

"Ah, monsieur, it is a long story, and a very sad one. When our parents died five years ago, we were very poor indeed. My father had been ill a long time, and had left us nothing. I had my voice, and—pardon me, monsieur, if what I say sounds conceited—I knew I could support myself by singing if I could only get the chance. But there was my little blind sister. She has been blind from birth, monsieur, and I could not bear to leave her alone among strangers. Yet I could not take her with me, perhaps to starve. We had been lodging with some kind people at the time of our mother's death, and the woman had taken a great fancy to little Celeste. She told me that if I would leave the child with her, she would care for her, and be a mother to her until my return. She was a very ignorant woman, who could neither read nor write, but her husband was better educated, and they were both good, religious people. They kept a little shop in Paris, and were comfortably off. It was very hard to part from little Celeste, for we loved each other tenderly, and my mother had left her in my care. Still, it seemed the only thing to do, and I knew I was leaving her in good hands.

"Things went very badly with me for the first year, and I was too discouraged to write the husband of my ill luck, but as soon as I began to earn a little money, I wrote at once, sending a small sum towards my sister's support. I never received any answer, and although I wrote again and again, not a word ever reached me in reply. As soon as I came back to Paris this year, I went to the address where I had left my little sister, but found that the family had moved away three years ago, and no one in the neighborhood knew where they had gone. The man, it seems, was run over and killed by a motor car, and his wife left Paris soon afterward, taking the child with her. As she could not write, she had not communicated with any of her friends, and not one among them all could give me her address.

"Since then I have done everything in my power to trace my little sister, but so far without success. I feel sometimes as if I should go mad with anxiety about the child, and the hardest of all is that now when at last I am in a position to support her, and bring her up as my mother would have wished, I cannot even find out what has become of her. But pardon me, monsieur, for talking so much of my own affairs, in which you cannot possibly be interested."

"On the contrary," said Mr. Barton, kindly, "I am very much interested indeed. To tell the truth, it was for the purpose of hearing just this very story that I sent for you this afternoon. I have an idea that I may be able to put you in the way of getting some information about your little blind sister."

"You, monsieur!" The young man had sprung out of his chair, and seized Mr. Barton's hand before that gentleman had finished his sentence. "Oh, monsieur, if this is true—if you can indeed assist me in my search for poor little Celeste—I shall be grateful to you all my life."

The tenor's honest, boyish face was full of feeling, and his voice trembled. Auntie Belle—who was romantic—thought him the most interesting person she had ever seen. Mr. Barton freed his hand gently from the young man's eager clasp, and went to the door.

"Maisie," he called cheerfully, "you may come now, and bring your little friend with you."

There was a hurrying of little feet, and Maisie rushed into the room, fairly dragging the trembling Celeste after her.

"Celeste, my little Celeste!"

With one bound, the tenor was across the room, and had caught the little blind girl in his arms.

"And to think," sobbed Celeste, with her arms round her brother's neck, "that the good God sent you back to us on Christmas day! Maman Remo says I must always be happy on Christmas, because of my name.

"I knew your voice the moment I heard it, but I did not want you to see me till the opera was over. Oh, Louis, cherie, you sing like an angel!"

Maman Remo was sitting alone in her little house, waiting for Celeste to come home. It had been dark for more than an hour, and she had lighted the lamp, and built up a good fire in the stove, but she would not make any preparations for supper until Celeste should come in.

"Perhaps the little one will not be hungry," she said to herself. "Those Americans are always feasting on holidays. Poor child, I hope she has had a happy day. To-morrow she must know, for I dare not put it off any longer. The doctor said I must go as soon as possible. She will take it hard, poor child, but surely they will be kind to her at the asylum, and if I am ever well and strong again, she can come back to me, and things will be as they have been."

Maman Remo heaved a deep sigh, and put up her hand to brush away a tear. The day had been very long and lonely.

Suddenly she turned her head and listened. Footsteps were approaching, and voices. Yes, that was Celeste's voice, and how happy it sounded. Surely the child had had Joyeuse Noel. The footsteps drew nearer, some one opened the door, and two people came in.

Maman Remo rose and courtesied. She did not recognize the tall young gentleman, who was leading Celeste by the hand, but supposed him to be one of the American family who had been so kind to the child all day.

"Maman Remo, don't you know me?"

"Louis, Louis Noel!" Maman Remo sank back into her chair, and turned so white that for a moment Louis feared she was going to faint. "Oh, my God, is it really Louis Noel?"

"Yes, yes, Maman, it is really Louis, our own Louis, come back to us safe and well," cried Celeste, flinging herself upon Maman Remo in a perfect ecstasy of delight. "Oh, isn't it beautiful and wonderful that he should have come on Christmas day? And, oh, Maman cherie, he is not poor; he is rich, as Mademoiselle Maisie said he would be. I have heard him sing at the opera, and truly he has the voice of an angel."

Maman Remo's lips moved, but no sound came from them. Louis Noel came quickly forward, and took the two trembling hands in his. His own eyes were full of tears.

"Maman Remo," he said, in a low, unsteady voice, "there are no words in which to thank you. Celeste has told me everything, and I don't know what to say. It is true, as the little one says, I am not poor. I am doing good work with my voice, and have an engagement to sing at the opera in New York next season. All I ask is that you will let me take care of you and Celeste; not in payment for your care of the child, for that is something that can never be repaid in this world, but because I love and honor you beyond all other women except my mother." And Louis Noel bent and kissed Maman Remo very tenderly.

"Well, Maisie, and what sort of a Christmas has it been?" Mr. Barton asked, smiling, as his little daughter was bidding him good-night.

"Oh, Papa," cried Maisie, with sparkling eyes, "it has been the very loveliest Christmas I have ever had. I do believe it's more interesting to give other people a good time than to have it one's self. But there's one funny thing about it."

"And what is that?" her father asked, stooping to kiss the happy, eager little face.

"Why," said Maisie, laughing, "it's a very queer thing, but I never had quite such a Merry Christmas before, even at home, with the Christmas trees, and the parties, and all the presents. Oh, Papa dear, when I think of that sweet Celeste's face when she went away with her brother, and remember that if it hadn't been for your wanting me to try that experiment, Louis might have gone away again without ever knowing she was here, I feel so happy that I think I should like to hug everybody in the world!"

JILL AND LILL

CHAPTER I

There were not many people in the great gallery that rainy December afternoon. It was too early in the season for the crowd of English and American tourists which in the late winter and early spring fill Florence to overflowing, and the few people who sauntered about looking at the pictures were for the most part native Florentines out for an afternoon holiday. The men all wore their overcoats, and the women kept their furs—if they were fortunate enough to possess any—wrapped closely about them, but it was bitterly cold in the gallery, which is only warmed by the bright Italian sun, and on cold, rainy days often feels like a great stone vault.

The twins were not so fortunate as to have any furs; neither were their winter jackets as warm as they might have been if clothes had not been so expensive, but they were accustomed to the cold galleries, and although they both shivered more than once, it did not occur to either of them to mention the fact. The twins were only eleven, but they knew the great picture galleries of Florence much better than many older people. Ever since they could remember, their mother had taken them with her to the galleries, and they had wandered about looking at the wonderful pictures, or played "sitting still games" in a corner, always talking softly for fear of disturbing people who came to look, or, like their mother, to copy the great masterpieces of the world. They were very poor, for Mummy's pictures sold for a mere trifle at the print shops, and they lived in three little rooms at the top of an old building, the windows of which looked out upon the Duomo; the great cathedral, which has been the pride of Florence for centuries. Once, long ago, when their father was alive, they had lived in Rome, and their father had painted pictures which sold for much more money than poor little Mummy's pictures did; but after her husband's death Mummy had brought the children to Florence, because living there was cheaper than in Rome. The twins themselves did not particularly mind being poor, and if it had not been for Mummy's anxious face, and the fears they sometimes heard her express about the future, they would have been quite happy and contented. As for education, clothes, and all those other tiresome things, which seemed to trouble Mummy so much, they were matters of the most supreme indifference to the twins. They were quite happy in their three little rooms, where Mummy did the cooking on a tiny stove, and which were so cold in winter, that they often went to bed right after supper, for the purpose of keeping warm, and so hot on summer nights that they sometimes carried their beds out on the roof, in the faint hope of catching a little breeze from the river half a mile away.

Twins are supposed to resemble each other so closely that sometimes their own families cannot tell them apart, but this was not the case with Jill and Lill, for Jill was fully half a head taller than Lill, and looked at least two years older. Lill was a small, fair child, with a delicate, refined little face, and big innocent eyes, that had an odd appealing look in them. She had been a delicate baby, and even now was far from strong, while Jill had never had an ailment in her life, and was as plump and rosy as if she had been fed on new-laid eggs and country cream ever since she was born. They had never been separated for a day in their lives, and if Jill's love for her twin sister had a touch of motherliness in it, and Lill looked up to Jill with a kind of adoring admiration, their affection was none the less strong for that.

When the twins were born, their father, who was an artist, and somewhat romantic, had declared their names must sound alike.

"One is to be Lilian for your mother," he said, "but it would never do to call the other Jane, for my little sister who died. Who ever heard of twins being Lilian and Jane? They wouldn't harmonize at all."

"We might call little Janie, Jill," suggested Mummy, who had an imagination. "I remember once reading a book called 'Jack and Jill,' and Jill's real name was Jane."

"That will do," said Mr. Dinsmore, laughing. "Jill and Lill, nothing could be better."

So Jill and Lill, the twins had been called ever since.

To most little American and English girls, the life they led would have seemed very dull and forlorn indeed, but Jill and Lill had never known any other. They were not yet six when their kind, merry young father had died of the cruel Roman fever, which so often attacks imprudent foreigners in the hot Italian summer, and they had come to live in the tiny apartment in Florence, where good Signor and Signora Paloni—the landlord and his wife—had taken the two little Americans into their kind, elderly hearts, and petted and made much of them ever since. Poor little Mummy had been quite heart-broken at the death of her husband, whom she had loved very dearly, but the children's lives must not be saddened; and so, being a brave little woman, she assumed a cheerfulness she was very far from feeling, and it was only seldom that Jill and Lill saw the tired, wistful look in her eyes, that they had learned to know meant Mummy was discouraged.

On several mornings of each week, summer and winter, Mummy went to one of the great galleries, for which Florence is famous, and there she sat for hours, making her poor little copies of the great pictures. She did not like to leave the children alone all day, so she generally brought them with her, and on fine days they would take their lunch—consisting of a roll and a cake of chocolate apiece—out into the gardens, where the fountains played and the birds sang in summer, and which were the twins' only idea of what the country was like. Lately Mummy had been fortunate in obtaining some drawing pupils in a large boarding-school kept by an English woman, and three afternoons in the week she spent teaching little English and French girls how to draw.

But on this stormy December day there had been no going into the gardens for lunch. They had eaten their rolls and chocolate on a bench in the gallery, and Mummy had been in a hurry, because she was anxious to finish her picture before leaving, and this was one of the drawing class days. It was not very cheerful spending a whole long day in a place where nobody ever spoke much above a whisper, and although the twins knew and loved many of the beautiful pictures, they had looked at them all so often that there had long ago ceased to be any novelty about it. So after lunch they had retired to a recess by one of the windows, and tried to pass the time by counting the raindrops.

"It's very cold," said Lill, with a little shiver. "I wish there wasn't any cold weather, don't you?"

"I like summer best," Jill admitted, "but then I suppose we should get tired of it if we had it all the time." Jill was noted for a way she had of always making the best of things, and looking on the bright side—a quality she inherited from her brave, cheerful little mother.

"I shouldn't mind winter so much if we had snow here the way they do in America," Lill went on. "I should love sleighing, and skating, and all the nice things Mummy tells about. I wonder if we shall ever go to America."

"Oh, I am sure we shall some day, when Mummy has made a great deal of money."

Lill sighed.

"I'm afraid that won't be for a long time," she said, "unless people pay her much more for her pictures than they do now. Do you think she would like to go?"

"I don't know," said Jill, thoughtfully; "perhaps it would make her sad. I don't think she likes to talk very much about America."

"I wonder why," said Lill. "I should think people would love talking about the places where they used to live, shouldn't you?"

"Yes, unless sad things happened to them there. I think a good many sad things must have happened to Mummy in America. You see, her father and mother both died there, and Uncle George was so angry when she wanted to go away and study art, instead of coming out in society the way all the other girls he knew did. I wonder what 'coming out in society' means."

"I don't know," said Lill, "but I'm glad Mummy didn't do it, for if she had she wouldn't have married father."

"She might have married somebody else, though," said Jill, practically, "and then perhaps Uncle George wouldn't have been so angry."

"I hate Uncle George," remarked Lill, in a tone of decision.

"Mummy says it's wicked to hate people, and perhaps he couldn't help being the way he was. Signor says some people are born disagreeable; perhaps Uncle George was one of them."

"I don't believe he was," said Lill; "or Mummy wouldn't have loved him so much. You know she said she loved him better than any one in the world till she met father, and then of course she loved father best, because she married him, and you always love the person you marry better than anybody else. I don't believe Uncle George was born disagreeable, I believe he was just wicked, and I hate him."

Jill was silent. She had learned from long experience, that there was never any use in arguing with her sister, for when Lill had once made up her mind firmly on a subject, gentle and babyish as she looked, Lill was capable of an amount of obstinacy that was quite a revelation to her friends. There was a moment's silence, and then Lill went on.

"It always makes me hot inside when I think about Uncle George and how cruel he was to Mummy. Just think of his telling her he would never see her again if she married father, and sending back all her letters without reading them. Even when father was ill, and she wrote begging him to send her a little money, he never answered her. I think if I ever saw him I should—I should feel like doing something awful to him."

"I wouldn't think about him at all if it makes you feel like that," said Jill, with a rather troubled glance at her sister's flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. "I know Mummy would hate to have you say such things. She never told us about what Uncle George did, and we wouldn't have known anything about it if we hadn't met that Mrs. Trevor, who used to know her in America, and heard her telling that other lady about it. I don't suppose she would have said all those things if she had known we were sitting on the bench right behind her. She only knew about that letter Mummy wrote when father was ill, because she happened to be in Rome at the same time. It isn't likely we shall ever see Uncle George. Even Mummy has never seen him since she was married, and she never tells us anything about him that isn't nice and kind."

"I can't forget what that lady said, though," said Lill, obstinately. "I keep thinking about it all the time, and it makes me so angry. Mummy is so dear, and sweet, and precious; I don't believe she was ever unkind to any one in her life. Oh, I wish I could meet Uncle George sometime; just to let him see how I hate him!"

"Don't let's talk any more about him," said Jill, soothingly. "Let's talk about Christmas. Don't you wonder what Mummy's going to give us?"

"I think I know, but I won't tell," said Lill, her face brightening. "Oh, I do wish we had money enough to buy her a really beautiful present, but we've only got three francs between us, and one can't buy much with that!"

"We can buy something, though," said cheerful Jill, "and Mummy's sure to love it, whatever it is. She always says it isn't the money we spend for a thing that counts, it's just the thought. Signora says she will take us shopping some day before Christmas."

"I know it's the thought that counts," said Lill, "but I wish we could buy Mummy a nice present just the same. Wouldn't it be beautiful to be rich, and to have a real Christmas tree, the kind they have in America? Think of the parties Mummy used to have when she was a little girl, and all the beautiful presents. O dear, how cold it is here! My feet are almost frozen."

"Let's pretend," suggested Jill, with a sudden inspiration. "We always forget the disagreeable things when we pretend."

Lill agreed, and the twins turned away from the contemplation of the raindrops, and settled themselves on a bench, directly opposite one of Raphael's beautiful Madonnas.

"What shall we be to-day?" inquired Lill. Lill had less imagination than Jill, and generally left the selection and planning of their games to her more enterprising sister.

Jill thought for a moment; then she said:

"Let's pretend we are the two little princes in the Tower of London. I'm sure they must often have been cold, so our being cold, too, will make it seem more real. Pretend it's a cold, dark night, and we haven't had any supper. We are afraid every one has forgotten us, and we won't have anything to eat till morning. Then when we remember that it's really day-time, and that we've just had lunch, we shall feel so nice and comfy inside."

"All right," agreed Lill; "let's begin."

Instantly Jill's whole manner changed. She was no longer the little Twentieth Century American girl, sitting on a bench in the Florence picture gallery, but the little English prince shut up by a cruel uncle in the old tower, patiently awaiting the terrible fate, which has made the two little princes famous in history.

"How dark and cold it is, brother," she began in a low tremulous voice. "I fear our cruel captors have forgotten to bring us any supper, and we shall have to stay here alone in the darkness till the morning."

"Without any food," chimed in Lill, nestling a little closer to her sister. When Lill "pretended" it always seemed very real to her, and for the moment she almost fancied herself really the character she was personating. "And if we have to stay alone in the cold and dark all night, the rats will come, and that will be frightful. Oh, brother, I am afraid—I am afraid!"

"Courage," urged Jill. "Rats cannot hurt us. It is men we have to fear. If our cruel uncle succeeds in carrying out his wicked plan, we shall never see our dear home or our dear mother again. You know it is his intention to have us smothered, and our bodies thrown into the river. We have too many real dangers to fear to think of little things like rats."

"Don't talk about smothering," said Lill, relapsing into her natural voice. "I hate that part of the story; it scares me. I wish they could have been rescued just at the last minute, the way people generally are in stories."

"But this isn't a story, it's English history," protested Jill. "You can't make things in history end happily, because they're true."

"Don't true things ever end happily?" Lill inquired anxiously.

"I suppose they do, sometimes, but the little princes didn't. I wish we could go to London sometime, and see the Tower, and Westminster Abbey, and all the other interesting places."

"What a dreadfully wicked man the little princes' uncle must have been," remarked Lill. "I wonder if most uncles are wicked. I don't think I like uncles, anyway."

"Hush," said Jill, in a warning whisper, and she glanced apprehensively at a gentleman who had paused just in front of them to look at the Raphael. He was a tall gentleman, evidently a tourist, and he was dressed in black with a black band on his hat. How long he had been there the twins did not know, having been too much absorbed in their own affairs to notice, but as Lill pronounced her opinion of uncles, he had suddenly turned from the great picture, and was regarding them rather curiously.

"You mustn't talk so loud," whispered Jill. "I'm afraid we disturbed that gentleman. You know Mummy never lets us disturb people when they are looking at the pictures."

"I don't believe he heard what I said," began Lill. Then she paused abruptly, and grew crimson, as the gentleman quietly took the vacant place on the bench by her side.

"You must excuse me for interrupting you, young ladies," he said in a rather pleasant voice, "but I couldn't help overhearing a little of your conversation, and it has interested me very much. At first I feared from your tones that you were really in trouble of some kind, but I soon found that I was mistaken."

He smiled, and his smile was pleasant, too, though it was sad. His whole expression was sad, and although he was not at all old, there was something in his face that made the twins feel unaccountably sorry for him.

"We were pretending to be the two little princes in the Tower of London," said Jill, feeling that she must offer some explanation; "you know the ones whose cruel uncle had them smothered and thrown into the river."

"Yes, I have heard of them. You seem to have formed a rather poor opinion of uncles in general. May I ask if you often pretend in quite such a realistic fashion?"

"We like to pretend," said Jill, blushing. "It's one of the few things we can do without making a noise, and of course we can't play noisy games in the galleries."

"And why do you choose the galleries for a play-ground? I should think you might find them uncomfortably cold sometimes."

"We don't mind the cold much," said Jill, "we are used to it, you see. We come to the galleries almost every day, because our mother doesn't like to leave us at home alone all day long."

"And may I ask what your mother does in the galleries?" the gentleman inquired, in a tone of evident interest.

And may I ask what your mother does in the galleries?"

"She copies the pictures," said Jill, and Lill, forgetting her shyness at the mention of her adored mother, added proudly—

"Mummy's very clever. She gives drawing lessons at one of the big schools as well as copying the pictures. Our father painted beautiful pictures, too."

The expression of interest on the stranger's face deepened, and he regarded Lill more attentively. Indeed, he had been looking at Lill all the time Jill was talking.

"Indeed!" he said, and there was a note of real eagerness in his voice. "Now, I wonder if I have ever happened to hear of your father's pictures. Would you mind telling me his name?"

"It was Robert Dinsmore," said Lill, "but he died a long time ago when we lived in Rome."

The gentleman was silent for a moment, and Jill noticed with surprise, that he had grown rather pale, and that the hand resting idly on his knee trembled slightly; but when he spoke again his voice was quite calm.

"No, I don't think I have ever seen any of your father's pictures," he said, "but then I am an American, and this is my first visit to Florence."

"We are Americans, too," said Jill eagerly. "We have never been to America, because our father and mother came to live in Italy before we were born, but we hope we shall go some day; Mummy has told us so much about it."

"And you live here in Florence, I suppose, and your mother sells her copies of the pictures?"

"Oh, yes, that's what she paints them for, but people don't pay very much for them, and so she was very glad to have the drawing class at the English school."

The gentleman rose abruptly.

"Well, perhaps I may want to buy some copies to take back to America with me," he said, "so suppose you give me your mother's address, in case I should take a fancy to look at some of hers."

"She sells hers at the shops," Jill explained, "but she has some at home that the shop people wouldn't take. Perhaps you might like to look at them. We live on the Lungarno Acciasill, at Signor Paloni's. Our apartment is on the top floor."

"Thank you," said the gentleman; "I will remember the address. And your name is Dinsmore, you say?"

"Yes, sir, I am Jane Dinsmore, though every one calls me Jill, and my sister's name is Lilian."

"Lilian," repeated the stranger, and an oddly softened look came into his face. "So they called one of you Lilian."

"I am named for my grandmother," Lill explained. "People always call me Lill, because it rhymes with Jill, and we are twins, but I think Lilian is much prettier."

"So do I," said the gentleman, and he smiled his sad smile again. "I had a little Lilian of my own once, and I am very fond of the name. Is your mother here to-day?"

"Yes," said Jill; "she is copying the Madonna delta Duca. Would you like to see her, and ask about the pictures at home?"

"No, no, I don't care to see her. I merely asked out of curiosity. I must be hurrying along now. Good-bye."

"What a nice gentleman!" remarked Jill, as soon as their new acquaintance was out of ear-shot. "I'm afraid he won't come to look at Mummy's pictures, though; he didn't seem much interested."

"I think he was interested," said Lill. "He had such a queer look in his eyes all the time he was talking to us, and wasn't it funny he should have had a little girl named Lilian?"

"I suppose there must be a good many Lilians in the world," returned practical Jill. "I think his little girl is dead, for he looked so sad when he spoke of her, and did you notice the black band on his hat?"

At that moment the twins caught sight of a little woman in a gray dress coming towards them, and instantly the stranger and his affairs were forgotten, as they sprang to their feet and hurried to meet Mummy. Mummy was a very little woman indeed. She was not much taller than Lill, and Jill quite towered over her when they walked in the street together. She looked very young to be the mother of two such big girls, and there was an innocent, almost childlike expression in the blue eyes that were so like Lill's, that all the sorrow and anxiety of years had failed to banish. Mummy had fought her way through more than one fierce battle with fate, but she still kept her simple faith, and believed that people meant to be kind, and that the world was, after all, a very good place. There was only one person the thought of whom could banish the look of sweet serenity from her face, and that was her only brother, to whom she had been devotedly attached, and whose unkind treatment had been the one cup of bitterness in her life.

"You are through early to-day," said Jill, as she and Lill each slipped an arm lovingly round Mummy's waist.

"A little early, but it was so cold I was afraid to keep you here any longer."

"We didn't mind it much," said Jill. "We pretended we were the little princes in the Tower, and being cold made it seem more real, because they must often have been very cold, you know."

Mummy laughed in spite of herself.

"There is nothing like looking on the bright side of things, is there?" she said. "I am glad you enjoyed playing you were the little princes in the Tower, but I can't help wishing you had warmer jackets."

"Lill," whispered Jill, as they dropped behind Mummy for a moment going out of the gallery, "don't say anything about the gentleman."

"Why not?" inquired Lill, in surprise.

"Because perhaps he won't ever come to see the pictures, and if Mummy thinks he's coming, and he doesn't, she'll be so disappointed."

CHAPTER II

"There, everything is ready, and when Mummy comes in there won't be a single thing for her to do but sit down and drink her tea, and get warm."

Jill spoke in a tone of satisfaction, and as she did so she glanced about the cosy little room, with an air of pardonable pride. It was a rather shabbily furnished little room, and everything in it was of the cheapest and plainest, but it was as neat as hands could make it, and the lamp burning on the table, and the tea-kettle humming on the stove, gave an air of comfort and cheerfulness to the humble surroundings, that Jill's home-loving little soul was quick to feel.

"I'm afraid she'll be dreadfully wet," said Lill, anxiously. "Just listen to the rain!"

"Yes, it's a horrid night, but it's nice and warm in here, and when Mummy gets her wet things off, and drinks her tea, I know she'll love it. Isn't it nice we've learned to make the tea and toast, so we can have them all ready when she comes in?"

"I should like to learn to cook," said Lill. "It would be such fun to cook the whole dinner some day, and have it waiting for Mummy. Wouldn't she be surprised?"

"It would be splendid if we could really do it well," agreed the more cautious Jill. "The trouble is, we might spoil things at first and that would be such a dreadful waste when everything costs so much. I shouldn't like to feel I had wasted food, should you?"

"No, but I don't believe we should if we got Signora to teach us. I know she would if we asked her. She likes cooking, and is so economical that I'm sure she would never let us waste anything."

"All right, let's ask her. We'll tell Mummy we want to stay at home some day, and get Signora to give us a cooking lesson."

At that moment there was a tap at the door, and in answer to Jill's bidding to enter, Signora Paloni herself appeared. She was a rosy-cheeked little woman, with very bright eyes, and a pleasant smile, and there was no one in the world, with the exception of their mother, whom the twins loved so much.

"Buon giorno, Signora, we were just talking about you," said Lill, in her pretty, fluent Italian. Signora Paloni spoke no English, but the twins talked Italian as well as their own language, if not better. "We want to know if you will teach us how to cook a real dinner, so we can surprise Mummy some day?"

"Of a certainty I will," said the landlady, beaming with pleasure. "It is a kind thought to wish to save the dear mother trouble. I came up to see if the tea was ready, for it is a terrible night, and the poor lady will be so wet."

"It's all ready," said Jill, proudly, "and the bread is cut, so Lill can make the toast the minute Mummy comes in. She is late to-night."

"She will come soon," said Signora Paloni, cheerfully, "and in the meantime I have news for you. Guess what good fortune has just befallen us."

"Oh, Signora, what is it? Please tell us," cried both twins at once.

"We have rented our first-floor apartment at last—the apartment that has been empty for so long."

"Who has taken it?" inquired Jill, with interest. Signora Paloni's first-floor apartment was, in the eyes of the twins at least, a very grand place indeed.

"A countryman of yours; a gentleman from America. He intends spending some time in Florence, he tells us, and he does not care for the hotels. My husband asked him how he had heard of us, and he said the house had been recommended to him. He speaks very little Italian, but he made us understand. I am to prepare his morning coffee, and for his other meals he will go to the restaurants. We are wondering what kind friend has done us this good turn."

"And will he give you your price?" inquired Jill, who seldom forgot business details.

"Yes, and what is more, he has paid us a month's rent in advance. He seemed to fear we might not trust him, as he is a stranger to us, but we should not have feared; he has a good face."

"When is he coming?" Lill wanted to know.

"He will take possession to-morrow, and as he is not quite satisfied with the furniture, he has asked if he may bring in a few extra things."

"But the furniture is beautiful!" cried Jill, indignantly. "How could any one want better?"

"Ah, my little one," said the landlady, smiling, "you have never visited the houses of the rich. My little apartment is neat and comfortable, and in it are many relics of our family, which are to my husband and me very precious, but to a rich American gentleman it must seem but a poor place."

"What is the gentleman's name?" asked Lill.

"Mr. George H. Brown," said Signora Paloni, pronouncing the name very slowly and distinctly, and making it sound as if it were "Misterre Georga Ash Broon."

"That's not a very pretty name," said Jill, and her interest in the stranger flagged. "Now, Signora, about those cooking lessons?"

Signora Paloni was quite ready to talk about the lessons, and entered heartily into the children's scheme. They were deep in the discussion of ways and means when Mummy arrived, cold, wet, but cheerful as usual. Then the landlady had to tell her news all over again, and Mummy listened and sympathized while she dried her skirts, and sipped the cup of hot tea the twins had prepared for her. But though always kind and sympathetic, the twins noticed that their mother did not seem quite as attentive as she usually was to Signora Paloni's long stories, and when the landlady was leaving the room at last, Mummy suddenly roused herself from a fit of abstraction to ask—

"May I have a little talk with you in your room this evening, Signora? I want to consult you about something."

It was Mummy's custom to teach the twins for an hour or two every evening, and, on the whole, they rather enjoyed the lessons. Mummy was a good teacher, and had a way of making history and geography interesting, although she was often very tired after her hard day's work, and would much have preferred going to bed to teaching little girls. She was a conscientious little woman, and seldom allowed inclination to interfere with duty, so it was a great surprise to the children on this particular evening, when the frugal supper had been eaten, and the dishes washed and cleared away, that Mummy, instead of getting out the lesson books as usual, drew the arm-chair close to the stove, and seated herself, as if for a comfortable chat.

"I think we will take a holiday this evening," she said. "There is something I want to talk to you about."

"Oh, Mummy, how nice!" cried Lill, immediately perching herself on one arm of her mother's chair, while Jill took possession of the other. This had been one of their favorite positions ever since they had grown too heavy to sit on Mummy's lap.

"Is it something pleasant?" Jill asked, with a rather anxious glance into Mummy's face. "Are you going to have more pupils?"

"Not exactly, though it may lead to my having more pupils in the end," said Mummy, smiling. "It is about an offer I have received, and that I don't intend to accept until I have talked to my little girls about it."

Jill slipped an arm affectionately round Mummy's neck.

"Tell us all about it, Mummy dear," she said, softly.

"I am going to tell you; that is why we are not having lessons this evening. Miss Dexter—the English lady who is at the head of the school where I teach—sent word that she wished to see me this afternoon after the class. It seems, some of the older girls, who are not going home for the Christmas vacation, are very anxious to take a little trip into Sicily. Miss Dexter cannot very well go with them herself, and she is trying to find some one whom she can send as a chaperon."

"And she wants you to go—oh, Mummy, how delightful!" cried the twins, and Lill added rapturously—

"I know you'll love it. You have always said you wished you could see Sicily."

"I should like to go very much, and I consider it a great honor that Miss Dexter should consider me able to fill such an important position, but there are several drawbacks. The principal one is that I should have to be away at least two weeks, and that is a long time to leave my little girls."

The twins were silent. Never in their lives had their mother left them for more than a night at a time, and the thought of a two-weeks' separation was not pleasant. Jill was the first to speak; she had always been the more unselfish of the two.

"It would be hard to have you go, Mummy, but you would have such a good time, and Signora would take care of us."

"I know she would. Otherwise nothing would induce me to leave you. I know, too, that you would both be good children, and not give her any trouble, but there is something else. The girls want to start next Friday, and that means that they will be away over Christmas."

"Oh, Mummy, we can't be without you on Christmas!" cried Lill, in dismay. "It would be dreadful."

Jill gave her sister a warning glance.

"We might wait and keep Christmas when Mummy came back," she suggested. "Then she could tell us all about Sicily, and the interesting things she saw there. It wouldn't be quite the same thing, of course, but it would be better than not having any Christmas at all."

"But it would be so queer not to hang up our stockings, and have Mummy give us our presents the first thing Christmas morning," objected Lill. "We've always had such good times on Christmas."

"I know that," said Mummy, "and it was my chief reason for hesitating about accepting Miss Dexter's offer. I have always tried to make your Christmases as happy as possible, because I loved the day so much myself when I was a little girl. I have told Miss Dexter I will give her my answer to-morrow."

There was a pause, during which nobody spoke for fully three minutes. Both twins were looking very serious, and Lill's lip was trembling a little. Again it was Jill who was the first to speak.

"It will be very sad to have Christmas without you, Mummy," she said, "but you will have such a good change, and you haven't had a change in ever so long. If you are only away two weeks, you will be back in time for New Year's, and we can hang up our stockings and do all the nice things then, and pretend it's Christmas; can't we, Lill?"

"Yes," said Lill in a very low voice, and she swallowed hard to keep down the big lump in her throat.

Mummy bent and kissed both grave little faces.

"My own dear, brave little girlies," was all she said, but the twins felt as happy as if she had given them each a present.

The rest of that evening was rather forlorn. Mummy went downstairs, to talk things over with Signora Paloni, and as soon as she had left the room Lill broke down and indulged in a good, hearty cry. Jill also shed a few tears, but with characteristic cheerfulness, soon dried her eyes, and began to look on the bright side as usual.

"Oh, just think of all the interesting things Mummy will have to tell us when she comes home," she said. "It will be almost as good as going to Sicily ourselves. Have you noticed how tired her eyes have looked lately? She does work so hard, and the change will do her so much good."

"I know it will," sobbed Lill, "and I don't want to be selfish, but it's so dreadful to think of her being away on Christmas. We shall miss her so. I don't really see how we are going to live without her for two whole weeks."

"Two weeks isn't such a very long time," said Jill, with a little catch in her voice, "and Signora will be very good to us. Besides," she added, brightening, "it will be such a good time to learn to cook while Mummy's away."

Lill took out her handkerchief, and dried her eyes.

"We can do that, can't we?" she said, in a more hopeful tone, "and won't Mummy be surprised when she comes home. Oh, Jill, don't let me be selfish! I feel awfully like being, but I don't want to spoil Mummy's good time."

"We won't either of us be selfish," said Jill, slipping an arm lovingly about her sister's waist. "We'll just make the best of it, and try to let Mummy think we don't mind much."

And they did try to make the best of it, but I doubt very much if Mummy was deceived by appearances. She didn't say much, but when bedtime came, she took them both in her arms at once, and hugged them.

"You precious kiddies," she said. "You make Mummy's heart ache, but she's prouder of you than if you had won all the prizes at Miss Dexter's." And there were actually tears in her eyes, although she tried to laugh.

CHAPTER III

It was Christmas afternoon, and the twins were alone in the tiny apartment. It had been a very strange, dull Christmas, although every one had been kind, and the Palonis had done their best to give the little girls a good time. In the morning Signora Paloni had taken them to the Christmas mass at the Duomo, and they had really enjoyed the beautiful music, and the unfamiliar service. When Mummy was at home they always attended the little American church, where the service was very simple, a great contrast to the high mass at the cathedral. Afterwards they had dined with their kind landlord and his wife, and feasted on roast chicken stuffed with chestnuts, a delicacy very rare in their simple lives, for meat costs money, and Mummy's means were limited. And now it was late in the afternoon, and the Palonis had gone out to spend the evening, leaving the twins in charge of Tessa, the Italian maid-of-all-work, who had promised to give them their supper, and see that they went to bed at their usual hour. They were both feeling very forlorn and lonely. They missed their mother more than they liked to talk about, and they had been obliged to "pretend" very hard all the afternoon, in order to keep up even the faintest semblance of cheerfulness. They had in turn personated most of their favorite characters, including Queen Elizabeth, George Washington, and Savonarola. They had heard a great deal about Savonarola through having spent so much time in Florence. At last Jill proposed that they should be the little Princes in the Tower.

"We haven't played that since that afternoon in the gallery," she said. "It was the day Mummy told us about going to Sicily, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Lill, with a sigh, "and do you remember the gentleman who talked to us and asked where we lived? We thought he might buy some of Mummy's pictures."

"Well, you see he didn't," said Jill. "I didn't believe he really would."

"He had a kind face, though," said Lill, reflectively. "I wonder if he would have done it if he had known how much Mummy needed the money. He said he had a little girl named Lilian once. I wonder when she died, and what was the matter with her."

"That reminds me of something Tessa told me this morning," said Jill. "You know the American gentleman, who has taken the first-floor apartment, and who slipped on a piece of orange peel on the sidewalk, and sprained his knee, the very day after he came here. Well, it's dreadfully sad about him; his wife and little girl were both drowned last summer."

"How did Tessa know about it?" Lill inquired, with interest.

"The gentleman told her. You see, after he had his accident he had to have somebody to do things for him, so the doctor who attended to his knee sent a man who can talk English, because Mr. Brown—that's the gentleman's name—can't speak much Italian, and the man told Tessa all about it."

"It must be dreadfully sad for him to be all alone, especially on Christmas," said Lill, sympathetically. "I'm afraid he's having a worse Christmas than we are."

"I'm sure he is," said Jill. "I wish we could do something for him, don't you?"

"Yes, but I don't see what we could possibly do. We don't even know him."

"I know we don't, but we might get acquainted. If Mummy were at home, I'm almost sure she would get acquainted with him; she's always so sorry for people who are unhappy."

"Do you mean that we might go to see him?" inquired Lill, in growing astonishment.

"I don't think there would be any harm in our doing it, when he's living right here in the same house with us. We wouldn't stay long, of course, only just enough to wish him a Merry Christmas, and we might take him a little present."

"But perhaps he doesn't want people to come to see him. He might think we were very queer to do such a thing," objected Lill, who was more shy, and less quick to make friends than her sister.

"I don't see how he could possibly think it queer. He's an American just the same as we are, and in America Mummy says people always wish each other a Merry Christmas. Besides, if we saw he didn't like our coming, we could go right away again. I think it would be a kind, neighborly thing to do."

"What sort of a present could we take him if we went?" questioned Lill, glancing about the shabby little room, as if in the faint hope of finding some inspiration from the furniture.

"We might take him one of those nice oranges Signor gave us, and a piece of Signora's cake," suggested Jill, referring to the only two Christmas presents which had come to the twins on that day.

The suggestion met with Lill's approval, and after a little more discussion the matter was settled. Ten minutes later the twins were on their way downstairs, Jill carrying a plate, on which was a large slice of Signora Paloni's frosted cake, and Lill proudly bearing two oranges.

"We had better take two," she had declared. "There's nothing so good as fruit to eat when you don't feel well, and if his knee hurts him a great deal he may be feverish."

"It does seem very queer to go to see somebody you don't know at all," Lill said, hesitating, when they had reached the last landing, and were standing outside Mr. Brown's door.

"We wouldn't do it on any other day but Christmas," said Jill, resolutely, and without giving her sister time for any further hesitation, she lifted her hand and knocked.

There was a moment's silence; then some one called "Come in" in English; Jill turned the handle, and next moment the twins found themselves in a comfortably furnished sitting-room, with a wood fire crackling on the hearth.

In an arm-chair, drawn up before the fire, sat the owner of the apartment, one leg supported on a stool. His back was towards the door, but at the entrance of the children, he turned his head, and at sight of his face both twins uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise.

"Why, it's the gentleman who talked to us in the gallery!" cried Jill.

"We didn't know you were Mr. Brown," added Jill, almost dropping the oranges in her surprise.

The gentleman smiled.

"No, I don't suppose you did," he said. "I haven't seen many people since I came here. I met with an unfortunate accident a few days ago."

"Yes, we heard about it," said Lill, sympathetically. "I suppose that's why you didn't—"

She paused abruptly, admonished by a warning nudge from Jill.

"Didn't what?" the gentleman asked. His eyes were fixed earnestly on Lill, and there was the same softened look in them that the twins had noticed when he told them that he had once had a little Lilian of his own.

Lill blushed scarlet, and her eyes drooped.

"I was going to say something," she explained, "but perhaps it wouldn't be polite."

"Say it. I am not a very polite person myself, so I shall not mind whether it is or not."

"Well," said Lill, slowly, "it wasn't anything important, only you know you asked where we lived, and we told you about Mummy's pictures. We thought perhaps you would come to look at them, but of course you couldn't on account of your knee."

"That's true; I couldn't, even if I had intended to. This confounded knee has upset a good many of my plans. But suppose you come in and shut the door; it's rather chilly."

Lill complied with this request, and Jill hastened to explain the cause of their visit.

"We didn't come to stay," she said, carefully depositing her plate on the table. "We only stopped to wish you a Merry Christmas, and to bring you some cake and oranges. We thought you might like them."

"I do like them very much indeed," said Mr. Brown, and it was wonderful how kind and pleasant his face became all at once. "It was kind of you to remember a solitary prisoner. Won't you both sit down?"

The twins promptly seated themselves on the sofa, which was directly opposite Mr. Brown's arm-chair. They were beginning to enjoy the little adventure.

"You see we knew you were an American, just like us," said Lill, "Mummy says in America people always wish each other a Merry Christmas."

"Your mother is away, is she not?"

"Yes, she has gone to Sicily with some young ladies from the school where she gives drawing lessons. It's the first time she has ever left us, and it was dreadful to have her go, but she's having a lovely time."

"We had a letter from her this morning," chimed in Jill, giving the pocket which contained the precious letter an affectionate pat. "She sent it so we would surely get it on Christmas, and she told us so many interesting, wonderful things. She was in Palermo when she wrote, but she was going to Messina. Perhaps you would like to hear the letter; it's so very interesting."

"I should be very glad to hear it," said Mr. Brown, and his voice actually sounded almost eager.

Jill was delighted, and promptly produced the letter, which she already knew almost by heart.

"I'll begin and read the first half, and Lill can finish it," she said, magnanimously. "We both like to read it so much."

"I see," said Mr. Brown, and he smiled again, in what Lill afterwards pronounced, "such a nice, understanding way."

So Jill began the letter, in a sweet, clear voice, and when she had read the first half, she handed it to Lill, who read the rest, with equal pride and satisfaction. Mr. Brown made no comments, but the twins felt sure he was listening, and as they went on, his face grew very sad and tender, and at last he turned it partly away from the light, and shaded his eyes with his hand.

"Isn't it the most interesting letter you ever heard?" demanded Lill, proudly, when she had finished the last sentence, and was replacing the precious document in the envelope.

"It is a charming letter," said Mr. Brown, heartily. "You are very fond of your mother, are you not?"

"Fond of her!" cried Lill. "I should think we were; we just adore her. There isn't anybody in the world like Mummy. You can't think how she works, and what a hard time she has when people won't buy her pictures."

"Tell me about it," said Mr. Brown, and there was something in his voice that made Lill go on almost in spite of herself. Jill did not feel at all sure whether Mummy would approve of having her private affairs revealed to a stranger, and would have stopped her sister if she could, but Lill had forgotten everything in the world except her mother's cheerful bravery, and her anxiety that this strange gentleman with the sad smile and kind eyes, should know and appreciate her. So she told all about their father's sad death in Rome, of their coming to Florence, and of all Mummy's struggles and difficulties.

"She never complains or says she's tired," finished Lill, with a break in her voice, "but we can see the tired look in her eyes, and it makes us feel as if we wanted to cry."

"Has your mother no friends or relatives who can help her?" Mr. Brown was looking straight into the fire as he asked the question.

"She has a brother, but he doesn't ever do anything to help her," said Lill, impulsively.

"Perhaps he doesn't know that she needs help. Does she ever write to him?"

"I don't believe so, but even if she did, I'm sure he wouldn't help her, because—"

"I don't think Mummy would like to have us talk about that," said Jill, who had suddenly grown very red. "I'm afraid we shall have to go now," she added, rising. "We only came to wish you a Merry Christmas, and to bring the cake and oranges."

"Well, you haven't wished me a Merry Christmas yet," said Mr. Brown, "and I haven't thanked you for your presents. Don't be in a hurry. It's pretty lonely shut up in this room all day. My man is out, or I would offer you some tea."

"Mummy doesn't let us drink tea," said Lill, "but we often make it for her. We will make some for you if you would like to have us."

"I should like it immensely," Mr. Brown assured her. "I have been longing for a cup of tea for the past half-hour, and I have no idea how soon my man will be back. I gave him the afternoon off to spend with his family. I think you will find everything you need in that closet."

For the next ten minutes the twins were very busy. Their housewifely little souls swelled with pride at this opportunity of displaying their culinary abilities, and as they made the tea they chattered away to their new acquaintance, telling all about their plan for learning to cook a real dinner to surprise Mummy when she came home, and in their innocent prattle divulging many of the details of their simple lives. And Mr. Brown listened, almost in silence, and as the children chattered on, the look of sadness deepened in his eyes.

"And now what can I offer you in the way of refreshments?" he asked, smiling, as Lill triumphantly brought him a cup of steaming tea, which he declared to be the very best he had ever tasted. "Suppose we begin on the cake. It looks delicious."

"No, no, that's all for you," protested Lill. "Signora Paloni made us a big cake, and we've got plenty more upstairs. Besides, we don't need anything to eat. We dined with the Palonis, and they had such good things."

"What did they have?" Mr. Brown inquired with interest, as he sipped his tea.

"Roast chicken stuffed with chestnuts, and fried potatoes, and artichokes cooked in cream. And for dessert there was fruit, and the Palonis had wine."

"Not a very elaborate Christmas dinner, I should say," said Mr. Brown, laughing. "How about the plum pudding and mince pie?"

"Oh, they don't have those things in Italy," Jill explained. "Mummy has told us about them, and they must be delicious, but we are very fond of roast chicken, and we very seldom have it."

Mr. Brown suddenly set down his cup.

"What do you usually have for dinner?" he asked, sharply.

Jill was a little startled at this question, which struck her as somewhat curious, but Lill answered innocently—

"Oh, we have soup and vegetables and macaroni, and on Sundays we have salad, and sometimes Mummy makes a pudding. Oh, we have very good dinners, but of course they are not like the Palonis'."

"Come here," said Mr. Brown, in a voice that was not quite steady, and he put out his hand and drew Lill to him. "I want to talk to you a little before you go away. I had a little Lilian of my own last Christmas, and she was very much like you."

"Yes, I know," said Lill, softly; "you told us in the gallery, and Tessa, Signora Paloni's maid—told us about the dreadful thing that happened. We were so sorry. That was one reason why we wanted to come to see you to-day. We were afraid you might be lonely."

"Lonely!" repeated Mr. Brown, sadly. "Ah, my little girl, I hope you may never know what loneliness like mine means. It was very good of you to come to see me, and I appreciate it more than I can express. You have each brought me a present, and now I want to give you one in return."

He put his hand into his pocket, from whence he produced a shining gold piece, which he held out to Lill.

"It's only a trifle," he said, carelessly, "but you can buy something you want with it."

But to his surprise, Lill drew back, her cheeks crimsoning.

"You are very kind," she said timidly, "but please don't be angry, we couldn't possibly take it; Mummy wouldn't like to have us."

"Nonsense," began Mr. Brown, impatiently; then checked himself at sight of the children's embarrassment. "Do you really think your mother would object to your accepting a little present?" he asked, kindly.

"I'm afraid she would," said Jill, coming to her sister's rescue. "I am quite sure she wouldn't like to have us take money from some one she doesn't know."

"Oh, that is the trouble, is it? Well, I think we may be able to get over that difficulty when your mother comes home, and in the meantime, you are quite right not to do anything you think she would disapprove. How old are you, by the way?"

"We were eleven in October," said Jill, feeling much relieved at seeing Mr. Brown put the gold piece back in his pocket, "but I am much taller than Lill."

"Yes, Lill is small for her age; she is not any taller than my little girl, and she was only nine."

"Do I really look so much like her?" inquired Lill, her big, innocent eyes fixed earnestly on Mr. Brown's face.

"Very much indeed; so much that I sometimes almost fancy—but there, there, we won't talk about sad things, especially on Christmas. Come and see me again."

"Yes indeed we will," said Jill, heartily; "we've had a lovely time, and we're ever so much obliged to you for letting us make the tea."

Lill said nothing, but with a sudden impulse, she slipped her hand confidingly into Mr. Brown's. For a moment his fingers closed tightly over the little hand, and then he bent and kissed her on the forehead.

"Good-bye," he said, in a low, unsteady voice. "God bless you, little Lilian."

"What a very nice gentleman!" exclaimed Jill, as the twins went upstairs together. "I think he was really very glad to see us. Aren't you glad we went?"

"Yes," said Lill. "I like him very much, but, oh, Jill, he has such a sad look in his eyes. I never felt so sorry for any one before. I do wish we could do something for him that would make him really happy."

For several minutes after the door had closed behind his visitors, Mr. Brown remained in the same position, staring into the fire with dim, unseeing eyes. Then suddenly his head sank forward on the table beside him, with a sigh that was almost a groan.

"God forgive me," he murmured brokenly. "My poor little Kitty! I never dreamed it had been as bad as this. But I will atone, God helping me, I will atone."

CHAPTER IV

Signora Paloni was teaching the twins to prepare gniocchi, which is a favorite Italian dish, and tastes something like baked Indian meal with cheese in it; and it would be difficult to say which of the three, teacher or pupils, had enjoyed herself the most. It was three days since Christmas, and that morning's post had brought another letter from Mummy, containing the joyful news that they might expect her at home again by the end of the week.

"It hasn't been so very dreadful, after all, has it?" remarked Jill, as she put the precious letter carefully away in a place of safety. "I don't believe things are ever as bad as people think they're going to be." In which sentiment Lill was quite ready to agree.

"It does smell good," exclaimed Lill, surveying the result of their afternoon's work with pardonable pride. "How I wish Mummy could come in this very minute, and eat it all for her supper!"

"We'll cook some more the day she comes home, and have it ready for a surprise," suggested Jill. "I wish we could give some of this to somebody, though; we never can eat it all ourselves. Do you think Signor would care for it for his supper?"

Signora Paloni replied that her husband was not fond of gniocchi which he declared always gave him indigestion.

"I'll tell you what we might do," said Lill, with a sudden inspiration. "Take some down to Mr. Brown. I'm sure he'd like it, and his man could warm it up for supper."

"May we, Signora?" Jill inquired, a little doubtfully. Signora Paloni had not altogether approved of their Christmas visit.

"Gentlemen do not like being disturbed in their apartments," she had said, reprovingly, "and it is not the thing for young ladies to visit strangers. You must not go there again till your mother returns."

The twins had felt sure that Mr. Brown had not objected to their visit, and they did not believe Mummy would have objected, but a long experience had taught them that there was never any use in arguing with the good Signora, and so the matter had dropped. So it was something of a surprise to both children when the landlady, instead of positively refusing to allow them to take the dish to her lodger, only looked a little troubled, and said doubtfully—

"I do not know what your mother would say to it, but I can see no harm, provided you only take the plate to the door, and come away at once. He seems a kind gentleman, and he is a countryman of yours."

"Of course he is," said Jill, "and you can't think how kind he was, and how much he seemed to enjoy our tea."

"I think he is interested in you, for Tessa tells me he asks many questions about you," said Signora Paloni, putting some of the gniocchi into a plate. "We will cover it with a napkin to keep it warm. Which of you will take it to the gentleman's apartment?"

"You go, Lill," said Jill. "I think he likes you best on account of your name."

"Be sure to return at once," were Signora Paloni's parting words, as Lill left the room with her offering. To this Lill replied that she wouldn't be gone five minutes.

As far as appearances went, Mr. Brown might not have moved since the twins left him three days before, for Lill found him in precisely the same position before the fire, his injured leg supported on a stool. He was not alone this time, for his attendant, a pleasant-faced man with gray hair, opened the door in answer to Lill's knock, and courteously requested her to enter. Lill hesitated, mindful of Signora Paloni's injunctions, and was just about to leave her plate with the man, when Mr. Brown called out to know who was there.

"It's I, Lill Dinsmore," said Lill, stepping forward.

Mr. Brown threw down the book he had been reading, and held out his hand.

"I'm glad to see you," he said. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten your promise to come again. What have you been doing all this time?"

"We would have liked to come sooner," said Lill, relinquishing her plate to the attendant, and slipping her hand confidingly into Mr. Brown's. "We wanted to come yesterday, but Signora Paloni was afraid we might bother you."

"Well, you can tell Signora Paloni that she doesn't know anything about it. You don't bother me in the least, and I want you to come whenever you choose."

"You're very kind," said Lill, flushing with pleasure. "I'll tell her, and I'm sure she won't mind our coming when she knows you want us. I can only stay a minute now, though, because Signora is giving us a cooking lesson. I came to bring you something we made this afternoon, that we thought you might like for your supper."

"I am sure I shall, but I wish you were going to stay and help me eat it, for I should like that even better. It isn't exciting spending day after day shut up in the house by one's self."

"It must be perfectly horrid," Lill agreed, sympathetically. "I hope your knee is better."

"Oh, it's getting on as well as can be expected. The doctor was here this morning, and he says I shall be about again in another week. Any more letters from Sicily, eh?"

"We had one this morning," said Lill, her face brightening at the recollection. "Mummy's having a lovely time, but the best news of all is, she expects to get home on Saturday. That's why we're so anxious about the cooking lessons. We want to take all we possibly can before she comes, so as to be able to surprise her. I'm afraid I must be going now, but I'll ask Signora to let us both come again to-morrow."

"Wait one moment; I want to ask you a question. It's about an uncle of yours. I think you mentioned an uncle the other day, and I have an idea I know something about him. Would you mind telling me his name?"

Lill's whole expression changed instantly, and she drew herself up with an air of haughtiness, which might have amused some people, but which did not appear to strike Mr. Brown as funny.

"His name is Mr. George Brooks," she said, "but if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about him. Jill thinks Mummy wouldn't like to have us."

"Doesn't Mummy ever talk about him herself?"

"Yes, sometimes, but it always makes her sad, and we don't like to have her do it. You see, he's her only brother, and she used to love him very much. Of course it must make her sad to think of him now; he's such a wicked man."

"Did she tell you he was a wicked man?" Mr. Brown asked the question rather sharply.

"Oh, no," said Lill, eagerly. "She wouldn't tell us for the world. She always says kind things about Uncle George; she doesn't even know we have any idea how wicked he is."

"How did you find it out?" There was no evading the direct question, or the keen, searching glance that accompanied it, and although Lill was beginning to feel decidedly uncomfortable, she felt impelled to answer.

"We heard an American lady talking about him in the gallery one day," she said, reluctantly. "She used to know Mummy a long time ago in New York, and she was talking to another lady. She didn't know we heard what she said, and we never liked to speak to Mummy about it."

"What did she say about your uncle? I have a reason for asking, for if he is the George Brooks I know, I happen to have heard something about him, too."

Lill's eyes flashed. For the moment she had quite forgotten Jill's warning. She remembered nothing but the one dreadful fact, that somebody had once been unkind to Mummy.

"She said Mummy used to live with her brother in New York, and he had a great deal of money, but Mummy only had what he gave her, because her father had made a queer will, and left everything to his only son. Mummy wanted to go to Italy and study art, but her brother wouldn't let her, because he was selfish, and wanted her to stay and keep house for him. Mummy was very sweet about it, and gave it all up to please him, but afterwards, when she wanted to marry father, Uncle George was very angry. He told her if she did it he would never speak to her again, or let her have any of his money. Of course Mummy married father, because she loved him better than any one else in the world, and afterwards when they were very poor, and father was ill, she wrote to Uncle George, begging him to send them just a little money, but he sent back her letter without reading it. That lady was in Rome when father died, and Mummy said she and her husband were very kind to us, but she's paid back all their money now, and she's so glad, because it made her very unhappy to owe anybody money. But Uncle George was her own brother; he ought to have helped her."

"Perhaps he never received the letter—perhaps he was away at the time, and it was returned without his knowledge." Mr. Brown spoke quietly, but there was a look of suffering in his eyes, which Lill was too indignant and excited to notice.

"I don't believe it," she declared stoutly. "He was a very wicked man. If he hadn't been he would never have told Mummy he wouldn't speak to her if she married father. Just wait till you see how sweet and dear she is, and then you'll know nobody but a wicked man could be unkind to her. Oh, I hate Uncle George—I hate him! I hope I shall never have to see him as long as I live."

Lill paused abruptly, rather ashamed of her vehemence, and struck by something strange in the expression with which Mr. Brown was regarding her. She blushed crimson, and turned away in sudden embarrassment.

"I'm afraid I'll have to go now," she said, uneasily. "Signora and Jill won't know what has become of me. Good-bye; I hope you'll like our gniocchi."

"Good-bye," said Mr. Brown, in a grave, quiet voice, but he did not say he was sure he should enjoy the gniocchi, nor anything more about her coming again.

Lill was feeling decidedly uncomfortable as she closed Mr. Brown's door behind her, and started on her way upstairs.

"I wish I hadn't talked about Uncle George," she said to herself. "I wonder what made me do it. He did ask me, but I needn't have told him everything. Perhaps Uncle George is a friend of his, and it made him unhappy to hear such dreadful things about him. I don't believe I'd better tell Jill." Lill winked back a tear, for she was not accustomed to keeping things from her twin and she did not like the idea.

At the top of the second flight she met Jill coming down, with her hat on.

"Where in the world are you going?" Lill inquired in surprise.

"Only to the fruit stall at the corner, for some chestnuts. Signora is going to show us how to do something with them. You were gone so long we didn't know what had become of you. Did he like the gniocchi?"

"Yes—at least I think he did. He wants us to come to see him again. He says to tell Signora we don't bother him at all."

"That's nice; did you say we'd come?"

"I said we would if she'd let us, and I hope she will, for I think he's very lonely."

"Oh, I'm sure she will when she knows he wants us," said cheerful Jill, and she tripped away on her errand, leaving Lill to go back to Signora Paloni and the cooking lesson.

It was a glorious winter's afternoon, and as Jill stepped out into the bright sunshine, and felt the crisp, frosty air in her face, she drew in a long, deep breath of enjoyment.

"How good it feels to be out of doors!" she said to herself, as she hurried along the quiet little street. "I shall be glad when Mummy comes home, and we can have some walks again."

Signora Paloni was not much of a walker, and as she did not approve of the twins going further than the corner of the street by themselves, they had naturally been confined to the house more than they liked since Mummy went away. She had taken them to market once or twice, and on Sunday they had gone again to high mass at The Duomo, and afterwards walked across the Ponte Vecchio—the long bridge over the Arno, which is lined with gay shops—but when Mummy was at home, she generally tried to give the children some exercise on pleasant days, and there were few parts of the beautiful old city in which they could not have found their way. Sometimes they would even walk as far as San Miniato, and looking down from the height, would watch the sun set over the city, coming home tired and hungry, but all the better for their long walk.

It was too pleasant to hurry, and so, after the first few yards, Jill slackened her pace to a leisurely walk.

"I wish it was a little further," she reflected regretfully. "If I crawled every step of the way, I couldn't make it last more than ten minutes. Why, what in the world are all those people looking at?"

Instinctively she quickened her steps, anxious to learn the reason why a crowd of people should be gathered in front of the little fruit and vegetable stall, from which Mummy and Signora Paloni procured most of their simple wants. The crowd consisted of both men and women, and they were all talking and gesticulating in a most excited manner. As she drew nearer Jill saw that one of the men had an open newspaper, from which he appeared to be reading aloud, and that several women were crying and wringing their hands. Jill's heart began to beat very fast, and almost without knowing it, she started on a run.

"What has happened?" she demanded eagerly of the first person she met, a boy with a parcel under his arm.

The boy shouted something about "the earthquake," and ran on without stopping.

"What earthquake—where is it?" cried Jill, but the boy was already half way down the street, and did not seem to hear.

In two minutes she had reached the corner, and pushed her way through the excited, chattering crowd to the door of the little shop.

The shop-keeper—a rosy-cheeked young woman, who had known the twins for years—was crying, with her apron before her face. Jill went up to her, and touched her on the arm.

"What's the matter?" she asked, tremulously. "Has there really been an earthquake, and where was it?"

"Has there really been an earthquake, and where was it?"

"Oh, Signorina," cried the woman, with a fresh burst of tears, "it is too terrible—too terrible! There has been a dreadful earthquake in Sicily, and—"

"Sicily!" shrieked Jill, all the color going out of her face. "Oh, no, it isn't Sicily, it can't be! Please say it isn't, quick!"

"Yes, Sicily," repeated the woman, mournfully, and another bystander, anxious to impart the thrilling news, chimed in. "They say it is the worst earthquake ever known in Italy. The whole country is devastated, the town of Messina is in ruins, and every man, woman and child in the place is dead."

For one awful moment everything grew black before Jill's eyes, and the figures and the faces seemed to fade away into dim distance. Then, with a quick, gasping sob of terror, she turned, and ran with flying feet back in the direction of home. It was not true, of course, she told herself, such a horrible thing could not be true; it was all some dreadful mistake! But she could not stay there, and listen to those cruel people. She must get back to Signora Paloni and Lill; they would take care of her, and convince her she had not heard the words aright. Sicily, Messina! every one dead! No, no, it was not true, of course, but, oh, to be at home! To have somebody tell her it was all a mistake!

Mr. Brown was still sitting where Lill had left him, staring moodily into the fire, when the door opened, and his man—who had gone out for a few minutes—came in with a newspaper in his hand.

"Shut the door, Fratini," said Mr. Brown, irritably; "I don't like that draught. Why, man alive, what on earth is the matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost."

But Fratini did not answer. Neither did he close the door. On the contrary, he stood leaning against it, as if for support. His face was very white, and he was trembling violently. Mr. Brown repeated his question.

"In Heaven's name, what is the matter with you?" In his astonishment he half rose from his chair, but sank back again, admonished by a sharp twinge of pain in his knee.

"Oh, Signor," faltered Fratini, in his broken English, "I do beg ten thousand pardons, but this terrible news—"

"What terrible news? Speak out, can't you? And don't stand there staring like an idiot."

"The terrible earthquake in Sicily—the Signor has not heard? Thousands of people have perished, they say, and the whole town of Messina—"

"Earthquake in Messina! What nonsense are you talking? Here, give me that paper, and let me see for myself. Confound it, the thing's in Italian!"

"Go and get me an English newspaper as quick as you can, or stay, wait a minute; read me what this one says. You can translate as you go along."

Fratini began to read, pausing at the end of every sentence to translate it into English, and in his horror and excitement, making even more mistakes than usual. But even in Fratini's broken English the account was terrible enough to drive the color from Mr. Brown's face as he listened; A look of horror came into his eyes, and several times he made an effort to spring out of his seat, only to sink back again, with a scarcely suppressed groan of pain. In the excitement of the moment, Fratini had forgotten to close the door, and he was in the midst of the most frightful details when a slight sound behind them caused both men to turn, and there, standing in the doorway, supporting herself against the wall, stood Jill, her face like marble, her eyes filled by a great, nameless terror.

With an exclamation of dismay, Fratini dropped the paper, and hurried forward.

"Signorina," he cried pityingly, "Oh the pauvera Signorina!"

But Jill did not seem to hear him. There was something in Mr. Brown's face which terrified her more even than the dreadful news in the street had done. Twice she moved her lips, in a vain effort to speak, and then with a low cry, she darted forward, and almost fell at Mr. Brown's feet.

"Oh, it isn't true—say it isn't true!" she cried, despairingly. "Oh, Mummy, Mummy!" And she broke into a wild paroxysm of sobs.

Mr. Brown raised her gently, and drew her down on the arm of his chair. With a great effort, he controlled his own agitation sufficiently to speak calmly.

"My poor little girl," he said, soothingly, "I am so sorry you have heard this distressing story, but you must not let it trouble you so much, indeed you must not. Such things are always frightfully exaggerated at first."

"Then you don't think it's true?" cried Jill, catching eagerly at the first ray of hope. "The people in the street said it was true, but it can't be—it's too terrible."

"I think the report is doubtless greatly exaggerated," said Mr. Brown, gently. "How much truth there may be in it I cannot tell. We must try to wait patiently for more details."

"They said it was Messina," faltered Jill; "Mummy is in Messina."

Mr. Brown said nothing, but the look of suffering deepened on his face, and he drew Jill a little closer, as if to shield her from something. There was a pause. Fratini had picked up the paper, but he made no effort to go on reading, and stood looking at Jill, with a great pity in his eyes. At last Jill spoke, in a low, trembling little voice.

"I don't know what to do about Lill," she said. "Do you think we'll have to tell her?"

"I am afraid it would be difficult to keep from her the news that there has been an earthquake in Sicily, but we can make as light of it as possible. Why do you object to her knowing?"

"It's on account of her heart," said Jill, with a sob. "It isn't very strong, and the doctor told Mummy she must never be frightened or worried about things. She is much better than she used to be, but Mummy told me she shouldn't like Lill ever to have a shock of any kind."

Mr. Brown looked very grave.

"Do you think you can manage to break the news to her so it won't be a great shock?" he asked, anxiously.

Jill was silent for a moment while her whole body shook with sobs. Mr. Brown drew the little girl very close, and gently stroked her hair.

"Poor little Jill," he murmured softly, "poor little Jill!"

Then, with a mighty effort, Jill stifled her sobs, and slipped an icy little hand into his.

"I'll try," she said steadily; "I won't let Lill be any more frightened than I can possibly help."

Mr. Brown bent and kissed her.

"That's my brave little girl," he said huskily. "Now run upstairs before Lill has a chance of hearing the news in any other way, and tell Signora Paloni I want to speak to her at once."

Signora Paloni and Lill were growing decidedly impatient.

"What can be detaining her so long?" fumed the signora. "It is wrong of her to linger so. I would never have let her go if I had thought she would stay so long."

"It's a beautiful afternoon," said Lill, apologetically, "and we haven't either of us been out all day. Please don't be cross, Signora; I'm sure she'll be back in a few minutes."

"I do not wish to be cross, but I have work to do, and do not choose to wait about all the afternoon for a naughty little girl who loiters when sent on an errand. It will soon be time to go and see about my husband's dinner."

"Here she is," exclaimed Lill, in a tone of relief, as the door opened. "Why, Jill, what has kept you so long?"

Jill was very pale, and her lips twitched nervously, but her voice was calm as she answered quietly—

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting, but I couldn't help it. I stopped to speak to Mr. Brown. Signora, Mr. Brown wants to see you at once, please."

"Now, what in the world can he want with me at this hour?" grumbled the Signora as she left the room. "I will be back directly, children, and in the meantime you can be opening the chestnuts."

"Why, where are the chestnuts?" inquired Lill, regarding her sister in astonishment. "Jill, I do believe you never got them after all."

Jill made an effort to smile, but only succeeded in checking a rising sob.

"I forgot all about the chestnuts," she said. "A boy said something that frightened me, and I ran all the way home, but Mr. Brown says it's nothing to be frightened about."

"What was it?" inquired Lill, looking a little worried.

Jill turned away abruptly, and went to the closet to hang up her jacket.

"Why," she said in a voice that surprised herself by its calmness, "they say there was a little earthquake somewhere in Sicily. I don't suppose it was very bad, but when I heard people say earthquake and Sicily, of course I thought of Mummy, and I ran right home without stopping to get the chestnuts. I stopped in Mr. Brown's room to tell him about it, and he says it's probably dreadfully exaggerated. Now, Lill dear, don't begin to cry like that. It's so silly when we don't even know there really was any earthquake at all."

"But if there really was one," sobbed Lill, "and if Mummy was in it, she must have been so dreadfully frightened. I don't like to think of Mummy's being frightened when she went away to have a good time."

But though Lill cried, Jill saw, with a sensation of intense relief, there were no signs of the blue lines about her lips, which she knew her mother always dreaded to see. At least Lill had been spared the shock of hearing the terrible news as she herself had heard it.

"How glad I am Signora sent me for the chestnuts instead of her!" she said to herself. And then, with a sudden irresistible longing for love and sympathy, she threw her arms round her sister's neck and hugged her.

CHAPTER V

"Are you awake, Jill?"

"Yes," said Jill, lifting her head from the pillow with a start, and speaking in a rather choked voice.

Lill sighed.

"I can't get to sleep," she said, mournfully, "I'm trying hard, because I promised Mr. Brown, but it isn't any use. Do you suppose they've heard anything since we went to bed?"

"I'm sure they haven't," said Jill, with decision. "Signora promised to come and tell us the minute the telegram came. I do wish you would go to sleep, Lill. I'm so afraid you will be ill if you don't, and it would be dreadful to have you ill when Mummy comes home."

Lill began to cry softly.

"Oh, Jill, do you think she ever will come home?" she sobbed. "It's all so dreadful, and I'm so frightened."

"Of course she will," said Jill, in a voice that sounded almost angry in her effort not to break into a sob. "You know what Mr. Brown said about all the telegraph wires being down. It must make Mummy dreadfully unhappy not to be able to send us any news, but she'll come home the very first minute she can."

"But so many people were killed," faltered Lill. "How do you know that Mummy—"

"God wouldn't be so cruel as to let anything terrible happen to our precious Mummy," Jill interrupted sharply. "She's all we have in the world."

"God let father die," said Lill, mournfully, "and He let Uncle George be unkind to Mummy. Jill, do you suppose Uncle George would be sorry if he knew about her being in Sicily?"

"Of course he would," said Jill, with decision. "She's his own sister, and he used to love her very much when she was a little girl."

"I wish he did know," cried Lill, with sudden vehemence. "I wish something dreadful would happen to him—something that would make him just as miserable and unhappy as we are now. Oh, Mummy, Mummy! To think of any one's ever being unkind to you!" And Lill burst into wild, uncontrollable sobs.

Three days had passed since the first news of the terrible earthquake had reached Florence; three long, terrible, interminable days. Every hour the news of the awful catastrophe grew more and more alarming. All over the civilized world newspapers were ringing with the frightful details, and in Italy people seemed almost paralyzed by the shock. Already the king had started for the scene of the calamity, and the brave young queen had accompanied him, ready and anxious to offer her personal assistance to the wounded and the homeless. At the Palonis' the news had been at first received with incredulous amazement, then with ever-increasing horror and belief. Signora Paloni cried all day long, and went to the Duomo to pray whenever she could leave the house, and her husband went about with a look on his jolly, good-humored face that no one had ever seen there before. It had not been possible to keep Lill long in ignorance of at least some of the terrible details. Jill had saved her the first great shock, but grief and anxiety were rapidly telling on her never strong constitution, and Signora Paloni and Jill watched her in hourly increasing terror. There was only one person in the house who appeared to have any influence over the poor child, and that person, strange to say, was the lodger, Mr. Brown. Lill had only known Mr. Brown for a few days, but she had taken an odd fancy to him from the first, and now as the terrible days dragged on, bringing no news from the absent mother, she grew to lean upon him, and cling to him in a kind of despair, as if he, of all the world, were the only one who could help them in their awful anxiety.

"I don't know what makes me feel that way about him," she told Jill, when her sister questioned her on the subject, "but he seems so strong, and—and I feel almost sure he is just as unhappy as we are."

"But he can't be," reasoned Jill. "He never even saw Mummy. He's sorry for us, of course—everybody is sorry—and it was lovely of him to send Fratini to Sicily to try to find out something, but he can't possibly care as much as Signora or Miss Dexter."

But Lill was not convinced.

"I don't know why he cares, but I'm sure he does," she maintained, and Jill, feeling it useless to argue the subject any further, was silent.

And now it was the last night of the old year. In two hours more the new year would begin—a sad new year for many in Italy, whose friends or relatives had perished in the terrible earthquake. The twins had almost forgotten that it was New Year's Eve, but as Jill lay listening to her sister's sobs, trying hard to keep her own grief from having its way, she suddenly remembered, and the recollection added a new pang to her sorrow.

"Lill dear," she said, softly, "do you remember what night it is?"

"No," said Lill, drearily.

"It's New Year's Eve; don't you remember what a good time we had last year?"

"Yes, I do. Mummy let us sit up to see the old year out, and we made taffy, and she read Dickens' 'Christmas Carol' to us."

"Yes, and we made good resolutions for the new year. Don't you think Mummy would be pleased if we made some good resolutions to-night? We could tell her about them when she comes home."

But Lill was not comforted; her sobs were becoming more and more violent every moment. Jill was at her wits' end. The night before Lill had cried herself into a state of hysteria, which had frightened Signora Paloni very much. At the request of Mr. Brown, a doctor had been summoned, who had given the child a powder to quiet her nerves, and gone away looking rather grave.

"Lill dear, don't cry so, please don't," pleaded Jill, clasping her hands in despair. "You'll be ill, and then Mummy will be so worried and unhappy. Don't you want to be happy when she comes back from that dreadful Sicily?"

"She isn't coming back—she'll never come back!" wailed Lill. "She's dead, I know she's dead! Oh, Mummy, Mummy!"

Jill sprang out of bed; she was almost beside herself with terror and distress.

"You've got to stop that, Lill," she cried; "I tell you you've got to! I'm going down to call Signora."

"No, don't, don't, please don't! First she'll scold, and then she'll cry and wring her hands, the way she always does. She isn't any use. I want somebody strong, who doesn't cry and make a fuss—somebody like Mr. Brown."

"Very well, let's go down to Mr. Brown then," said Jill, desperately. "It's only just ten; I don't believe he's gone to bed yet. I'll get your clothes. Never mind about putting everything on; your wrapper and slippers will be enough. We'll only stay a few minutes, and when we come back you'll go right to sleep, won't you?"

"I'll try," promised Lill, humbly. "But won't Signora be very angry if we go down to Mr. Brown?"

"I can't help it if she is," said Jill, thrusting her sister's arms into her wrapper sleeves, for Lill seemed almost too weak and dazed to do anything for herself. "I only know I can't let you go on crying this way, and if you think Mr. Brown can make you stop, why, we've got to go and see him, that's all."

Mr. Brown was alone in his sitting-room. He had been there for hours, scarcely moving, and always gazing into the fire with dim, unseeing eyes. His knee was better, but he was still confined to his room, and the awful inaction of the past three days had caused him to look years older than when the twins had made him their first visit on Christmas afternoon. Twice he had risen, startled by some fancied sound in the street, and limping painfully to the window, had thrown it open, and leaned out listening. But everything was quiet, and in a few moments he had closed his window again, and gone back to his seat by the fire. Tessa, who now attended to all the lodger's wants, had brought him his supper, but he had bidden her take it away again, intimating by signs that he was not hungry, and wished to be left alone.

A distant church clock struck ten. Mr. Brown counted the stroke and heaved a deep sigh. Another day gone, and still no news—no lessening of this awful suspense. A few minutes later there was a timid knock at the door, the handle was gently turned, and Mr. Brown turned in astonishment to see two little figures dressed just alike in blue flannel wrappers, with pig-tails hanging down their backs, come into the room.

Lill ran to him, with a sob, and without uttering a word, he gathered the trembling child in his arms.

"I had to bring her," Jill explained apologetically. "She wouldn't go to sleep, and I was afraid she would cry herself ill again. She said she wanted somebody strong like you."

"May we stay a little while?" whispered Lill, letting her head rest wearily on her friend's shoulder. "You are so big and strong; I don't feel half so frightened when I am with you."

"You may stay just as long as you like," Mr. Brown said, his arms tightening about the little figure as he spoke. "Poor little Lill; it is very hard to be patient, isn't it?"

"Oh, so hard!" answered Lill, with a catch in her voice. "I wish I could be brave like Jill, but I get so terribly frightened when I think about the earthquake, and that Mummy may never come home." A shivering sob finished the sentence.

Mr. Brown said nothing, but held the little girl close in his strong arms, and in a little while the nervous trembling began to subside, and at last ceased altogether. Jill—who had been watching her sister anxiously—looked relieved, and Mr. Brown smiled at her reassuringly, and held out his hand.

"Come here, Jill," he said, and Jill came and knelt on the hearth rug, and Mr. Brown stroked her hair gently. They were all silent for a few minutes; then Lill spoke.

"I feel ever so much better," she said, softly. "I wonder why you always make me feel better. You never cry or make a fuss like Signora. Jill says you can't possibly care about Mummy, because you've never seen her, but I'm sure you do care very much."

"Indeed I do, little girl; I care far more than you dream. This is a terrible time for us all, but we must try to be patient and hope for the best. We ought surely to have some word from Fratini to-morrow."

"And from Mummy, too," said Jill. "I know Mummy will send us some news just as soon as she possibly can. She knows how worried we are."

"I am quite sure she will," said Mr. Brown in a tone of forced cheerfulness, and then they were all silent again until Lill remarked wonderingly—

"I've been trying to think why you should care about Mummy when you've never seen her. I suppose it must be because you're sorry for us. You must have been very unhappy when your little Lilian was drowned, and that makes you more sorry for other unhappy people."

Jill looked uncomfortable, and gave her sister a warning glance, but Lill went on without heeding it.

"You must have loved your little Lilian very much, or you wouldn't have liked me right away, just because my name happened to be Lilian, too."

"I did indeed," said Mr. Brown in a very low voice.

"And when you heard about her being drowned, it must have been just as much of a shock as it was to Jill when she heard about the earthquake. Do you like talking about Lilian?"

"I have not talked to many people about her, but I should not mind talking to you if you would care to hear."

Lill was much impressed, and Jill laid a kind little hand on Mr. Brown's knee.

"Was she pretty?" she asked softly.

"We thought her very pretty. She had big blue eyes, and long yellow curls, and she was a bright little girl for her age. Her mother and I were very proud of her."

"Her mother," repeated Jill, with a sudden recollection. "Oh, I remember; her mother was drowned, too."

Lill felt the arms that held her tremble slightly, but Mr. Brown's voice was quite calm when he answered, though the look of suffering had deepened on his face.

"It was a bathing accident," he said. "We had a cottage at the seashore, not far from New York. I was obliged to go to town every day, to attend to business, and my wife and little girl used to drive me to the station. They drove me as usual that last morning, and Lilian asked me to bring her home a particular story-book she wanted. I promised to get the book if I did not forget, and as the train was moving out of the station, I heard her little voice calling to me from the pony carriage; 'Don't forget, Daddy, be sure you don't forget.' I turned for one last look, and they both smiled and nodded to me. Lilian kissed her hand. I never saw either my wife or my little girl again."

"Oh!" gasped Lill, and she suddenly drew Mr. Brown's face down and kissed him.

"I think we know now why you are so sorry for us," said Jill, softly. "Would you mind telling us what happened?"

"They went bathing in the surf as they had often done before. My wife was a good swimmer, and she had taught Lilian to swim a little, too. They were both very fond of it. The sea was high that day, and there was a strong undertow. Nobody knows just what happened, but they think Lilian swam out too far, and her mother tried to save her. They were both drowned before help came."

"How terrible!" said Jill in a shocked voice. "I shouldn't think you would ever want to see the sea again. I wish we could do something for you to show how sorry we are."

"You are showing me that without doing anything at all," said Mr. Brown, kindly. "There, there, Lill, don't cry so; I shall be sorry I told you about my little girl if it makes you so unhappy."

"Oh, it isn't that," said Lill, choking back her sobs. "It was good of you to tell us, and I loved hearing it, only—only there are so many unhappy people in the world."

"But there are a great many happy people in the world as well as unhappy ones," said Mr. Brown, soothingly. "Why think so much about the sad things?"

"Do you really think there are?" asked Lill, somewhat comforted by this assurance. "Everybody seems so unhappy here now. I said something wicked to Jill upstairs, and I wish I hadn't—oh, I do wish I hadn't!"

"What did you say?" Mr. Brown inquired, with a faint smile.

"It was about Uncle George. I said I wished he knew about Mummy's being in Sicily, and that it would make him very unhappy. I thought I wanted him to be unhappy, because he was once unkind to Mummy, but it was a wicked thing to say. I don't really want any one in the world to be unhappy, not even Uncle George."

"Not even Uncle George," repeated Mr. Brown sadly. "Don't you think that you may be just a little hard on this uncle of yours? You may not know all the circumstances."

"I know he was unkind to Mummy," said Lill, and there was a suspicion of the old obstinacy in her tone.

"But suppose your uncle never received the letter your mother wrote him asking for help? Suppose he had no idea that she was poor and in trouble—did not even know her husband was dead. Would you hate him quite so much if you knew that?"

"No, I don't suppose I should," Lill admitted. "If he never got Mummy's letter, and didn't know about father—but then he was very unkind to Mummy before."

"He may have been very sorry for that. I happen to know George Brooks very well, and I am sure he never received that last letter."

"Oh," cried Jill, her face lighting up with sudden hope, "do you think he would help Mummy now if he knew how poor she was, and how hard she worked?"

"I know he would. I know he would gladly share everything he has in the world with her, if only for the sake of gaining her forgiveness. He would have tried to find her long ago, but they were both very proud, and they had quarrelled. He was afraid she might not care to see him."

"But she would, I know she would!" cried Jill, eagerly. "She used to love him very dearly. She often talks to us about the time when she was a little girl and she and Uncle George were everything to each other, just as Lill and I are now. It makes her sad to talk about it, but she likes to just the same. Is Uncle George a—a nice man?"

"He has been a hard man, I am afraid," said Mr. Brown, with a sigh, "but a great sorrow has come into his life, and I think he is less hard now than he used to be. What's the matter, Lill?"

"I'm sorry I said I hated Uncle George," said Lill, remorsefully, burying her face on Mr. Brown's shoulder. "It was unkind, and I don't like to be unkind."

"Never mind, little girl; don't think about it any more. Your uncle won't bear you any malice, you may be sure of that. He has far too many unkind acts of his own to account for without blaming a little girl, who only hated him because she thought he had been unkind to her mother."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," exclaimed Jill, with a sudden inspiration. "It's New Year's Eve, and we always make good resolutions for the new year. Let's resolve never to judge people until we are perfectly sure we know all about them."

"But you won't need to make that resolution," said Lill, loyally, "because you never do say unkind things about anybody—not even about Uncle George."

"Oh, well, perhaps I think them just the same," said Jill, blushing. "Let's make the resolution anyway. It will seem more like New Year's Eve if we make resolutions. Shall you write to Uncle George about Mummy, Mr. Brown?"

"I shall certainly speak to your mother on the subject as soon as she comes home," said Mr. Brown, and then they were all silent again, for the same dreadful thought was in all their minds; suppose Mummy never came home. At last Jill rose reluctantly.

"I think we had better go now, Lill," she said. "It's getting late, and Mr. Brown will want to go to bed."

"I am in no hurry," said Mr. Brown, and he looked almost as if he would be sorry to have them go. "Stay as long as you like."

But Jill still looked doubtful.

"I'm afraid Signora Paloni wouldn't like to have us stay any longer," she said. "She always comes up to see us before she goes to bed, and if she doesn't find us she will be frightened."

"Bother Signora Paloni!" said Mr. Brown, impatiently. "We will hear her when she comes up, and I will explain matters to her. We'll see the old year out and the new one in—that is if you don't get sleepy in the meantime."

So the children stayed, and when Signora Paloni came up a little later, Mr. Brown called her in, and made her understand in his halting Italian, that he wished to keep the twins with him a little longer. And, somewhat to Jill's surprise, the Signora—whose eyes were red from crying—made no objection, but merely nodded her head, and crept quietly away again. It was very still for a long time after that. Lill fell into a doze, with her head on Mr. Brown's shoulder, but Jill sat with wide-open eyes, gazing into the fire, and pondering many things.

At last the stillness was broken by the sound of wheels in the quiet street. Lill was wide awake in a moment.

"What is it?" she demanded, sitting up, and staring about the strange room in a bewildered way.

"Only a carriage passing," said Mr. Brown.

"It's stopping here," cried Jill, and she was on her feet and half way to the door before she had finished her sentence. Lill tried to rise, too, but she trembled so much that Mr. Brown put his arm round her, saying reassuringly—

"It is nothing, dear, nothing; probably the carriage has stopped next door."

A loud ring at the door-bell cut him short, and next moment Lill had darted away into the hall, after Jill, who was already half way downstairs. Mr. Brown grew very pale, and sank back in his chair.

"It is Fratini's telegram," he murmured. "Thank God for any news; anything is better than this frightful suspense."

But it was not Fratini's telegram. Jill had the door open before the Palonis could reach it, and then there was a wild, joyful cry of "Mummy! Mummy!" and after that nothing but a confused hubbub, in which everybody seemed to be talking, and crying, and kissing all at once.

It was nearly half an hour later when Mummy and the twins came upstairs together. Mummy was very tired—almost exhausted, in fact—but her eyes were shining with the light of a great thankfulness, and she had an arm round each little girl. She had not been at Messina, owing to the slight illness of one of the girls she was chaperoning, which had detained the party at Palermo longer than they had originally intended, but they had been through enough trying and painful experiences to give them the horrors whenever they recalled that time for years to come. It had not been possible to telegraph the news of their safety to anxious friends at home, as all the lines were down, but they had left Sicily on the first available boat, and hurried back to Florence as fast as the Naples express could bring them.

Outside Mr. Brown's door the twins paused.

"Let's go in and speak to him," said Jill. "He'll be so interested to hear all about it. He has been so good to us, Mummy dear; he even sent his man all the way to Sicily to try to find you."

"Indeed I want to thank him," said Mummy, eagerly, and in her quick, impulsive way, she hurried through the open door, straight into Mr. Brown's sitting-room.

"It's Mummy!" cried Lill, joyfully, running to her friend's side. "She wasn't in that dreadful Messina at all, only in Palermo, and the earthquake wasn't nearly so bad there. Oh, isn't it glorious to have her back again, and in time for the new year, too?"

"I want to thank you for your great kindness to my little girls," began Mummy, then stopped short, and stood staring in blank astonishment at Mr. Brown, while all the color went out of her face.

"Kitty," he said, in a low, unsteady voice, "thank God you are safe. It has been a terrible time of suspense for us all."

"George!" gasped Mummy, her face lighting up with a new and sudden joy, "oh, George dear, this is the best of all, but I never knew—I never dreamed—"

"Of course you didn't," said Mr. Brown, smiling, though there were tears in his eyes. "These little people didn't dream either, but we have settled several things to-night; among others that it isn't wise to judge people until we know all the circumstances in the case. I came to Florence three weeks ago, and in a chance meeting with these two little girls learned some things I had never known before. I engaged this apartment, under an assumed name, and moved in here a few days later. I wanted to see for myself how things were with you, and feared to come forward openly at first, in case the old pride should stand in the way of your telling me all I wanted to know. Unfortunately I met with an accident the very day after my arrival, which delayed matters considerably, and the next news I heard was that you had gone to Sicily. These dear little twins of yours took pity on a lonely invalid, and brought him a Christmas present. We made friends, and then came the terrible news of the earthquake. God alone knows what these three awful days have been to me. Kitty, for the sake of our mother, and our own happy childhood, say you forgive me."

"Forgive you?" cried Mummy, between laughing and crying, "why, George dear, there isn't anything to forgive, and if there ever was I forgave it long, long ago." And to the utter amazement of the twins, Mummy went straight into Mr. Brown's outstretched arms, and kissed him.

"And to think," cried Lill five minutes later, "to think you were Uncle George all the time, and I said I hated you."

"Well, you don't hate me any more, you know," said Uncle George, smiling, and he drew Lill to him, and kissed her tenderly.

"She is the very image of my little Lilian, Kitty," he said, tremulously. "I think I loved her from the first moment I saw her, and yet the very first opinion I heard her express was that uncles in general were wicked."

"But I don't think so any more," said Lill, blushing. "Oh, Uncle George, I think you must be the best man in the world not to be angry with me for saying such dreadful things, and I love you better than anybody except Mummy and Jill."

"Hark!" cried Jill, "there are the bells; they are ringing in the new year, and the church clock is striking twelve. Happy New Year, everybody."

"Happy New Year! Happy New Year!" echoed Uncle George and Lill, and Mummy added softly, with the tears shining in her eyes—

"It is a glad new year for us, but don't let us forget the thousands of homes rendered desolate by this frightful calamity. God has been very good to us, and we must be very grateful for our blessings."

"We have been making good resolutions, Mummy," said Lill. "Mine is to try not to be unjust and say things about people until I know all their reasons. What's yours, Jill?"

"To try to like lessons better, and not give Mummy so much trouble," said Jill. "Have you made one, Mummy?"

"Yes, darling, and it is to try to have more faith and to believe that God knows what is best for us, even when things seem darkest."

"I have made a resolution, too," said Uncle George. "It is to try to make three dear people as happy as I can. I have a good deal more money than I care to spend on myself, and now that my dear wife and little girl aren't here any longer, I want to share it with the three people I care most for in the world. Will you help me to carry out my resolution, Kitty?"

Mummy didn't answer in words, but she slipped her hand into her brother's, and the smile she gave him, though a little tremulous, was very bright and loving.

HOW REGGIE SAW THE SPHINX

CHAPTER I

The Cunard steamer, Caronia, had left Naples, and was making her way through a high sea, across the Mediterranean to Alexandria. It was very rough, and before they had left Naples harbor far behind, most of the passengers who were not proof against seasickness had retired to their cabins. Reggie's mother, who was a very poor sailor indeed, had been one of the first ladies to disappear from the deck, and she had been speedily followed by Reggie's nurse, Ellen. Reggie himself had never felt better in his life, but he had really tried to be sympathetic.

"I suppose you can't help it," he remarked in a puzzled tone, as he stood in the doorway of the cabin he shared with Ellen, and regarded the maid, who lay prone upon her bed, the picture of misery and despair. "It does seem very queer, though; I can't see what makes people feel that way."

A groan was the only response he received.

"Well, I guess I'll go and see if I can find Daddy," Reggie went on. "Perhaps he'll let me stay with him on deck. It's very stuffy down here."

Ellen opened her eyes and raised her head from the pillow.

"Don't you go wandering off by yourself, Master Reggie," she admonished; "you'll be falling overboard or something dreadful'll happen to you if you do. O my goodness, this is awful! I shall be dead before we get to Egypt, that's sure."

"You do say very silly things, Ellen," remarked Reggie, rather scornfully. "You know perfectly well you won't be dead when we get to Egypt. Daddy says people never die of seasickness. You said just the same thing when we were coming over from America, and when we got to Rome you said you were so glad you'd come because now you could die happy, because you'd seen the Pope. I don't see why people are always saying things they don't mean."

"Oh, do try and keep still, there's a good little boy! I can't talk; my head's just ready to burst."

Reggie sighed. It struck him that nurses were tiresome persons, and that Ellen in particular was very slow of comprehension.

"But I don't like it down here," he argued. "It isn't nice; it's stuffy. I want to go on deck with Daddy."

"Well, go and ask your mother, then, but I know she won't let you."

Reggie waited for no second bidding, but darted across the passage to the cabin occupied by his parents. There he found his mother also lying upon her bed, and also looking very miserable.

"Mother," he began eagerly, "may I go on deck and look for Daddy?"

Mrs. Starr opened her eyes with a faint moan. "Reggie darling, I don't like to have you running about this ship by yourself. Can't Ellen look after you?"

"Sick," said Reggie shortly.

"O dear, is she sick, too, poor thing? It really is frightfully rough. Can't you manage to keep still for a little while? Your father will be coming down before long, and I will ask him to look after you."

"But I've been still for a very long time. I've looked at all the pictures in that book Grandma sent me, and I've played three games of 'old maid' all by myself."

"Will you promise to come back in five minutes unless you find your father, and will you be very, very careful not to get into any mischief if I let you go?"

"Of course, I won't get into any mischief. I'm eight, and Daddy says a boy of eight ought to be able to take care of himself."

Mrs. Starr smiled faintly in spite of her suffering.

"Well, be sure you do take care of yourself, then," she said. "Don't lean over the railing or go near the machinery, or—" But at that moment the ship rose on the crest of a big wave and came down again with a sickening lurch and Mrs. Starr's sentence ended in a groan.

Reggie gave the required promise and without waiting for any further directions sped away in search of his cap and warm coat. Five minutes later he was climbing the stairs that led to the promenade deck.

It was very beautiful on deck, or at least so it seemed to Reggie. The sea was very high, and the wind was blowing a stiff gale, but the afternoon sun was shining brightly, and the great waves seemed to dance and sparkle beneath its rays. A few ladies were lying back in steamer chairs but there were not many people about, and Reggie had no difficulty in discovering his father, standing by the door of the smoking-room, talking to another gentleman. Reggie was very fond of his father; he was such a very pleasant person and he never fussed about wet feet or warm flannels, as his mother and Ellen were apt to do. At sight of his little son, Mr. Starr smiled and remarked cheerfully—

"Hello, young shaver! feeling pretty fit, eh?"

Reggie liked being called "young shaver," it sounded like something manly and he promptly thrust his hands into his pockets and assumed his most grown-up air.

"I'm all right," he responded, jauntily; "Mother and Ellen aren't, though."

"Poor things! I think I had better go and have a look at your mother."

"She doesn't want anything. She only wants to be left alone, and so does Ellen. Mother said I might come up here and look for you."

"Oh, she did, did she? I suppose that means that I must give up my game of bridge, and look after you for the next hour."

"Oh, I say, that's too bad!" exclaimed the other gentleman, a broad-shouldered young Englishman, with sandy hair and mustache. "We want you to make up our table. Can't the kiddie take care of himself for a bit?"

Mr. Starr glanced doubtfully at Reggie.

"Can I trust you to keep out of mischief if I leave you to yourself for half an hour?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said Reggie, returning his father's questioning glance, with steady brown eyes.

"Honor bright?"

"Honor bright," repeated the little boy, and Mr. Starr was satisfied.

"Very well," he said. "You may stay here on deck as long as you like, but don't go anywhere else without letting me know. I shall be right here in the smoking-room, and when I have finished my game I'll take you up to see the Marconi station."

Mr. Starr went into the smoking-room with his friend, and Reggie sauntered along the deck, feeling very much grown-up indeed. It always gave him a delightful feeling to have his father trust him, and put him on his honor. His mother and Ellen never seemed to believe it possible that he could keep out of mischief if he were not constantly watched, but when he had looked into his father's eyes, and said "honor bright" he would no more have broken his word than "the boy on the burning deck" would have deserted his post.

He took several turns up and down the deck and as he walked he wondered whether the people in the steamer chairs were watching him and thinking what a big, independent boy he was. He tried to whistle, in imitation of his father, but only succeeded in producing such a very faint sound that he was afraid nobody heard it. But walking on deck in a high sea is not very easy, and by the time he had taken half a dozen turns, it occurred to him that it might be wiser to sit down for a little while. He was looking out in search of a steamer chair, when his attention was attracted by the sight of a little girl of about his own age, leaning out of the window of one of the deck staterooms. She was a very pretty little girl, with blue eyes, and long yellow hair, and there was something in her expression that made Reggie feel sure she would like to talk to somebody. He was not, as a rule, particularly fond of little girls, and it is probable that had there been any boys present, he would have passed this one without noticing her, but it happened that she was, at the moment, the most attractive person in sight, and Reggie—who was not accustomed to remain silent for long at a time—paused before the open window, and remarked cheerfully:

"How do you do?"

Reggie paused before the open window.

"How do you do?" returned the little girl, and her face brightened. She was evidently pleased at being spoken to.

"Are you going to Egypt, too?" Reggie inquired with interest.

"Yes, of course; that's where the ship's going. Aren't you going there yourself?"

"Yes I am. I've come all the way from New York, but we went to Rome and Naples first. Where did you come from?"

"From England," said the little girl; "I live near London. Have you ever been to London?"

"No, but we're going there in the spring, before we go back to America. Do you like travelling on ships?"

"Not much. I never was on a ship before, were you?"

"Oh, yes; we came over from New York on the Mauretania, and that's a much bigger ship than this one. Are your father and mother seasick?"

"My father's in Cairo, and my mother died when I was a baby, but my nurse is very sick, and I'm rather frightened about her; she looks so queer, and keeps groaning all the time."

"Oh, there isn't anything to be frightened about," said Reggie, reassuringly. "Ellen does that all the time, and mother does it a little, too. I guess ladies are generally seasick on ships, but men aren't. Why isn't your father on the ship with you?"

"Because he's a soldier and has to stay with his regiment. There isn't any one with me but nurse, and that's why it frightened me so to have her sick. If she should die there wouldn't be any one to take care of me."

"She won't die," said Reggie; "seasick people never do. Are you going to see your father in Cairo?"

"Yes, that's why we're going there. I don't believe my father was ever seasick; he's so big and strong and splendid. I haven't seen him since I was five, but I remember just how he looks."

"How funny not to see your father since you were five," remarked Reggie, in a tone of some disapproval. "My father goes to his office every day, but of course he always comes home in the evening in time for dinner."

"But I told you my father is a soldier. He's a colonel, and colonels can't leave their regiments. He was in India for two years, and then the regiment was ordered to Egypt, and of course he had to go there."

"And do you and your nurse live all alone?" Reggie inquired. He did not think he would enjoy living alone with Ellen.

"Oh, no, I live with my Aunt Helen, and she's awfully nice and pretty, but she says I keep her from having a great many good times, because she has to stay and take care of me. My grand-mamma used to take care of me, but she died last year, and now there isn't any one but Aunt Helen. We went to Italy to spend the winter, but when we got to Naples, Aunt Helen met some friends who wanted her to go to Greece with them. At first she thought she couldn't go, on account of me, but then she remembered how my father wanted her to bring me out to Egypt to see him this winter, and she decided she'd send me right off to Cairo with Nurse. She didn't have time to write, because her friends wanted to start for Greece this week, but she telegraphed to my father to meet us at Alexandria, and we came right off on this ship."

"I should think you'd love having your father a colonel," said Reggie. "I suppose you'll see lots of processions while you're in Cairo. Don't you love processions?"

"I don't think I ever saw one, but I should like to. My father is a very brave soldier. They made him a colonel in South Africa, and I shouldn't be surprised if he got to be a general some day."

"I hope I shall see him," said Reggie, admiringly. "Perhaps I shall, for we're going to Cairo, too. What's his name?"

"Colonel Willoughby, and my name's Phyllis Willoughby. What's yours?"

"William Reginald Starr, but people generally call me Reggie. I'm going to be Reginald when I grow up. I say, don't you want to come out? It must be stuffy in there."

"I should love to, but I don't believe Nurse would let me; she's so fussy."

"Go and ask her. Tell her a boy's going to take care of you. Maybe she'll let you come then."

Phyllis looked rather doubtfully at the small figure outside the window. She thought William Reginald Starr a very grand name, and its owner certainly had a nice face, but then, he did not look any older than herself.

"You're not a very big boy," she remarked sceptically. "How old are you?"

"I shall be nine next October."

"Well, it's only January now, so you're not much more than eight. I was nine in November. Do you really think you can take care of me?"

"Of course I can. My father's playing cards in the smoking-room, and he said I could stay here on deck by myself till he gets through. Come along. It's great round the other side where the wind blows."

Phyllis disappeared from the window, but was back again in a moment.

"Nurse is asleep," she whispered. "I'm afraid it will make her very cross if I wake her up to ask."

"Then don't ask, but just come on," said Reggie, recklessly. "Maybe she won't wake up for ever so long, and then you can tell her it was all my fault. I'm not afraid of nurses."

Phyllis hesitated for a moment. She was an obedient child, but the afternoon had been long and dull, and the temptation was strong.

"All right," she said, "just wait till I get my coat and hat."

When Mr. Starr, having finished his game of bridge, came to look for his small son, he found Reggie sedately pacing the deck, in the company of a very pretty little girl, with blue eyes and yellow hair. Both children looked the picture of smiling contentment.

"Her name's Phyllis Willoughby, and her father's the colonel of a regiment," Reggie announced by way of introduction. "She's going to Cairo, because her father lives there, and she hasn't seen him since she was five. Her nurse is seasick, and her aunt has gone to Greece. I'm taking care of her."

"You're beginning early, young man," laughed his father, and the young Englishman, who had accompanied Mr. Starr from the smoking-room, added:

"It's the little Willoughby girl. Her father made a name for himself in South Africa. I know her aunt, nice jolly girl. She's gone to Greece with a party of friends, and sent the kiddie out here to join her father in Cairo."

"Perhaps your little friend would like to inspect the Marconi station with us," said Mr. Starr, good-naturedly, and Phyllis, who had quite forgotten about Nurse by this time, readily accepted the invitation.

Reggie and his father proved two very delightful companions, and Phyllis spent a most enjoyable half-hour with them, on the hurricane deck, inspecting the wonderful new invention, which has changed the whole course of life at sea. It was not until they were on their way down again, that she suddenly remembered Nurse.

"I think perhaps I'd better hurry," she said, a little anxiously. "If Nurse wakes up and doesn't find me, I'm afraid she'll be frightened."

They quickened their steps, but they were still some distance from the cabin, when Phyllis saw an approaching figure, at sight of which she uttered a little gasp of dismay.

"It's Nurse!" she exclaimed, "and she must be very much frightened indeed, for she's come out without her false hair, and she's got her dress on right over her nightie."

The wrath of Nurse when she caught sight of the little truant, was truly awful to behold. Even Mr. Starr was rendered speechless beneath the torrent of reproaches poured upon his head, and poor little Phyllis was quickly reduced to repentant tears. Reggie alone stood his ground unflinchingly.

"It was all my fault," he exclaimed to the irate nurse. "She said you were asleep, and she didn't want to come, but I said I'd take care of her, and I did, too, till Daddy came, and then he took care of us both." But Nurse was not easily appeased.

"You're a very naughty, disobedient little girl, Miss Phyllis," she declared. "You shall be put to bed at once, and kept there for the rest of the day."

"Well," remarked Reggie to his father, as he watched his little friend being led away to her cabin in disgrace, "I used to think Ellen was cross sometimes, but I'm glad she isn't like this one. I'm glad we haven't got a nurse like that, aren't you, Daddy?" To which his father responded heartily:

"I most certainly am, my son."

CHAPTER II

The wind and sea both went down that night, and by noon of the next day the Mediterranean was as calm as a river. Everybody came on deck, and the people who had been most seasick the day before, were now among the liveliest of the passengers. Reggie's mother talked and laughed with the other ladies, and looked so bright and so pretty, that the little boy felt very proud of her.

"I think my mother's the prettiest lady on the ship," he remarked to Ellen, who had also quite recovered from her indisposition. "None of the others have such nice eyes or such pretty teeth." To which Ellen—who adored her mistress—answered readily—

"You're right there, Master Reggie. You can go a good way, and not find any lady to beat your mother in looks."

Phyllis and Nurse were also on deck, but somehow they did not seem as cheerful as the other passengers. Nurse was still looking rather pale, and there was a very stern expression about her mouth, and Phyllis was decidedly quiet and subdued.

But Reggie was not easily daunted and as soon as he caught sight of his little friend of the previous afternoon, he ran to her side, with a friendly greeting.

"Hello!" he remarked in his usual cheerful tones. "I'm glad you're out to-day. Is Nurse better?"

Phyllis cast a frightened glance at Nurse, but did not answer.

"Stay right here, Miss Phyllis," commanded Nurse in a very awful voice. "You are not to go gadding about again with strange children, remember. We had enough of that business yesterday."

"I think you are a very disagreeable person," said Reggie, indignantly. "I wasn't going to take Phyllis anywhere; I was only going to talk to her."

"You are the boy who led her into mischief yesterday," said Nurse, with unabated severity.

"I didn't lead her into mischief," began Reggie, preparing for an argument. He was very fond of arguing—a weakness which he inherited from his father, who was a lawyer. "I only wanted her to come out on deck, because it was stuffy in the cabin. She wanted to ask you, but you were asleep, so she couldn't."

"Well, she's not going to walk the deck with you again, that's certain," retorted Nurse crossly. "I've had one fright on this ship, and that's enough to last me for some time to come. Her aunt put her in my charge, and she's to do what I say till we meet her father."

"Come here, Master Reggie," called Ellen from her steamer chair. "Don't you know little boys mustn't stay talking to people who don't want them?" she added, severely, as Reggie turned reluctantly away from his new friend. "You leave that little girl alone or I'll speak to your mother about it."

Reggie was very much disgusted, and would greatly have enjoyed continuing the argument for some time longer, but Ellen was firm, and he was forced to submit to the inevitable. For the rest of that day the two children continued to exchange longing glances, but neither one dared speak to the other. The next morning the steamer reached Alexandria.

"It's the queerest place I ever saw," Reggie said to his father, as they stood watching the boat-loads of chattering Arabs swarming on board. "Why do those people wear such funny clothes? They look like nighties."

"I have an idea that you will see a good many unusual sights before we leave Egypt," said Mr. Starr, laughing. "Those men are Arabs, and that is their national costume."

"What's a national costume?" demanded Reggie, who was as fond of asking questions as he was of arguing. But he did not wait for his father's answer, for at that moment he caught sight of Phyllis standing only a short distance off, and, wonderful to relate, she was alone. Next moment Reggie was at her side.

"Where's Nurse?" he inquired eagerly.

"She's gone to see about having the trunk taken down. She says I'm not to move till she comes back."

"She didn't say you couldn't talk, though, did she? I've been waiting to talk to you ever since that afternoon. Was she awfully cross about it?"

"Rather. She's the crossest person I ever knew. I don't like her much."

"I shouldn't think you would," said Reggie, sympathetically. "Has she been your nurse for a long time?"

"Oh, no, she only came last summer. The nurse I had before was very kind, and I loved her, but she went away to be married, and Aunt Helen engaged this one because she had lived with some friends of hers. The father of the children Nurse used to take care of was a lord, and she's always talking about the 'haristocracy.' I don't think she likes us very much. She says Aunt Helen is frivolous—what does frivolous mean?"

"I don't know," Reggie admitted reluctantly, "but I'll ask mother. Aren't those the queerest-looking people you ever saw?"

"I don't like them," said Phyllis, with a little shudder. "I wish Nurse would come back. I don't like staying by myself, with all those horrid black people coming on board."

"My father and mother are right over there," said Reggie, reassuringly. "Let's go and stay with them."

"But Nurse said I mustn't move."

"Oh, she won't mind. She can see you just as well over there as she can here."

Phyllis yielded. She had taken a great fancy to Reggie's pleasant-faced father, and there was certainly a very comfortable feeling about being close to somebody grown up, at a time when strange things seemed to be happening every moment. Mr. Starr greeted the little girl with a pleasant nod and smile and Reggie's mother—who had heard of Phyllis and her disagreeable nurse—said, kindly:

"Is this your little friend, Reggie dear?"

"Yes," said Reggie; "her nurse has gone to see about the trunk, and she doesn't like staying by herself, on account of all those funny black men."

At that moment a very tall Arab approached, and bowing low to Mr. and Mrs. Starr, inquired, with a grin—

"Lady, gentleman, want dragoman? I very fine dragoman; good recommend."

Phyllis shrank close to Mrs. Starr, with a little gasp of horror, and even Reggie was somewhat startled, but Mr. Starr only smiled.

"No, I thank you," he said pleasantly. "My dragoman is to meet me in Cairo." Whereupon, the Arab bowed again, and walked away.

"What's a dragoman?" Reggie inquired with interest.

"A man who takes people about in Egypt, looks after their luggage, and makes himself generally useful. A dragoman is a most important person here, as not many foreigners understand the language or the customs. Ah, here comes the tender to take us on shore."

Reggie gave a little skip of delight.

"I think Egypt's great," he declared. "I'm awfully glad we came; aren't you, Phyllis?"

"Ye—yes," said Phyllis, doubtfully. "It's rather queer, though, don't you think so? I don't like quite so many black people. I wish my father would hurry and come."

"Do you expect to meet your father at Alexandria?" Mrs. Starr asked kindly.

"Yes, I think so. Aunt Helen telegraphed him we were coming on this ship, and she said she was sure he would be here to meet us. Here comes Nurse; I hope she won't scold."

But Nurse was far too much absorbed in her own grievances to have any thoughts to spare for her little charge. She was laden with bags and wraps and her crimson cheeks and flashing eyes assured Phyllis of the fact that Nurse was very angry.

"Will you be so good as to tell me, sir, if you please, where I'm to find a porter to help me with these things?" she demanded of Mr. Starr, without even glancing at Phyllis. "I don't see any one around here but black men in heathen clothes, and I don't care to trust my property to them."

"They are all right," said Mr. Starr, with difficulty repressing his desire to laugh. "They will take just as good care of your property as any one else."

Nurse tossed her head indignantly.

"One of them tried to snatch a bag out of my hand," she said, "but I told him I'd call the police if he didn't leave it alone. Not that I suppose there are any police in this heathen land."

"Keep close to us, and I will see that you are not troubled in that way again," said Mr. Starr, good-naturedly, determined for Phyllis's sake, to ignore past unpleasantness. "The tender is just coming, and we shall be going on shore in a few minutes. Has your trunk been taken downstairs?"

"It's down, but goodness knows whether I shall ever lay eyes on it again or not. If I had known what kind of a place it was that Miss Willoughby was sending me to, I would never—" But the rest of Nurse's sentence was drowned in a tremendous blast from the steamer's whistle as, at that moment, the tender, which was to land the passengers, came puffing up to the side of the big ship.

"Do you see your father, Phyllis?" Reggie inquired, eagerly.

"I don't know; I don't see any gentleman who looks like his picture." Phyllis's heart was beating fast, and she was trembling with excitement.

"Perhaps he'll be waiting on the shore with his regiment," Reggie suggested.

"I don't believe he would bring his regiment with him, do you?" said Phyllis, doubtfully.

"I guess he could if he wanted to. Soldiers have to do just what their colonels tell them to. Perhaps he'll want to give you a royal reception, like they're going to give President Roosevelt when he comes home from Africa. He must be pretty excited about seeing you; you've been away so long. Mother says if she hadn't seen me since I was five, and I came all of a sudden, the way you are doing, she thinks she would die of joy."

"Oh!" said Phyllis, and looked very much impressed. She had not been accustomed to think of herself as a person of such importance that any one would be likely to die of joy at her arrival. Her aunt was a busy woman, much absorbed in her own affairs, and though always kind to the child, had never paid very much attention to her, and her grandmother had been an invalid for years before her death, so Phyllis had known little of the petting so familiar to most little girls.

It was evident that Phyllis's father was not on the tender. Neither was he to be seen on the pier, when the passengers had been safely landed, and were standing in the midst of a crowd of jostling, screaming Arabs, waiting to take their places in the train which was to carry them to Cairo. Phyllis was sure she would recognize her father by his photograph, he having sent a new one to Aunt Helen only a few weeks before. She appeared equally certain that he would recognize her by the same means and explained that her aunt had sent him her picture in a silver frame for a Christmas present.

"Perhaps we shall find him at the station in Cairo," Mr. Starr suggested. "If he had come to Alexandria we should certainly have found him here."

Nurse, whose temper had not been improved by the landing, which she had found somewhat difficult, owing to her numerous belongings, which she had steadily refused to relinquish to any of the native porters, gave a reluctant consent when Mr. Starr proposed that they should get into the Cairo train, and they all entered a first-class carriage together. By this time Mr. and Mrs. Starr had made up their minds not to lose sight of Phyllis until they had seen her safely in her father's care. Nurse settled herself in one corner of the carriage, with a grunt of disgust, and Ellen—who was not much better pleased with her first impressions of Egyptian life than Nurse had been, ensconced herself in the opposite corner. Mr. and Mrs. Starr, however, were in excellent spirits, and quite prepared to enjoy every moment, and the two children found the journey a most interesting one. There were so many strange new sights to be seen from the carriage windows. The flat, barren landscape, the natives at work in the fields, and, strangest of all, the tall camels ridden by Arabs and laden with packs of goods. Reggie was deeply interested in all he saw and plied his father with questions at the rate, Mr. Starr laughingly declared, of three a second. The Starrs were very kind to Phyllis, and the little girl soon lost all shyness, and chatted away with far more freedom than she would have done to her aunt at home.

"You are not a bit afraid of your father, are you?" she said wonderingly to Reggie, when the two children were being regaled with a light lunch of sandwiches and sponge cakes, with which Mrs. Starr had provided herself before leaving the steamer.

"Of course not," said Reggie, indignantly. "What a silly question. People aren't ever afraid of their fathers."

"Aren't they?" said Phyllis, in a tone of relief. "I thought they were sometimes. I think I shall be a little afraid of mine, but then I haven't seen him in such a long time, and of course that makes a difference."

"That's all the more reason why he's sure to be awfully good to you," affirmed Reggie. "Daddy went away yachting once. He was gone nearly a month, and when he came home he brought me the grandest Indian suit you ever saw, and took me fishing the very next day. You can't think how good fathers and mothers are when they haven't seen you in a good while."

"I remember my father pretty well," said Phyllis. "He was very big and strong, and he laughed a great deal. He used to give me rides on his shoulder, and I liked it, only I was frightened sometimes when he tossed me up in the air, and pretended he was going to hit my head against the ceiling. He sends me beautiful presents, and once he wrote me such a nice, funny letter."

"He must be great!" was Reggie's cheerful comment, and nothing more was said on the subject of fathers during the rest of the journey. But when they had reached the station at Cairo, and were being pushed and jostled, and yelled at, by a crowd of native drivers, and still Colonel Willoughby did not appear, matters began to look more serious. Nurse became almost hysterical in her agitation, and talked so fast and so loud, that she was quite the centre of attraction.

"And what am I to do, I'd like to know?" she demanded. "Here I am in a heathen land, with that child on my hands, and her father nowhere to be found."

"There must be some mistake," Mr. Starr said soothingly. "You had better come to the hotel with us, and we will make inquiries. You are sure the little girl's aunt sent the telegram before you left Naples?"

"She said so, but she's that light-headed and frivolous—excuse me saying it of a lady, but it's true all the same—that there's no telling if she mightn't have sent it to the wrong address in her hurry."

"You have Colonel Willoughby's address, I suppose?" Mr. Starr asked a little anxiously.

"Oh, yes, sir, I've got it all wrote down on a card, but I can't get at it this minute, for it's sewed inside with the money."

"Well, we will go to the hotel first, and then you can give me the address, and I am sure we shall soon be in communication with Phyllis's father."

At that moment the young Englishman with whom Mr. Starr had played bridge on the steamer, joined the group, attracted by Nurse's loud protestations.

"What's the row?" he inquired good-naturedly, and Mr. Starr explained the situation in a few words.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the young man, when he had heard the story, "that's just like Helen Willoughby. A charming girl, but with about as much sense in practical matters as a kitten. Fortunately I know Willoughby's address, so there's no great harm done, but to send a child of that size off to a strange country, without even waiting to hear from her father first, is just a little too much."

Mrs. Starr privately considered Miss Willoughby a very dreadful person indeed, and her kind heart yearned over little motherless Phyllis.

The drive through the Cairo streets to the hotel, was a very interesting one, and as soon as Mr. Starr had seen his family settled in their rooms, he hurried away in quest of Colonel Willoughby, leaving Phyllis in his wife's care.

"It's the wonderfulest place in the world!" announced Reggie, bounding into the sitting-room from the balcony, where he had been stationed for the past ten minutes. "Come out and look at the camels and donkeys, Phyllis. Say, mother, can't I ride a donkey to-morrow?"

But Phyllis—who was nestled comfortably in Mrs. Starr's lap—appeared to have lost her interest in camels and donkeys.

"I want to stay here," she said, decidedly; "it's so comfortable."

"Don't you want to come out and watch for your father? I don't suppose he'll have time to bring the regiment now, if he didn't know you were coming."

"No," said Phyllis, and she hid her face on Mrs. Starr's shoulder, in a sudden access of shyness.

"You are not afraid of anything, are you, darling?" Reggie's mother asked, tenderly.

"N—no," said Phyllis, doubtfully, "I'm not exactly afraid, but—but do you think perhaps my father didn't want me to come, and that's why he wasn't at the steamer?"

"No, indeed, I don't think anything of the sort," said Mrs. Starr, with decision, her arms instinctively tightening about the little figure in her lap. "Why, didn't you tell us your father had asked your aunt to let you come and make him a visit?"

"Yes, but that was before Christmas, and he wanted Aunt Helen to bring me herself. I thought he might have changed his mind. Aunt Helen very often changes her mind about things."

"I am quite sure he hasn't changed his mind," said Mrs. Starr, cheerfully. "There has been some mistake about the telegram, but it will soon be explained. Now, wouldn't you like to run out on the balcony with Reggie while Ellen and I unpack?"

It was very fascinating on the balcony, and in her interest in all the new, strange sights, Phyllis almost forgot her anxiety about her father. Indeed, it was not until she heard Mr. Starr's voice in the sitting-room, that her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast again.

"Daddy's back!" exclaimed Reggie, at the same moment. "Perhaps he's brought your father with him." And he darted in through the open window, followed more slowly by his little companion.

But there was nobody there but Mr. Starr, and he was talking earnestly to Nurse.

"Colonel Willoughby evidently never received his sister's telegram," Reggie and Phyllis heard him saying. "It seems, he started on a camping trip in the desert about ten days ago, and is not expected back for another week."

"Another week!" shrieked Nurse, throwing up her hands in horror. "And whatever is to become of us here in this heathen, outlandish place, all by ourselves, for a whole week? I'll take the next ship back to England, that's what I'll do, and I'll give Miss Willoughby warning the minute I set eyes on her. I ain't strong, I never was, and such excitement and worriment as this is enough to kill a body outright!"

"I think you would be extremely foolish to rush back to England before Colonel Willoughby returns," said Mr. Starr, quietly, but with a twinkle in his eye. "Seems to me your wisest plan will be to remain where you are for the next few days. Mrs. Starr and I expect to spend some time in the neighborhood of Cairo, and we shall be very glad to look after you and little Phyllis until Colonel Willoughby comes home."

Nurse looked somewhat mollified.

"You're very kind, sir, I'm sure," she said, in a milder tone. "It would be a great relief to my mind, for I ain't accustomed to foreign ways, I've always lived in the best English families, sir, as I've got testimonials to show, and I never was hustled off at a minute's notice to a heathen country full of black people before."

"Very well, then, we will consider the matter settled," said Mr. Starr, cutting short Nurse's harangue with scant ceremony. "I will go and see about engaging a room for you at once."

"Nurse," said Phyllis that evening, when she was being undressed, "I think American fathers and mothers must love their children very much indeed. Reggie asked his father twenty-seven questions while you and Ellen were at your supper, and he answered every single one."

"Indeed, and I hope you won't learn bad habits from that spoiled little American boy," was Nurse's indignant rejoinder. "A nice time we should have with you if you started asking questions at that rate."

"I don't suppose you would be able to answer them," said Phyllis reflectively, at which Nurse said nothing, but gave vent to her feelings by an indignant sniff.

CHAPTER III

It was so hot in the hotel garden that Nurse and Ellen, not always the best of friends, had agreed for once, and declared another game of "Horse" to be quite out of the question.

"You'll be getting a sunstroke the next thing," grumbled Nurse, "and then what'll your father say when he comes? No, Miss Phyllis, you needn't say another word. You're not going to stay out in this broiling sun any longer, or Master Reggie either. You're both coming in the house, to keep quiet till Mr. and. Mrs. Starr come home."

"But Daddy and Mother won't be back before dinner-time, and it isn't more than four o'clock now," persisted Reggie. "There isn't a thing to do in that stupid old hotel. Please let us stay out on the terrace, even if we can't play 'Horse' any longer—please do, Ellen."

Ellen, who was much more good-natured than Nurse, hesitated.

"We might let them play quietly on the hotel terrace," she suggested rather timidly, for at the bottom of her heart Ellen stood very much in awe of Nurse. "The band's going to play while the people have tea, and it'll be nice to listen to the music."

Nurse really had no objection to sitting on the hotel veranda, while the orchestra played, and the guests took their afternoon tea, except that she always objected on principle to every plan that she had not herself suggested. So she gave a grudging consent, and they all adjourned to the cool terrace, where the tea-tables were being set out, and the musicians were tuning up their instruments. It was nearly a week since they had landed in Egypt, and two days before Mr. Starr had moved his party to a hotel a little out of Cairo, and close to the great Pyramids. It was rather hot in Cairo, and the children had found the change to a purer air very agreeable. Besides, this hotel had a garden, in which they spent a good part of the day, playing "Horse," a game of which Reggie in particular, was extremely fond. To-day Mr. and Mrs. Starr had gone with a party of American friends, to visit some more distant pyramids, and the children and nurses were left alone at the hotel.

"I do like to look at the ladies' pretty dresses," Ellen remarked, with a little sigh of content, as a party of prettily dressed English girls took their places at one of the tables.

"I don't care much about people's dresses," returned Nurse, crossly. "Things I can't have myself never interest me. The thing I should care for more than anything else at this minute would be a good cup of tea."

"They serve tea in the maids' dining-room every afternoon at half-past four," said Ellen. "It must be just about that time now. I've a great mind to run and get a cup myself. Would you mind staying here with the children till I come back?"

"I could go any time I chose," retorted Nurse, airily. "Miss Phyllis would never think of stirring from here if I told her not to. You couldn't say as much for the boy, I suppose."

Now Ellen was really very fond of Reggie, and she resented the implied doubt in Nurse's tone.

"He's a very obedient little fellow," she maintained, stoutly, "and a sweeter-dispositioned child you wouldn't find in a hurry, I can tell you."

"Well, then, what's to prevent our leaving them here, while we both just step down for a cup of tea? We won't be gone ten minutes."

The band had by this time struck up a lively march, which quite drowned the voices of the two women, and the children had no idea what they were talking about and were much surprised to see both their guardians rise at once, and to hear Nurse's voice, raised so as to be heard above the music, informing them that she and Ellen were going to the maids' dining-room for a cup of tea, and that they were on no account to stir from the terrace until they came back. Nurse did not wait for any reply, but hurried away, followed by the more reluctant Ellen.

"Don't you think Nurse is the most disagreeable person you have ever seen?" inquired Reggie, as the figures of the two women disappeared from view.

"She's pretty disagreeable," Phyllis admitted, with a sigh; "Ellen is much nicer."

"Ellen's all right sometimes, but Nurse puts ideas into her head, and that makes her disagreeable too. It was mean of them to make us stop playing 'Horse,' just when we were having such fun, and those sticks with horse-hair on the end, that the people use to shoo away the flies, did make such splendid tails. It wasn't a bit hotter than it often is at home in summer, and Daddy says it does people good to be out in the sun."

"It wasn't fair, either," said Phyllis, in a deeply aggrieved tone.

"They made us stop just when it was your turn to be Horse. I'd been Horse all the afternoon, and it's ever so much more fun to be Driver."

"They're not fair about a great many things," said Reggie, his indignation rising at the memory of more injustice. "They haven't taken us for a walk since we came here, and of course we don't want to stay in the old garden all day. I asked Ellen very nicely this morning, if she wouldn't please take us to see the Pyramids and the Sphinx again, and she was just going to say 'Yes' when Nurse said she'd like to see herself walking about among all those black heathens, and then Ellen said she was afraid, and we'd have to stay in the garden till Daddy and Mother came home. It isn't fair. We've only seen the Sphinx once, and Daddy says it's one of the most interesting things in Egypt."

"The Sphinx is rather ugly, don't you think so?" said Phyllis, doubtfully. "I dreamed about it last night, and it wasn't a nice dream. I like the Pyramids better."

"I don't think the Sphinx is ugly," returned Reggie. "I think it's just queer. Daddy says I must keep my eyes open all the time, and remember everything I see, so I can tell people about them when I go home. He says travelling educates people as much as going to school, but I don't see how I'm going to get educated if Ellen won't take me to see things."

"It isn't far to the Pyramids," observed Phyllis, with a glance in the direction of the great stone marvels, which can be seen for miles around. "It would only take a few minutes to walk there."

"I wish we could go by ourselves," said Reggie. "We could just as well as not, if they would only let us. It isn't any further than Bobby Campbell's house is from ours in New York, and I always go there by myself."

"Who's Bobby Campbell?" Phyllis inquired, with interest.

"He's my best friend. He's nine, and I'm going to his school next year. We always go to each other's houses by ourselves. At first mother was afraid I might get run over crossing the street, but Daddy said it was nonsense, and that boys must learn to take care of themselves, so now she always lets me go."

"Ellen and Nurse would never let us go out by ourselves here," said Phyllis, with conviction.

"Of course they wouldn't, they're such sillies, but we might do it some time when they weren't around. We'd only go as far as the Sphinx and I don't believe Daddy would mind."

"It would be fun," Phyllis admitted, "if we were sure the black people wouldn't hurt us."

"Pooh!" said Reggie, in a tone of infinite scorn. "You certainly are a great baby, Phyllis, even if you are nine. Those Arabs are very good people, even if they are black. I know a boy at home whose family have a colored coachman, and he's just as nice as he can be. He's taught Joe to drive, and lets him come into the stable whenever he likes. Then there's Abdul, our dragoman. I heard mother tell Daddy she thought Abdul had a beautiful smile, and you know how kind he was yesterday when we rode the donkeys. Nobody would be afraid of an Arab except sillies like Nurse and Ellen."

"I'm not really afraid," declared Phyllis, who was feeling a good deal ashamed of her momentary doubts. "I'd just as lief as not walk as far as the Sphinx by ourselves."

"Well, let's do it," said Reggie, with a sudden inspiration. "It wouldn't take but a few minutes, and it would be such fun."

Phyllis gave a little gasp of excitement. "Do you mean to do it now, this minute?" she demanded, incredulously.

"Yes, why not? We may never get another chance. They've gone off for tea, and you know how long that always takes them. Just as likely as not they'll be back before we are, and then won't they be surprised when they hear where we've been?"

"But Nurse told us not to stir till she came back," faltered Phyllis, feeling a little frightened, though her eyes were sparkling with mischievous anticipation.

"But we didn't promise. Of course if we'd promised we couldn't do it, but they didn't even wait for us to answer. I'm going, any way, but you can stay here if you want to."

"If you go I'm going, too," declared Phyllis, stoutly. "Nurse will scold dreadfully, and perhaps she'll put me to bed, but it's pretty near bedtime, anyway, and I'm tired, so I don't care. Are you sure your father and mother won't be angry?"

"Daddy won't, he likes to have me do grown-up things. Mother might be a little bit worried if she knew about it, but we shall be back ages before she comes home. Besides, Daddy can generally talk her round. Come along, we've got to hurry if we want to get back before Ellen and Nurse."

All this time the orchestra had been playing very loud, and in consequence none of the other people on the terrace had overheard the children's conversation. A few of the ladies glanced carelessly at the two little figures, as they rose from their seats, and walked resolutely down the steps, and away in the direction of the gate, but no one imagined for a moment that they contemplated anything more daring than a stroll about the hotel grounds.

"What an attractive child that little girl is!" one lady remarked carelessly, and her companion answered:

"Yes, and the boy is a manly little fellow, too. I wonder who they are. They haven't been here more than a day or two."

"It's a lucky thing they didn't make us take off our hats when they brought us in," remarked Reggie, as they walked briskly down the path. "The sun is pretty hot, isn't it?"

"I don't mind it a bit," returned Phyllis, determined that her companion should not have an opportunity of pronouncing her a baby again. "I can walk a long way. I walked six miles with Aunt Helen once. We went to have tea with some people, and lost our way coming home. Aunt Helen was a little frightened when it began to get dark, but I wasn't frightened a bit. We got home all right, and Aunt Helen let me stay and warm myself by the drawing-room fire, and it was so nice and comfy."

"You're all right, for a girl," remarked Reggie, and considered that he had paid his little friend a very high compliment.

It was really only a short distance to the first of the great pyramids which have been one of the wonders of the world for ages. In less than ten minutes from the time they left the hotel, the children were in the midst of a busy, chattering crowd, composed of tourists, donkey and camel boys, sellers of mummy beads and other curiosities, and beggars of every description. Such a scene would have frightened many children, but a week in Cairo had accustomed Reggie and Phyllis to the strange sights and sounds of the country, and on a visit paid to the pyramids on the previous day, Mr. Starr had assured them there was nothing to be afraid of. So Reggie pushed on manfully, holding firmly to Phyllis's hand, until they stood in the shadow of the great Pyramid.

"My, but it's high!" exclaimed Reggie, gazing up at the mighty structure. "Don't you wonder how they got all those great stones here, and who put them up?"

"Perhaps the fairies did it by magic," suggested Phyllis, who had not outgrown her belief in fairy tales, but Reggie looked scornfully incredulous.

"Of course they didn't," he said with an air of superior wisdom. "Men did it, but it was so long ago that nobody knows how they managed, or what sort of machinery they had. I wish Daddy would let me climb to the top."

"You might fall down and get killed," suggested the more prudent Phyllis. "I wouldn't do it for anything."

"Of course you wouldn't. Girls are never brave. I could climb that pyramid just as easy—as easy as anything, if Daddy would only let me."

"Well, he won't let you; he said so yesterday, so what's the use talking about it? Besides, girls do brave things just as well as boys. Nurse read me a story about a little girl who stopped a train, and saved a great many people's lives."

At that moment they were accosted by a very objectionable looking beggar who, in a whining voice, demanded "Backsheesh," which is the Egyptian way of asking for pennies. Neither of them had any money, so Reggie shook his head violently, while Phyllis retreated behind her companion, not liking the beggar's appearance. The beggar scowled fiercely, and muttering a few angry words, turned away in search of more promising prey.

"He swore at us, Reggie, I'm sure he did," whispered Phyllis, who had turned rather pale.

"How do you know it was swearing?" demanded Reggie, his eyes beginning to flash.

"Because a beggar in Naples spoke just like that to Aunt Helen, when she wouldn't give him any pennies, and she said it was swearing. I don't like being sworn at. Let's hurry home."

"Hurry home!" repeated Reggie, incredulously. "Why, we haven't been anywhere yet. We've got to go as far as the Sphinx."

"Oh, I don't believe we'd better, I really don't, Reggie. Suppose Nurse and Ellen come back and don't find us, think how frightened they'll be. I don't like to frighten people."

"I don't mind, at least not when they're such sillies as Ellen and Nurse. Besides, they won't have long to be frightened. We'll go right home just as soon as we've seen the Sphinx. Come along, and don't be a goose."

Phyllis yielded. Reggie was the first little boy she had ever known intimately in her life, and she was very anxious to stand well in his good opinion. Besides, she had almost as much faith in Reggie's judgment as in that of his father. A boy who was allowed, nay, even encouraged by his parents, to ask questions, and who was allowed to talk at the table, and to go out in the street alone, must, she was convinced, be a very important young person indeed. If she refused to go any further, the probabilities were that Reggie, in his turn, would refuse to play with her for hours, if not days, and that would mean the end of all things. So she stifled a sigh, and resolutely prepared to follow her more venturesome companion.

The road from the hotel to the Pyramids was hard and comparatively easy walking, but when they had turned their steps in the direction of the mammoth stone figure, known to all the world as the Sphinx, they were obliged to leave the path behind them, and plod through the deep sand of the desert. It was difficult walking for the unaccustomed little feet, and Phyllis was soon very tired, though not for worlds would she have admitted the fact to Reggie.

"It seems much longer than it did when we were on the donkeys, doesn't it?" she panted, plodding bravely on through the soft, yielding sand. "Do you suppose it's much further?"

"It's right here," encouraged Reggie, cheerfully. "My, how you do pant!"

"I'm sorry I do, but I can't help it," said Phyllis, apologetically. "I never walked in this kind of sand before. The sand at the seaside is much harder."

Reggie made no answer. The fact was, he was finding the walk a more difficult one than he liked, but he did not care to admit the fact to his little companion.

A few minutes more, and they had reached their destination, and were standing before the great figure, which has interested so many thousands of people for centuries. It was very grand and awe inspiring, with the rays of the setting sun falling full upon it, and even two little children like Reggie and Phyllis could not but be impressed with the wonder of it all. They had left the greater part of the crowd behind, and only a few natives were loitering about. One man wanted to sell them some mummy beads, and another offered to tell their fortunes, but when Reggie shook his head, and said "Imshie," a word he had heard their dragoman use, and which he believed meant "go away," they both moved on, and the children were left in peace.

"It seems as if the Sphinx must be thinking about something, doesn't it?" said Phyllis, in an awed whisper, and she drew a little nearer to her companion as she spoke.

"Do you suppose it was alive once, and some wicked fairy turned it into stone?"

"I don't know," said Reggie. "It must have been a giant if it ever was alive. Daddy says nobody knows who made it. It was buried in the sand for hundreds of years, and at last some people found it and dug it out. It kept getting covered again for a long time, and they had to keep digging it out, but now they don't let it happen any more."

"I think it must be getting rather late," said Phyllis, with an anxious glance at the setting sun. "Oh, Reggie, look at that sunset! Did you ever see such a beautiful one?"

"It is pretty, isn't it?" said Reggie, who was not as much interested in sunsets as he was in some other things. "I wonder what makes the sky look like that."

"I don't know," said Phyllis, reflectively. "Perhaps God has a golden lamp in his dining-room, and the angels light it every evening at supper time, only cloudy nights we can't see it. I don't believe they ever have cloudy nights in Egypt; the sky always looks so blue."

"I guess perhaps we'd better not stay here any longer," said Reggie, with a sudden recollection. "It gets dark pretty soon after the sun sets."

Phyllis looked a little frightened.

"I shouldn't like to be out after dark," she said. "Were you ever out by yourself after dark?"

"No, I never happened to be," Reggie admitted, reluctantly. "I wouldn't be a bit afraid, though. Come along; I guess we'd better hurry a little."

But it was no easy matter to hurry in that soft sand, and though they both plodded along bravely, they seemed to make but little progress.

"I didn't notice the sand was so deep when we came, did you?" panted Reggie, when they had been walking for fully ten minutes in silence, and the sand appeared to be growing softer and more yielding at every step. "No, I didn't," said Phyllis, suddenly stopping short. "Are you sure we're going the right way, Reggie?"

"Of course we are," said Reggie. "There isn't but one way to go, and it's so flat you can see for ever so far." But he looked a little startled at the suggestion, nevertheless.

They plodded on for another five minutes, and then suddenly, to Reggie's utter horror and consternation, Phyllis sat flat down in the sand and began to cry.

"I can't walk any more," she sobbed; "my feet are so tired, and my shoes are all full of sand. Besides, I'm quite sure this isn't the way back to the hotel."

Reggie was filled with dismay.

"Well of all the sillies!" he began. "Look here, Phyllis, you've got to come on. We can't stay here. It's getting later all the time, and it's going to be dark in a few minutes."

"I don't want to stay here," wailed poor little Phyllis. "I want to go back to the hotel, but we're lost, I know we are, and it's so hard to walk in this dreadful sand."

"No, we're not lost either," Reggie maintained, stoutly. "I know the way all right, and if you'll only stop being a silly, and come along, we'll be home in a few minutes."

Thus urged, Phyllis rose and dried her eyes. Then she looked about hopelessly.

"Which way did we come?" she inquired. "It all looks just the same, and those big sand hills hide everything, so we can't tell whether we've been here before or not."

Reggie was secretly a good deal troubled, but he assumed a cheerful confidence, and they trudged on for another five minutes. Then it was Reggie himself who paused.

"I guess we'd better ask somebody the way," he said. "I shouldn't like to take you too far."

"But there isn't anybody to ask," said Phyllis, looking across the wide stretch of sand, on which, at the moment, there was not a human being to be seen. "Besides, those horrid Arabs don't understand any English. Oh, Reggie, what shall we do?" And Phyllis began to cry again.

"We may meet some English people if we keep on a little further," said Reggie, bravely determined to look on the bright side of things. "There were plenty of them around by the Pyramids. Besides, some of the Arabs do speak English. That man who wanted to tell our fortunes talked all right."

"But suppose we don't meet any people at all, what shall we do then? We can't stay out here all night, and everybody will be so frightened if we don't come home soon."

"I know they will," said Reggie, looking grave. "I wish we hadn't come, but it seemed so easy; I never thought of getting lost. I'm glad Daddy and Mother won't get home till late. I shouldn't like Mother to be frightened."

"What are you going to do about it?" inquired Phyllis, instinctively turning to the stronger nature for guidance.

Reggie reflected for a moment, and glanced anxiously at the rapidly deepening twilight.

"I guess we'd better keep on," he said. "We may meet somebody in a few minutes, and perhaps we're going the right way all the time. I wish it didn't get dark quite so soon after the sun goes down. It never does that way at home."

For another ten minutes they struggled on. Then, suddenly from over the top of a low sand hill, they caught sight of a cluster of native mud huts. Reggie gave vent to a sort of relief.

"Now we shall find some people," he announced joyfully. "I knew it would be all right if we just kept on a little longer."

But Phyllis was not so easily pleased.

"I don't like to go down there," she protested, drawing back; "it looks so very dirty."

"Never mind," said Reggie, encouragingly. "They won't hurt us, and we'll only have to stay long enough to ask some one to tell us the way back to the hotel. Come on!" And to Phyllis's horror, her companion began running down the sand hill, into the very midst of the native village. She was afraid to be left alone, so she followed, with a wildly beating heart, and almost before either of them realized what was happening to them, they were the centre of a group of excited native children, who in their astonishment at finding a little white boy and girl suddenly in their midst, swarmed about them like so many flies.

"Backsheesh, backsheesh, backsheesh!" screamed the little Arabs, stretching out their grimy hands.

"Imshie, imshie!" shouted Reggie, indignantly, waving them away, and trying to protect Phyllis's dainty white dress from too close contact with the objectionable little natives. "We haven't got any backsheesh, and you mustn't crowd so much, it isn't polite. Isn't there anybody here who can speak English?"

The children stared, and began chattering very fast, but neither Reggie nor Phyllis could understand a word of what they said. At last one of the larger boys seized Reggie by the arm, and began dragging him along with him. Phyllis screamed with terror, but Reggie stood his ground manfully.

"I think he's only going to take us to somebody who talks English," he said, reassuringly. "I guess we'd better go with him."

Phyllis did not feel at all sure that her companion was right, but she was far too much frightened to be left alone in that dreadful place, so she, too, followed. The boy led them to one of the mud huts, the entrance to which was so low that it was necessary to creep in on all fours. He said something to somebody inside; there was an answer, and then the boy stood aside, and made a sign to the children to enter.

Phyllis screamed again, and grasped Reggie's arm firmly.

"You shan't go in that dreadful place!" she cried in terror. "Perhaps they're cannibals, and will eat us up. Oh, please come away, please do!"

At that moment, there emerged from the hut a boy of about twelve, dressed in the native costume, and leaning on a stick. He was evidently lame, for he moved very slowly, and with great difficulty, but he was smiling pleasantly, and he bowed low to the two little strangers.

"I can English story tell," he said in a sweet, clear voice. "I in English school go."

"Oh, do you?" cried Reggie, in a tone of heartfelt relief. "I'm so glad to find somebody who talks English. Will you please tell us the way back to the Pyramids and the hotel? I'm afraid we're lost, and it's getting so late."

The lame boy listened courteously, and continued to smile. When Reggie had finished speaking he went on quietly.

"The sun shines in the sky by day. The moon shines in the sky by night. The sun is warm. The sun makes the flowers to grow. The moon is cold. The moon does not make grow the beautiful flowers."

The boy paused, still smiling, and waited patiently for praise or backsheesh, whichever might be forthcoming. Reggie was very much puzzled.

"I asked you the way back to the hotel," he said rather indignantly. "We know all about the sun and the moon; you needn't tell us that."

The boy bowed courteously, and murmured something in his own language.

"I don't believe he knows any more English," exclaimed Reggie, with a sudden inspiration. "He's learned that in school, the same as we learn French fables."

"He must know more than that," declared Phyllis, desperately. "Perhaps he'll understand if we talk broken English to him—the kind Abdul talks. We lost, boy; we want go back hotel."

A light of comprehension dawned in the boy's face, but he shook his head sadly. Evidently his small stock of English had already been exhausted.

"O dear! what shall we do now?" cried Phyllis, beginning to cry again in her despair. "None of them speak English."

Reggie looked helpless, but made one more effort.

"Show us hotel," he said, still clinging desperately to Phyllis's broken English. "My father give big backsheesh."

At the words, "my father," the boy smiled brightly.

"My father can English story tell," he announced, proudly.

Reggie was somewhat relieved, but Phyllis said mournfully—

"If it's all about the sun and the moon I don't see any use."

"Where is your father?" inquired Reggie, anxiously.

The boy seemed to understand this question, for he smiled again and pointed out over the desert.

"I suppose he means his father is somewhere out there," said Reggie. "I wish we knew how soon he'll be back."

"I don't see what good it would do if he came home," said Phyllis, with a sob. "Perhaps he only knows fables, too. Let's come away from here; it's a horrid place."

But Reggie was of a different opinion.

"I guess we'd better wait a little while," he said, "in case his father does come home. He may be able to understand what we want, and we can't go back to the hotel by ourselves; we don't know the way, and it's getting very dark."

Phyllis burst into an uncontrollable fit of crying.

"I don't want to stay here," she wailed. "It's so dirty, and—and awful, and I'm afraid—oh, Reggie, I'm so afraid!"

To tell the truth, Reggie was more than a little afraid himself, but he made a mighty effort to appear quite at his ease.

"Pooh!" he remarked scornfully. "I'm not afraid. I'd much rather stay here where people are, than out on the desert by ourselves. Besides, there isn't anything to be afraid of. I won't let anybody hurt you."

Phyllis gazed at her companion through her tears, and a look of profound admiration replaced the expression of hopeless misery on her face.

"You are a very brave boy," she said in a tone of conviction, not unmixed with awe. "Aren't you really the least little bit afraid?"

Reggie was conscious of a sensation of embarrassment. He was a truthful boy, and he did not like the idea of deceiving his little friend. Still, he reflected that if he let Phyllis suspect that he was frightened, she would naturally be more unhappy than she already was. So he took refuge in a slight prevarication.

"Boys are never afraid of things like girls," he announced, confidently. "Mother's always getting worried about all kinds of things, but Daddy never bothers. Let's sit down. I'm pretty tired, aren't you?"

Phyllis looked about her, as if in search of something.

"There isn't anything to sit on," she said.

"There's the ground," said Reggie, promptly seating himself as he spoke. "All the people here sit on the ground."

"But the ground is so dirty, and Nurse will make such a fuss if I soil my dress," protested Phyllis.

"Bother Nurse! Nobody cares whether she fusses or not. Besides, your dress isn't very clean any more. I guess it'll have to go in the wash when we get home."

Phyllis glanced at the pretty white muslin, which had been so clean and fresh only a few hours before, and heaved a sigh, as she reluctantly seated herself on the ground by Reggie's side. The lame boy, evidently understanding their intention to await his father's return, bowed and smiled once more, and sat down on the ground opposite his visitors. The other native children, who had been watching proceedings with interest, finding there was nothing exciting going on, began to drop off one after another, and were soon intent on their own affairs once more.

Then followed a long time of waiting. If they hadn't been so tired and anxious, the children might have found the scene before them very curious and interesting. It certainly was different from anything they had ever imagined in their lives before. The news that two little Europeans had taken shelter in the native village soon spread, and the inhabitants flocked from their mud huts to look at them. They were principally women and children, but there were a few men as well, and they all stared as if the sight of a little white girl in a muslin dress, and a little white boy in a sailor suit, sitting in front of a mud hut, was a very extraordinary sight indeed. The lame boy had constituted himself their guardian. He never moved from his seat, but whenever a native attempted to approach the children too closely, he waved his stick, and shouted such violent language that the intruders speedily withdrew to a safe distance.

"I think he's swearing at them," whispered Phyllis, looking very much shocked, but to her astonishment, Reggie, whom she had always regarded as a very good little boy, replied promptly—

"I don't know, but I hope he is, if that's what keeps them away."

"But it's wicked to swear, Reggie; Nurse says people who do it won't go to Heaven."

"Well, he's a nice boy, anyway," maintained Reggie, "and we don't know that he's swearing. Perhaps he's only telling them to keep away. Oh, look at that little girl with a baby in her arms. She isn't much bigger than you."

A little girl of perhaps nine or ten, had just emerged from the mud hut before which they were sitting. She carried a fat baby in her arms, and although very scantily clad, and decidedly dirty, she struck the children as the most prepossessing native they had yet seen.

"She's pretty, isn't she?" whispered Phyllis. "I suppose the baby is her little brother or sister, and she's taking care of it while her mother gets supper."

"She's pretty, isn't she?" whispered Phyllis.

She smiled pleasantly at the native child, who in her turn, stared with round eyes of amazement at the two little strangers, and exchanged rapid remarks with the lame boy, of which the children were evidently the subject. Suddenly she deposited the baby unceremoniously upon the ground, and disappeared once more within the mud hut. Phyllis and Reggie, accustomed to the ways of English and American babies, fully expected the little native to set up a howl of wrath, at being so suddenly left to its own resources, but to their surprise, it did not seem in the least disturbed, but promptly began rolling over and over in the sand, kicking its little bare, black legs in the air, and uttering shrieks of delight.

"Oh, isn't it cunning!" cried Phyllis, everything else forgotten for the moment in this new interest. "I wonder if it would let me hold it."

"Don't you touch it," warned Reggie. "It's awfully dirty, and there's something queer the matter with its eyes."

"It isn't so very dirty, and it can't help its poor little eyes. Oh, Reggie, look, it can creep; it's coming over here."

It was true. The baby evidently attracted by something in the appearance of the two little white strangers, was making its way on all fours rapidly in their direction. In another moment, Phyllis, regardless of Reggie's disapproval, had dragged it into her lap. The lame boy appeared well pleased, for he smiled and nodded, and murmured, half to himself and half to the children—

"The moon shines in the sky by day. The sun shines in the sky by night."

"He's got it wrong this time," said Reggie. "He says the moon shines in the sky by day. Oh, I do wish he knew some more English!"

But Phyllis was too much absorbed with the dirty little Arab to pay any heed.

"I don't believe it makes any difference what language you talk to babies in," she said. "They don't understand one any better than another. Oh, see, Reggie, it's putting its finger in its mouth, just the way babies do at home."

At this moment, the little sister, or whatever she was, once more came out of the hut. She carried in her hands a large cake of the hard Egyptian bread, which forms almost the only food of the poorer classes on The Nile, and at sight of Phyllis with the baby in her lap, she, too, smiled and nodded in the same pleased way as the lame boy had done.

"I think they must like us," said Phyllis. "I wish we could talk to the little girl. I want to ask her the baby's name."

Conversation being out of the question, Phyllis was forced to content herself with nods and smiles, which were, perhaps, just as satisfactory under the circumstances. The girl proceeded to break the enormous cake into several pieces, one of which she handed to the boy, who immediately began eating it, with evident relish. Then she approached Phyllis, and smilingly held out a piece to her.

"Must we take it, do you think?" whispered Phyllis, instinctively drawing back. "It doesn't look at all nice."

"I guess we'd better," returned Reggie, also in a whisper. "They might be offended if we didn't." And he accepted the proffered offering with as good grace as he could assume.

"I really don't think I can possibly eat it," said Phyllis, regarding the unpalatable looking food distastefully. "Do you suppose this is all the supper they're going to have? Oh, the baby wants it; I'm afraid it'll choke itself."

But the baby's guardian evidently did not share Phyllis's apprehensions, for she immediately began breaking the bread into small pieces, and cramming them into the baby's mouth.

"Oh, I know it's going to choke," cried Phyllis, in dismay. "Why don't you give it a bottle?" she added, in her excitement quite forgetting the fact that the Arab child spoke no English.

"Don't be a silly," remarked Reggie, contemptuously. "I don't suppose Egyptian babies ever have bottles."

"But they haven't got any more teeth than our babies have," persisted Phyllis, still feeling very much worried. "I'm sure this one is going to choke in a minute."

But, strange to say, the baby did not choke. On the contrary, it appeared to be enjoying its peculiar meal very much, and in the fascination of watching it, Phyllis and Reggie for the moment forgot everything else. Then suddenly, a dreadful noise fell upon their ears. It was a succession of piercing shrieks, and turning in the direction from whence they came, the children saw, to their horror, first a ragged boy running as if for life, and then a tall man, hotly pursuing him, and brandishing a thick stick. The boy ran fast, but the man ran still faster, and before the children had realized what it all meant, he had reached his victim, seized him in a firm grasp, and was beating him with such violence that his shrieks increased in volume, and soon changed to howls of pain.

The villagers looked on calmly enough, some of them even laughing at the poor boy's discomfiture, but not so Reggie and Phyllis. With a scream, almost as loud as the boy's own, Phyllis was on her feet, letting the baby roll over face downward in the sand, and next moment she was running out of the village with flying feet, closely followed by Reggie.

CHAPTER IV

How long and how far they ran the children never knew. They ran through the soft sand as if their feet were winged, with but one thought in both their minds, to get as far away from that dreadful village as possible, before the man with the stick turned from his victim, and started in pursuit of them. They were far too frightened by what they had seen to stop to consider that the man could not possibly bear them any ill will, or desire to injure them in any way. Both their hats were soon left behind; several times they fell, but fortunately the sand was soft, and they were up and off again in a moment. At last, hot, breathless, and utterly exhausted, Phyllis sank down in a little heap at the foot of a sand hill, and Reggie, scarcely less exhausted himself, dropped down beside her.

It was some minutes before either of them had recovered sufficient breath to move or speak, and then Reggie was the first to sit up and look around. There was not a human being in sight, and they seemed to be surrounded on every side, as far as the eye could reach, by nothing but vast stretches of desert sand. The last faint tints of daylight were just fading out of the evening sky, and a few stars were beginning to twinkle. Reggie shuddered. Something in the great stillness and solitude all around terrified him even more than the man beating the boy in the village had done.

"Wasn't it—wasn't it awful!" gasped Phyllis, finding her voice at last. "Do you suppose that man would have killed us if we hadn't run away so fast?"

"No, I don't," said Reggie, who felt his courage rapidly rising now that he was at a safe distance from the terrible man with the stick. "I don't believe he would have hurt us a bit. I wish we hadn't run away. We ought to have waited till that lame boy's father came home. He said his father talked English."

"Oh, Reggie, you wouldn't really, it was so dreadful! Do let's hurry and get back to the hotel; it's getting so very late, and Nurse and Ellen will be so frightened."

"But we don't know the way," said Reggie, mournfully. "We're lost this time, sure, and it's almost dark, too."

"Oh, Reggie, what are we going to do?" cried Phyllis, clasping her hands in a sudden realization of the hopelessness of things. "Suppose we should have to stay out here all night."

"Well, we couldn't help it if we did," said Reggie, gloomily digging his toes in the sand. "I guess we won't, though. Daddy's sure to come and look for us as soon as he gets home."

"Do you suppose he's come home yet?" inquired Phyllis, anxiously.

"I don't know, but I guess he will be home soon, anyway. It must be 'most supper time. I'm getting pretty hungry, aren't you?"

"Yes, very, and there isn't anything to eat. Reggie, suppose we should starve."

"Bosh!" said Reggie, with a great show of contempt. "Of course we won't. I heard Daddy say a person could live a whole week without eating anything, and they'll be sure to find us before that."

"A whole week!" gasped Phyllis, her eyes growing round with horror. "Why, if we had to stay here all night I should die, I know I should. Oh, it's dreadful, it's dreadful!" And poor little Phyllis lifted up her voice and wailed.

Reggie felt very much inclined to follow her example, but remembered just in time that he was a boy, and so merely rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes instead. Phyllis continued to wail until her head began to ache, and then the wails subsided into low moans, with occasional pauses for rest. Reggie sat still, without uttering a word. There really didn't seem to be anything to say. He was rather sorry when Phyllis stopped screaming, because it made the silence seem even worse than before. At last Phyllis lifted her head from the pile of sand on which she had laid it in her weariness, and inquired in a choked little voice—

"Were you ever lost before, Reggie?"

"Yes, once," said Reggie, glad of any sound to break the awful stillness. "It was two summers ago at York Harbor. I was only six then, and Ellen took me to the woods to pick raspberries. We took the wrong path coming home, and were dreadfully late for supper. Mother was frightened."

"But you didn't have to stay out all night, did you?"

"Oh, no, we found the right path after a while, and we ate lots of raspberries, so we didn't mind so much about being late. I wish we'd eaten some of the bread that girl gave us."

Phyllis shuddered.

"I don't," she said, decidedly. "It was horrid stuff; it might have made us ill."

"We must have dropped our pieces when we ran away," said Reggie, regretfully. "We've lost our hats, too. Do you suppose Nurse will make an awful row about yours?"

"I'm sure she will," said Phyllis, putting her hand up to her bare head. She had been too much absorbed by other things to notice her loss before. "Don't you think we'd better go back and look for them? Nurse says people always take cold if they go out without their hats at night."

Reggie scrambled to his feet.

"All right," he said promptly; "come along."

But alas! in what direction were they to turn? In vain they strained their eyes through the fast gathering darkness, in search of some landmark that might serve them as a guide. There was nothing but sand, sand, in every direction.

"I guess we'd better stay right here where we are," said Reggie. "We might get more lost than we are if we went any further, and it's getting too dark to see anything."

Phyllis made no objection, but sank down on the ground again, and for the next ten minutes sobbed her poor little frightened heart out in the sand. At last Reggie spoke, breaking a silence which had lasted, it seemed to him, a very long time.

"All the stars in the sky are lit now," he remarked, with a faint hope of arousing Phyllis's interest, and making her talk. "I wonder what God's doing up there now, don't you?"

Phyllis lifted her head, with a start.

"Perhaps he's looking right down at us," she said, with a sudden hope. "If He is He'll be sure to send somebody to find us very soon, don't you think so?"

"Sure," said Reggie, confidently. He was delighted to have his friend take a more hopeful view of the situation. "God sees everybody all the time, you know."

"I don't quite understand how He does it," said Phyllis, a little doubtfully, "but I do hope He's looking at us this minute. I shouldn't be nearly so much afraid if I could be sure of it. Were you very much frightened that other time you were lost, Reggie?"

"Not a bit. I knew we should get home all right, just the same as I know it now."

"But you had Ellen with you that other time," said Phyllis, "and it wasn't night, either. I don't suppose a person would be so much frightened in the daylight, but I don't like the dark. I never did like it, and Nurse always leaves the light burning in the nursery till I get to sleep. She thinks it's very silly, but Aunt Helen told her she must always do it, so she does. Aunt Helen didn't like the dark either when she was a little girl."

"Well, it isn't so awfully dark now," said Reggie, encouragingly. "The stars are very bright, and perhaps by and by the moon will come up, and then it won't be dark at all. Anyhow, I'm here now, so you're not alone, the way you are in the nursery when Nurse goes down to her supper."

"But you're only a little boy," objected Phyllis. "That isn't the same thing as having somebody grown up."

"I'm eight," said Reggie, modestly, "and I'm awfully strong. I don't believe you have any idea how strong I am. Would you like to feel my muscle?"

Phyllis said she would, and Reggie forthwith seized her hand in such a grip that she screamed with pain.

"Don't ever do that again," she said, rubbing the aching fingers. "It hurts."

"Of course it does," said Reggie, proudly. "I've got more muscle than Mother and Ellen, and Daddy says he's proud of it. Why, if a burglar, or anything like that, happened to come along, I'd just—"

"A burglar!" shrieked Phyllis. "Oh, there aren't any burglars here, are there?"

"Oh, no, no, of course there are not. I only said burglar, because I couldn't think of anything else. I meant if a—mouse, or a—rat, or anything like that came along—"

"But I hate mice. I think I'm even more afraid of them than I am of burglars. A mouse ran across Nurse's pillow once at home, and she screamed so loud Aunt Helen thought the house was on fire. I think I'd like to have you hold my hand if you don't mind, only don't squeeze it the way you did before."

Reggie grasped the little outstretched hand, and as he did so his manly little heart swelled with pride.

"Don't you be one bit afraid, Phyllis," he whispered. "Nothing's going to happen, and if it does I'll take care of you all right. What makes your hand so cold?"

"I think my dress is rather thin," said Phyllis, with a shiver. "It's only muslin, you see, and I haven't got my jacket. I thought it was always warm in Egypt, even when it's winter at home."

Reggie began to unbutton his jacket.

"I guess you'd better put this on," he said. "My suit's a great deal thicker than yours, and I've got all my winter flannels on. Mother wouldn't let me leave them off when we got to Cairo, because she was afraid I might take cold and have the croup. I'm apt to have the croup when I take cold."

"Then you mustn't take off your jacket now," said Phyllis, decidedly. "No, no, Reggie, please." But Reggie had already taken it off, and was wrapping it carefully about his little friend's shoulders.

"I'm just boiling!" he announced. "I'm so hot that I'm almost in a perspiration. Isn't it funny to think of its being January at home? Daddy read in the paper that there was a big snow storm in New York the other day. I wish I'd been there. Don't you love snow storms?"

"Reggie," said Phyllis, irrelevantly, ignoring her friend's question, "don't you think we were pretty bad to run away while Nurse and Ellen were having their tea?"

"I guess we were," Reggie admitted, gravely, "but then we only meant to be gone a few minutes, and they were both such sillies. I'm sorry I frightened Ellen, though."

"I suppose they were both dreadfully frightened when they came back, and we weren't there," said Phyllis, with a sigh. "Nurse will make a terrible fuss, but your mother won't; she's so kind."

"I wish she would," cried Reggie, more conscience-smitten by this last remark of Phyllis's than by anything that had gone before. "It isn't half so bad when people scold and make a fuss about things, the way Ellen does, as when they just look sorry, and you know you've hurt their feelings. I hate to hurt Mother's feelings, and I'm afraid she's dreadfully frightened now, too. Oh, I do wish we hadn't done it!" Reggie suddenly found it necessary to rub his eyes very hard with his disengaged hand.

"There isn't anybody but Nurse to be frightened about me," said Phyllis, wistfully. "I wish I had a mother like yours. I wonder if my father would be frightened if he knew about my being out here."

"He'd come and look for us," said Reggie, confidently, "that's what men always do. They never cry and go on about things like ladies. I'm almost sure Daddy's out looking for us now. I wonder what time it is."

"I think it must be nearly bedtime," said Phyllis, drowsily. "I'm getting very sleepy, aren't you?"

"N—no," said Reggie, regretfully; "I'm not sleepy, it's too exciting. If you are, though, why don't you go to sleep? It will make the time pass so much quicker till they come for us."

"I never went to sleep out of doors, and there isn't any place to lie down," objected Phyllis.

"Let's make a bed in the sand," said Reggie, with a sudden inspiration. "It's nice and soft, and we can pile it up for a pillow. We often made beds in the sand at York Harbor."

During the next five minutes the children almost forgot their troubles in the interest of making a bed in the soft, warm sand. When it was finished Phyllis stretched herself at full length, and pronounced it very comfortable.

"Now you go to sleep, and I'll sit up and keep watch," said Reggie, cheerfully, tucking the jacket around his little friend. "That's what soldiers always have to do when there's a war, and if they fall asleep at their post they have to be shot."

"Don't talk about shooting," said Phyllis, with a shudder. "I hate guns."

"I don't, I love them, and I should think you would, too, on account of your father's being a colonel. I'd rather be a soldier than anything else in the world. Daddy says perhaps I may be one when I grow up, and if I am I hope there will be a great many wars, so I can fight and do brave things."

"Can't people ever do brave things without going to wars and shooting?" inquired Phyllis.

"I don't know; I suppose some people can. Firemen are pretty brave. If I can't be a soldier, I think I'll be a fireman. Your father was awfully brave in South Africa. I heard that nice Mr. Ward, who was on the ship, telling Daddy and Mother about him."

"Yes, I know he was," said Phyllis. "He's got a V.C. and Aunt Helen's very proud of him, because he's her brother. I don't suppose a very brave man like that would care much about a little girl, do you, especially the kind of a little girl that's afraid of guns?"

"Well, I suppose men generally like boys better than girls," was Reggie's somewhat reluctant admission. "Mother says sometimes she wishes I'd been a girl, but Daddy never does. I wish your father would hurry and come home; I want to see him."

Phyllis heaved a deep sigh, but said nothing, and Reggie also relapsed into silence. Oh, how terribly still it was! There was not a sound to be heard in all that vast wilderness of sand. It seemed to Reggie as if he must shout aloud, to break the terrible stillness, but he reflected that if he did it would only frighten Phyllis, and prevent her going to sleep. He wished he could go to sleep himself, but that seemed impossible. He had never been wider awake in his life, and besides, he was beginning to feel decidedly chilly. The day had been oppressively hot, but now that the sun had set, a cool breeze had sprung up, and was blowing sharply over the desert. In spite of his assertion to Phyllis that he was "boiling," he was conscious of uncomfortable little chills running up and down his back.

"I guess I'll get up and walk a little," he said to himself. "Sentinels always walk up and down when they're keeping watch."

But when he proposed this plan to Phyllis, she would not hear of it.

"You'll go too far away," she protested, "and then I shall be so frightened. I want you to stay right here and let me keep hold of your hand."

So Reggie yielded. He had uncomfortable forebodings of croup, but he remembered something his father had once said to him about a gentleman's never leaving a lady in trouble. It would be very unpleasant to be laid up with an attack of croup, but if it came it couldn't be helped, and in the meantime it was certainly his duty to stay with Phyllis as long as she needed his protection. So he sat still, holding his little friend's hand in his, and growing colder and colder every minute, until at last the little fingers relaxed their grasp, and Phyllis's regular breathing assured him that she was fast asleep. Then Reggie gently released his hand, and began to think of himself.

"I guess I'll dig a big hole and bury myself in the sand," he reflected, while his teeth chattered with cold. And he set to work to such good purpose that in less than five minutes he was buried up to his neck in the soft, yielding sand.

The sand was still warm from the sun, which had been blazing down upon it all day, and Reggie felt much more comfortable when he was well covered. He even began to feel a little sleepy, but roused himself with the dreadful recollection of what was done to soldiers who fell asleep when they were on duty. Oh, how still it was! If only something would happen—if only somebody would come to look for them! He wondered what his father would say to him. Of course it was a dreadful thing to run away from Ellen, and to take Phyllis with him. To be sure, Phyllis was the older, but then she was only a girl, and girls were not supposed to have as much sense as boys. Suppose nobody ever came for them. Suppose they had to stay in that terrible desert till they starved. Oh, why didn't Daddy come? All at once Reggie found that hot tears were streaming down his cheeks, and that the big choking sobs would not be kept back any longer.

Bang! Bang! Two shots rang out sharp and clear on the still night air. In a moment Reggie was sitting bolt upright staring about him in sleepy bewilderment. He did not know that he had been to sleep at all, but he must have been, for now the desert was flooded with moonlight, and it was almost as bright as day. He could not see any people, but those shots had certainly been fired from somewhere not far off.

"Phyllis," he whispered, "Phyllis, are you awake?"

A cold little hand grasped his convulsively, and a terrified little voice gasped—

"Oh, Reggie, dear, it's guns; they're shooting—what shall we do?"

"Let's keep very still, and perhaps they won't know we're here," he advised, holding his friend's hand tight. Oddly enough, it never occurred to either of them that the people who were shooting might be friendly.

"Would they—would they kill us if they found us, do you think?" faltered Phyllis, with a little frightened sob.

"I don't know. They would if they were cannibals, but I don't know whether there are any cannibals in Egypt or not."

Bang! Bang! Bang! Again the shots rang out, and this time they sounded much nearer. At the same moment a large animal, with red eyes, dashed past the terrified children, and disappeared in the shadow of a sand hill. With a piercing shriek, Phyllis struggled to her feet, and began to run, dragging her companion along with her, but she only ran a very short distance, for at the sight of three figures, with guns on their shoulders, suddenly looming into view, she uttered a second shriek, and sank in a little heap at Reggie's feet. For one awful second Reggie wavered, while his heart beat so fast that he could scarcely breathe. His first instinct was to run, run as he had never done before in all his life, but there was Phyllis, and she was a girl, and girls must be protected.

When three men, with guns over their shoulders, came hurrying up two minutes later, they started back in amazement at the sight that met their view. On the sand, lying face downward, was a little motionless figure in a white muslin dress, and standing over it, with fists clenched, and a look of fierce determination on his small, white face, was a little boy in a blue sailor suit, minus a jacket.

"Don't you dare to touch her—don't you dare to!" shouted Reggie, stamping his foot in the sand, and in the excitement of the moment, quite forgetting the fact that in all probability his enemies would not understand a word of his language. "If you've got to shoot anybody you can shoot me, but she's a girl, and if you touch her I'll—I'll kill you."

"By Jove, the kiddie's white!" exclaimed one of the three men, in unmistakably English accents. "What on earth—"

But at the sound of the English words Reggie's clenched fists had suddenly dropped to his sides.

"Why—why, you're English people!" he cried. "You're English or Americans just like us."

"To be sure we are English," said the man, laughing, "and will you have the goodness to tell us what a young man of your size is doing out here on the desert at this hour of the night?"

"We're lost," Reggie explained, and it seemed to him that never before had he heard any sound quite so pleasant as that Englishman's voice and laugh. "We're staying at Mena House, and we came out to see the Sphinx, but we couldn't find the way back, and—"

But here Reggie's reminiscences were cut short by the second of the three men, who had dropped on his knees, in the sand, and was bending anxiously over Phyllis, who still lay quite motionless, with closed eyes.

"It's a little girl, Jim," he said, "and she has fainted. Give me your flask."

The man called Jim produced from his pocket a small silver flask which he handed to his friend, and the stranger proceeded to pour a few drops of its contents between Phyllis's lips. Reggie—who had seen his mother faint on several occasions—was not as much frightened as might otherwise have been the case, and watched the proceedings of his new friends with deep interest. He already felt unlimited confidence in the two broad-shouldered young Englishmen, who both had such kind faces and such pleasant voices.

In a minute or two Phyllis opened her eyes, and lay gazing up into the face of the gentleman who was bending over her, chafing her cold little hands.

"Did I get shot?" she inquired, in a faint, far away little voice.

"Not a bit of it," said the gentleman, smiling. "You're all right, and as fit as possible. It was jackals we were trying to shoot, not little girls."

"We saw the jackal," cried Reggie, with a sudden recollection. "He ran right past us, but we didn't know what he was. Isn't it a pity you didn't get him?"

"There speaks the true British sportsman," laughed the young man called "Jim." "Are you hungry?" he added, with a sharp glance into Reggie's tired little face.

"Yes, sir," said Reggie, "I think I'm pretty hungry; at least I feel rather queer in my stomach. We haven't had anything to eat since luncheon, and that's a good while ago. But—but—please excuse me, sir; I'm not a British sportsman at all; I'm an American."

"Well, British or American, you're a good sportsman all the same," said the Englishman, laughing heartily. "It seems to me, the most important thing to be done now is to give you something to take away that queer feeling in your stomach. What do you say, Colonel, to taking the kiddies off to the camp, and giving them a feed?"

"An excellent idea," said his friend, who had in the meantime assisted Phyllis to a sitting position, though he still kept an arm protectingly around her. "The only trouble is their friends are probably frightened out of their wits about them, and I suppose we ought to get them back to civilization as soon as possible. Did I hear you say you were staying at the Mena House, my boy?"

"Yes," said Reggie, eagerly, "and I think perhaps we had better go home before we have any supper. I'm afraid my mother is very much frightened about us."

"All right," said the colonel, kindly. "Our camp is close by, and we had intended spending another night on the desert, and going in to Cairo to-morrow, but under the circumstances I think our wisest plan will be to break camp, and make for Mena House to-night. It is only a little after ten now. How long will it take us to reach Mena House from here, Hassan?"

The third man, who was not an Englishman, but an Arab guide, replied that it would not take more than an hour with the camels, and he was promptly despatched to fetch the animals—which were tethered not far off—and to pack the two gentlemen's belongings.

By this time Phyllis had quite recovered, though she still felt a little giddy, and was glad to rest her head against the colonel's shoulder.

"Are we really going to ride on camels?" she inquired in a tone of deep interest.

"To be sure we are. My friend and I have been riding on camels for the past two weeks, and you have no idea what good fun it is. You won't be afraid, will you?"

"Oh, no," said Phyllis. "I've been wanting to ride on a camel ever since we came to Egypt, but Mrs. Starr wouldn't let me. She says perhaps my father will let me when he comes home, but she doesn't like to take the responsibility. Do you know," she added, gazing wonderingly up into the colonel's face, "you look ever so much like my father's photograph?"

"Do I indeed?" said the Englishman, smiling, and giving the little head nestling so confidingly against him a kindly pat. "I have a little girl of my own, God bless her, but she is far away in England. She must be about your age, too, but you see, you are an American, and so your father must be an American as well."

"Oh, but I'm not an American," Phyllis explained, her bright, wondering eyes still fixed earnestly on the colonel's face. "Reggie is, but I'm English, and I only came to Egypt last week. I came to see my father, but when the steamer got to Alexandria he didn't come to meet us, and Mr. Starr said Nurse and I had better go to Cairo. So we did, and Mr. Starr went to find my father, but he had gone away camping, and wouldn't be back for a week. So we stayed with the Starrs in Cairo, and yesterday we all came to that hotel near where the Pyramids are, and this afternoon Reggie and I ran away to see the Sphinx while Nurse and Ellen were having their tea. It will be a week to-morrow since we came off the steamer, and Mrs. Starr says she's quite sure my father will be back very soon. You do look very, very much like his picture. Are you sure you're really not my father, please?"

"I am afraid not," said the colonel, but he was looking very earnestly into the little upturned face as he spoke, and there was a wondering, half troubled expression in his eyes. "My little Phyllis is at home with her aunt in England. I would give a good deal to have her out here, but her aunt thinks the journey too long, and—"

"Is her aunt's name Helen, and is her name Phyllis Willoughby?" demanded Reggie, who had been listening to the conversation with breathless interest.

The colonel turned upon him in amazement.

"Of course it is," he said, "but how in the world did you happen to know it?"

"Because we've been talking about you ever since we came to Egypt," shouted Reggie, jumping up and down in his excitement. "Phyllis has been worrying all the time for fear you'd be sorry she'd come, but I said I knew you wouldn't. She's so pretty and jolly for a girl, that you couldn't help liking her, especially as you're her father."

"Phyllis," repeated the colonel, his blank astonishment giving place to a sudden glad hope; "where is my little Phyllis? Not in Egypt, surely!"

"She's right here," cried Reggie, ecstatically. "Her aunt sent her, because she wanted to go to Greece, and she came on the same ship with us. If your name's Colonel Willoughby, she's your little girl. Oh, Phyllis, I told you he'd be glad—I knew he would! I say, isn't this the most exciting adventure anybody ever had?"

CHAPTER V

It was three days later, and Reggie was sitting up in bed doing a picture puzzle. The attack of croup had been a sharp one, but the worst was now over, although it had been decreed that the patient should spend another day in bed before being allowed to go about the usual business of life once more. Reggie had argued the subject long and seriously with both his mother and Ellen, protesting that he had never felt less like staying in bed in his life, but all his arguments had proved unavailing, and had been finally quenched by his father's remarking rather grimly, that he considered an attack of croup and three days spent in bed, a very light punishment for nearly frightening his mother into nervous prostration. After that Reggie was silent. He was quite aware of the fact that he had been shockingly naughty, and at the bottom of his heart was really very much ashamed of his conduct, but at the same time it didn't seem quite fair that he should be having all the blame and all the punishment, while Phyllis—who had really been just as much to blame as himself—was treated as quite the heroine of the hour, and went about with such a radiant expression of countenance that he sometimes longed to slap her. There was no doubt in Reggie's mind that Colonel Willoughby spoiled his little daughter much more than was good for her.

The picture puzzle was difficult, and not very interesting, and Reggie pushed away the pieces impatiently, and lay down on his back, with a grunt of disgust. Ellen looked up from her sewing.

"Don't kick the bed-clothes off, Master Reggie," she admonished severely; "you'll catch more cold if you do."

"I'm not doing it," returned Reggie, "but if I did I couldn't catch cold, because it's summer, and people never have colds in summer."

"Don't they, though? Besides, it isn't summer at all, and you know it; it's the second of February."

"Well, it's summer here, anyhow, even if it's winter somewhere else. I'm awfully hot. Can't I take off one of these blankets?"

"No, you can't, and you know it very well. I should really think you'd worried your poor mother enough already without wanting to worry her more by taking another cold."

Reggie winced. He was very fond of his mother, and he did not like to think of the anxiety he had caused her.

"Was Daddy frightened about us that night, too?" he inquired, curiously.

"Well, I should rather say he was. Everybody was frightened out of their senses, and with good reason, too. Suppose some of them black heathens had carried you off, and you'd never seen anybody belonging to you again?"

"What did Nurse say about it?"

"She used such language as I wouldn't demean myself by repeating," said Ellen, pursing up her lips primly, and looking mysterious. "She's a very high-tempered person, and when her temper's roused she isn't to be trusted as to language."

"Did she swear?" demanded Reggie in a tone of deep interest, and he raised himself on his elbow, so as to be able to see the expression of Ellen's face more distinctly.

"Don't use such words, Master Reggie; little boys shouldn't talk about swearing."

"Well, that's what people do when they use language other people can't repeat, isn't it?"

"Sometimes, but not always. Miss Phyllis's nurse didn't swear, but she—well, she said things she oughtn't to have, and Mrs. Starr and Colonel Willoughby don't consider her the proper person to have the care of children. Colonel Willoughby's looking for somebody to take her place, and he's going to pay her passage back to England."

This was an interesting piece of news, and Reggie pondered it for several minutes in silence. Then he spoke again.

"Everybody seems to like Phyllis very much, don't they?" he remarked reflectively.

"Certainly they do. Miss Phyllis is a very sweet little girl."

Reggie gave the unoffending bed-clothes a vicious kick.

"She ran away the same as I did," he said, in a rather aggrieved tone, "and she was just as naughty, only she didn't have any mother to be frightened about her, and her father wasn't frightened, because he didn't know she was lost till after she was found. I don't suppose she was punished a bit."

"Well, no, she wasn't," Ellen was forced to admit. "I suppose they thought she'd suffered enough through being so frightened, and I don't believe Colonel Willoughby could bring himself to punish her if he tried, for he seems to just about worship her."

Reggie heaved a deep sigh.

"I wonder how it feels to have people worship you," he remarked thoughtfully.

Ellen laughed in spite of herself.

"Well, I guess you ought to know," she said, "seeing the lot your father and mother think about you."

"Do you really believe they do?" Reggie demanded, eagerly.

"Do what?"

"Wor—I mean think a lot about me?"

But before Ellen could answer, the door was suddenly and unceremoniously burst open, and Phyllis, her eyes fairly dancing with happiness, came running into the room.

"Oh, Reggie," she cried joyfully, "I've had such a lovely time! Captain Allerton took papa and me in to Cairo in his motor-car, and we've been shopping."

Reggie said nothing, but deliberately turned his back upon his friend, and his face to the wall. Phyllis and Ellen gazed at him in astonishment, and some of the brightness died out of Phyllis's face.

"What's the matter, Reggie?" she inquired, anxiously; "does your head ache?"

"No," said Reggie, crossly.

"Don't you want to hear about what papa and I have been doing?"

"No, I don't."

"Don't bother with him, Miss Phyllis," said Ellen, indignantly. "He's been that cross and disagreeable all the morning there's no doing anything with him. Come and let me take off your things, and you can tell me all about it."

But Phyllis was not so easily daunted. She drew nearer the bed, and laid a brown paper package she had been carrying, with great pride, by Reggie's side.

"We bought you a present," she said, a little tremulously; "don't you want to look at it? We hoped you would like it."

Reggie turned partly around, and regarded the package with some curiosity.

"I don't believe it's anything I want," he said, grudgingly. "Girls never know the kind of things boys like."

"But papa chose this one, and it's awfully pretty, it truly is." Phyllis was almost in tears.

"I wouldn't give it to him at all if he's so rude," advised Ellen, with an indignant glance at the obstinate little face on the pillow. "I shall tell his father about him the minute he comes in."

"Oh, no, please don't do that!" cried Phyllis, in real distress.

"He doesn't mean to be rude—you don't, do you, Reggie? You needn't keep the present if you don't like it, but do please look at it."

Reggie leaned over and drew the package towards him.

"I guess I'll like it all right," he said, beginning to fumble at the string. "I didn't mean to be rude, only I don't think it's exactly fair for one person to go off for automobile rides when another person has to have the nasty old croup, and stay in bed all day."

"Oh, Reggie, I'm so sorry!" cried the conscience-smitten Phyllis. "I didn't know you'd mind. I wouldn't have gone if I had, I truly wouldn't. Please don't be angry about it, and I'll stay and play with you all the afternoon."

Reggie was softened, but boy-like, he was not fond of showing his feelings.

"That's all right," he said, gruffly; "I don't mind, only—only I wish you'd get me a pair of scissors to cut this old string. It feels as if there was a book inside. I like books when they're interesting."

"You'll love this one, I know you will," Phyllis assured him, her face once more wreathed in smiles, as she flew to the bureau in search of the required scissors. "Papa chose it because it's full of stories about brave people who had wonderful adventures, and it's got such lovely pictures in it."

When the book was finally undone, Reggie's eyes fairly shone with delight.

"It's a dandy!" he exclaimed, past sorrows and vexations alike forgotten in his interest in this new possession. "Look at that picture of a man riding on an elephant, and here's one of some people fighting Indians. I love books about brave people."

"Of course you do," said Phyllis, simply; "I suppose all brave people like to read about each other."

"What brave people?" Reggie inquired, regarding his friend in surprise.

"Why, you're one, of course. I suppose you're about as brave a boy as ever lived."

Reggie was fairly speechless with amazement for a moment, and then he made use, I am sorry to say, of a very slang expression, which he had been strictly forbidden ever to use. "Oh, come off!" he said, and blushed scarlet.

Phyllis did not know what "come off" meant, but she did know the meaning of the look on Reggie's face, and her own astonishment was increased in consequence.

"Why, of course you are," she maintained. "Don't you know everybody's talking about what you did the other night? Captain Allerton talked about it in the motor-car. He said he wouldn't ever forget the way you looked when you stood in front of him with your fists doubled up, and said you'd kill him if he dared to touch me. He said it was the bravest thing he ever saw anybody do. Papa said so, too, and he'd give anything in the world to have a boy just like you, and—"

"Look here, did your father really say that?" demanded Reggie. His eyes were sparkling with excitement.

"Yes, he did, he said it ever so many times, and he told me I ought to be proud to have such a brave little boy for my friend. I think I should be jealous, only he says he loves me better than any one else in the world, and I'm going to stay out here in Egypt with him till summer, and then he's going to take me back to England himself. He doesn't think Aunt Helen ought to have let Nurse and me come out by ourselves without knowing he would be able to meet us at the ship, and he's written her a letter about it."

"Do you think Daddy knows?" Reggie asked in a rather low voice.

"Knows what?"

"That thing about—about what your father and Captain Allerton said?"

"Why, yes, and he's just as proud of you as they are. He was on the terrace this morning when papa and I were there, and papa talked a great deal to him about you. He said he hoped you would go into the army when you grew up, because he was sure you would make a brave soldier, and you can't think how pleased your father looked."

"Did Daddy say anything?" Reggie appeared to be deeply absorbed in examining a pattern in the bed-spread, for he did not raise his eyes as he asked the question.

"Not very much, but he smiled, and his eyes had such a proud look in them. I think the thing he said was 'Oh, Reggie's a nice little beggar,' but you can't think how much he liked it."

Reggie swallowed hard two or three times, and there was something wet on one of his eye-lashes, but all he said was:

"That's all right. Now don't let's talk any more about that stuff. Get the jackstraws, and we'll have a game before lunch. I guess I don't mind staying in bed another day, after all, and—and, say, I'm awfully sorry I was rude about the book."

THE END

[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]