ou take me to papa?"

She clung fast to her protectress, who found it hard to quiet her. Her
little face was wet with tears, and she trembled in every limb.

The countess raised herself upon her couch.

"To what do I owe this honor, Fraeulein?" she said, in a trembling
voice.

Julie released herself from the child's arms, and looked the questioner
calmly in the face.

"I ought to excuse myself, countess," she said, "for coming here
unannounced. However, the manner in which I am received relieves me
from this formal courtesy. In passing by outside I heard a child
crying, and recognized to my amazement and alarm Frances's voice. Her
foster-mother and her father, who evidently do not know where the child
is, will be alarmed about her. Pardon me if I take my leave with as
little formality as I came. Come, Frances, let us go. What have you
done with your hat and little cloak?"

She had had difficulty in uttering the first words, she was so agitated
by her indignation. But the sound of her own voice gave her back her
self-control. She felt herself, all at once, to be perfectly at ease
and a match for all hostility.

The piano-playing had suddenly ceased, and in the room itself the
stillness of death ensued, broken only by little Frances, who ran to
the lounge where her wraps were lying.

The young woman took a step toward Julie. Her face, but slightly
flushed, appeared quite composed, and neither hate nor fear spoke from
her eyes.

"I must introduce myself to you, Fraeulein," she said, with her soft
voice. "I am Frau Lucie Jansen, the mother of this dear child. From
this you will understand--"

"Is that true, mamma Julie?" the child interrupted. "Is the woman
really papa's wife, as she says? But papa hasn't any wife; he had one
once, but she is dead this long time, and I haven't any other mother
but my good foster-mother and my beautiful mamma Julie. I don't want to
have any other mother, and I don't want any presents from her--I only
want to go away! You must take me away. I--I--"

She began to cry again, dropped her little cloak, and running back to
Julie threw her arms round her neck and sobbed bitterly.

"Be quiet, Frances dear," Julie whispered to her. "We will go away to
your father. You can ask him; he will tell you all that I can't
tell you here. Come, be a good child--be my brave, sensible little
Frances--"

"I must confess that this is the most extraordinary proceeding I ever
heard of," said the co