, I was perfectly delighted, although I
understood not a word he said.

When he finished Carrie told him I was a little poet, and then
repeated some foolish lines I had once written about her eyes. It was
a very handsome set of teeth which he showed, as he said,
"_Magnifique! Tree bien!_ She be another grand _Dr. Wattts!_"

I knew not who Dr. Watts was, but on one point my mind was made
up--Monsieur Penoyer knew a great deal! Ere I left Carrie commissioned
me to invite my sisters to her party on the morrow, and as I was
leaving the room Mr. Penoyer said, "_Ma chere,_ Carrie, why vous no
invite a petite girl!"

Accordingly I was invited, with no earthly prospect, however, of
mother's letting me go. And she didn't either; so next day, after
Juliet and Anna were gone, I went out behind the smokehouse and cried
until I got sleepy, and a headache too; then, wishing to make mother
think I had _run away_, I crept carefully up-stairs to Bill's room,
where I slept until Sally's sharp eyes ferreted me out, saying, "they
were all scared to death about me, and had looked for me high and
low," up in the garret and down in the well, I supposed. Concluding
they were plagued enough, I condescended to go down-stairs, and have
my head bathed in camphor and my feet parboiled in hot water; then I
went to bed and dreamed of white teeth, curling mustaches and "_Parlez
vous Francais_."

Of what occurred at the party I will tell you as was told to me. All
the _elite_ of Rice Corner were there, of course, and as each new
arrival entered the parlor, M. Penoyer eyed them coolly through an
opera glass. Sister Anna returned his inspection with the worst face
she could well make up, for which I half-blamed her and half didn't,
as I felt sure I should have done the same under like circumstances.

When all the invited guests had arrived except myself (alas, no one
asked why I tarried), there ensued an awkward silence, broken only by
the parrot-like chatter of M. Penoyer, who seemed determined to talk
nothing but French, although Carrie understood him but little better
than did the rest. At last he was posted up to the piano.

"_Mon Dieu_, it be von horrid tone," said he; then off he dashed into
a galloping waltz, keeping time with his head, mouth, and eyes, which
threatened to leave their sockets and pounce upon the instrument.
Rattlety-bang went the piano--like lightning went monsieur's fingers,
first here, then there, right or wrong, hit or m