ughter.

"Look, mamma, I look nice, don't I? Won't you let me be as I am? It is
nice!"

Repressing a gesture of impatience, Helene, as was her wont every
morning, inquired: "Are you washed?"

"Oh, mamma!" pleaded the child, her joy suddenly dashed. "Oh, mamma!
it's raining; it's too nasty!"

"Then, you'll have no breakfast. Wash her, Rosalie."

She usually took this office upon herself, but that morning she felt
altogether out of sorts, and drew nearer to the fire, shivering,
although the weather was so balmy. Having spread a napkin and placed
two white china bowls on a small round table, Rosalie had brought the
latter close to the fireplace. The coffee and milk steamed before the
fire in a silver pot, which had been a present from Monsieur Rambaud.
At this early hour the disorderly, drowsy room seemed delightfully
homelike.

"Mamma, mamma!" screamed Jeanne from the depths of the closet, "she's
rubbing me too hard. It's taking my skin off. Oh dear! how awfully
cold!"

Helene, with eyes fixed on the coffee-pot, remained engrossed in
thought. She desired to know everything, so she would go. The thought
of that mysterious place of assignation in so squalid a nook of Paris
was an ever-present pain and vexation. She judged such taste hateful,
but in it she identified Malignon's leaning towards romance.

"Mademoiselle," declared Rosalie, "if you don't let me finish with
you, I shall call madame."

"Stop, stop: you are poking the soap into my eyes," answered Jeanne,
whose voice was hoarse with sobs. "Leave me alone; I've had enough of
it. The ears can wait till to-morrow."

But the splashing of water went on, and the squeezing of the sponge
into the basin could be heard. There was a clamor and a struggle, the
child was sobbing; but almost immediately afterward she made her
appearance, shouting gaily: "It's over now; it's over now!"

Her hair was still glistening with wet, and she shook herself, her
face glowing with the rubbing it had received and exhaling a fresh and
pleasant odor. In her struggle to get free her jacket had slipped from
her shoulders, her petticoat had become loosened, and her stockings
had tumbled down, displaying her bare legs. According to Rosalie, she
looked like an infant Jesus. Jeanne, however, felt very proud that she
was clean; she had no wish to be dressed again.

"Look at me, mamma; look at my hands, and my neck, and my ears. Oh!
you must let me warm myself; I am so comfortable. You