ffly erect, its little teeth displayed in a
never-fading smile, the doll sat there, with one shoulder streaming
with water, while every gust of wind lifted up its night-dress. Its
poor body, which had lost some of its sawdust stuffing, seemed to be
shivering.

What was the reason that had prevented her mother from taking her with
her? wondered Jeanne. The rain that beat down on her hands seemed a
fresh inducement to be out. It must be very nice, she argued, in the
street. Once more there flashed on her mind's eye the little girl
driving her hoop along the pavement. Nobody could deny that she had
gone out with her mamma. Both of them had even seemed to be
exceedingly well pleased. This was sufficient proof that little girls
were taken out when it rained.

But, then, willingness on her mother's part was requisite. Why had she
been unwilling? Then Jeanne again thought of her big cat which had
gone away over the houses opposite with its tail in the air, and of
the poor little sparrow which she had tempted with food when it was
dead, and which had pretended that it did not understand. That kind of
thing always happened to her; nobody's love for her was enduring
enough. Oh! she would have been ready in a couple of minutes; when she
chose she dressed quickly enough; it was only a question of her boots,
which Rosalie buttoned, her jacket, her hat, and it was done. Her
mother might easily have waited two minutes for her. When she left
home to see her friends, she did not turn her things all topsy-turvy
as she had done that afternoon; when she went to the Bois de Boulogne,
she led her gently by the hand, and stopped with her outside every
shop in the Rue de Passy.

Jeanne could not get to the bottom of it; her black eyebrows frowned,
and her delicate features put on a stern, jealous expression which
made her resemble some wicked old maid. She felt in a vague way that
her mother had gone to some place where children never go. She had not
been taken out because something was to be hidden from her. This
thought filled her with unutterable sadness, and her heart throbbed
with pain.

The rain was becoming finer, and through the curtain which veiled
Paris glimpses of buildings were occasionally afforded. The dome of
the Invalides, airy and quivering, was the first to reappear through
the glittering vibration of the downpour. Next, some of the districts
emerged into sight as the torrent slackened; the city seemed to rise
from a de