her shoulders with a gesture of weariness. It
disturbed her to go about visiting other people. Nothing gave her any
pleasure now.

"I am getting old," she added, "and I can't be always amusing myself.
Mamma finds entertainment out of doors, and I within; so we are not
together."

Silence ensued. The child shivered, and held her hands out towards the
fire which burnt steadily with a pinky glare; and, indeed, muffled as
she was in a huge shawl, with a silk handkerchief round her neck and
another encircling her head, she did look like some old dame. Shrouded
in all these wraps, it struck one that she was no larger than an
ailing bird, panting amidst its ruffled plumage. Monsieur Rambaud,
with hands clasped over his knees, was gazing at the fire. Then,
turning towards Jeanne, he inquired if her mother had gone out the
evening before. She answered with a nod, yes. And did she go out the
evening before that and the previous day? The answer was always yes,
given with a nod of the head; her mother quitted her every day.

At this the child and Monsieur Rambaud gazed at one another for a long
time, their faces pale and serious, as though they shared some great
sorrow. They made no reference to it--a chit like her and an old man
could not talk of such a thing together; but they were well aware why
they were so sad, and why it was a pleasure to them to sit like this
on either side of the fireplace when they were alone in the house. It
was a comfort beyond telling. They loved to be near one another that
their forlornness might pain them less. A wave of tenderness poured
into their hearts; they would fain have embraced and wept together.

"You are cold, my dear old friend, I'm certain of it," said Jeanne;
"come nearer the fire."

"No, no, my darling; I'm not cold."

"Oh! you're telling a fib; your hands are like ice! Come nearer, or I
shall get vexed."

It was now his turn to display his anxious care.

"I could lay a wager they haven't left you any drink. I'll run and
make some for you; would you like it? Oh! I'm a good hand at making
it. You would see, if I were your nurse, you wouldn't be without
anything you wanted."

He did not allow himself any more explicit hint. Jeanne somewhat
sharply declared she was disgusted with _tisane_; she was compelled to
drink too much of it. However, now and then she would allow Monsieur
Rambaud to flutter round her like a mother; he would slip a pillow
under her shoulders, give her the