culty boldly, still upheld by the
conviction that she was serving a purpose cherished by Romayne. "You had
good reasons, no doubt, mademoiselle, when you advised your mother to
conceal her true name," she rejoined. "Be just enough to believe that
your 'anonymous benefactor' has good reasons for concealment too."

It was well said, and it encouraged Madame Marillac to take Stella's
part. "My dear Blanche, you speak rather harshly to this good young
lady," she said to her daughter. "You have only to look at her, and to
see that she means well."

Blanche took up her needle again, with dogged submission. "If we _are_
to accept charity, mother, I should like to know the hand that gives
it," she answered. "I will say no more."

"When you are as old as I am, my dear," rejoined Madame Marillac, "you
will not think quite so positively as you think now. I have learned some
hard lessons," she proceeded, turning to Stella, "and I hope I am the
better for them. My life has not been a happy one--"

"Your life has been a martyrdom!" said the girl, breaking out again in
spite of herself. "Oh, my father! my father!" She pushed aside the work
and hid her face in her hands.

The gentle mother spoke severely for the first time. "Respect your
father's memory!" she said. Blanche trembled and kept silence. "I have
no false pride," Madame Marillac continued. "I own that we are miserably
poor; and I thank you, my dear young lady, for your kind intentions
toward us, without embarrassing you by any inquiries. We manage to
live. While my eyes last, our work helps to support us. My good eldest
daughter has some employment as a teacher of music, and contributes her
little share to assist our poor household. I don't distrust you--I only
say, let us try a little longer if we cannot help ourselves."

She had barely pronounced the last words, when a startling interruption
led to consequences which the persons present had not foreseen. A
shrill, wailing voice suddenly pierced through the flimsy partition
which divided the front room and the back room. "Bread!" cried the voice
in French; "I'm hungry. Bread! bread!"

The daughter started to her feet. "Think of his betraying us at this
moment!" she exclaimed indignantly. The mother rose in silence, and
opened a cupboard. Its position was opposite to the place in which
Stella was sitting. She saw two or three knives and forks, some cups and
saucers and plates, and a folded table-cloth. Nothing else ap