s papa brought grand'mere and Sidney, he died." Mademoiselle ceased.

Chester waited, but she glanced to the other table. Monsieur had ended
his recital. Madame and the aunts chatted merrily. Smilingly the
niece's eyes came back.

"Don't stop," said Chester. "What followed--for 'Maud'--Sidney--your
boy father--your little-girl aunts? Did the clock in the sky call them
North again?"

"No." The speaker rose. "I'll tell you on the train; I hear it
coming."

XXV

"There's a train every half-hour," Chester said.

"Yes, but the day-laborer must be home early."

On the train--"Well," the youth urged, "your _grand'mere_ stayed in the
old home, I hope, with the three children--and Sidney?"

"Only till she could sell it. But that was nearly three years, and
they were hard, those three. But at last, by the help of that Royal
Street coterie--who were good friends, Mr. Chester, when friends were
scarce--she sold both house and furniture--what was by that time
remaining--and bought that place where we are now living."

"Was there no life-insurance?"

"A little. We have the yearly interest on it still. 'Tis very small,
yet a great help--to my aunts. I tell that only to say that papa would
never touch it when he and my aunts--and afterward mamma--were in very
narrow places."

Chester perceived another reason for the telling of it; the niece
wanted to escape the credit of being the sole support of her aunts.
She read his thought but ignored it.

"Papa was very old for his age," she continued. "You may see that by
his being in the battle with _grandpere_ at thirteen years. And
because of that precocity he got much training of the mind--and
spirit--from _grandpere_ that usually is got much later. I think that
is what my aunts mean when they tell you papa's life was dramatic. It
_was_ so, yet not in the manner they mean, the manner of _grandpere's_
life; you understand?"

"You mean it was not melodramatic?"

"Ah! the word I wanted! Mr. Chester, when we get over being children,
those of us who do, why do we try so hard to live without melodrama?"

"Oh, mademoiselle, you know well enough. You know that's what
melodrama does, itself? What is it, in essence, but a struggle to rise
out of itself into a higher drama, of the spirit----?"

"A divine comedy! Yes. Well, that is what my father's life seems to
me."

"With tragic elements in it, of course?"

"Oh! How could it be high comedy without?