he bracelet had covered all she
had asked him to purchase for her, and some to spare.

She thanked him, and fastened it in her bodice, and handed the other
to her mother. "There, mamma, when we have make you the dress Sir
Kildene have brought you, you must wear this, for it is beautiful with
the black. Then we will have a fete. And for the fete, Sir Kildene,
you must wear the very fine new clothes you have buy, and Mr. 'Arry
will carry on him the fine new clothing, and so will we be all attire
most splendid. I will make for you all the music you like the best,
and mamma will speak then the great poems she have learned by head,
and Sir Kildene will tell the story he can relate so well of strange
happenings. Oh, it will be a fine, good concert we will make here--and
you, Mr. 'Arry, what will you do?"

"I'll do the refreshments. I'll roast corn and make coffee. I'll be
audience and call for more."

"Ah, yes! Encore! Encore! The artists must always be very much
praised--very much--so have I heard, to make them content. It is Sir
Kildene who will be the great artist, and you must cry 'Encore,' and
honor him greatly with such calls. Then will we have the pleasure to
hear many stories from him. Ah, I like to hear them."

It was a strange life for Harry King, this odd mixture of finest
culture and high-bred delicacy of manner, with what appeared to be a
total absence of self-seeking and a simple enjoyment of everyday work.
He found Amalia one morning on her knees scrubbing the cabin floor,
and for the moment it shocked him. When they were out on the plains
camping and living as best they could, he felt it to be the natural
consequence of their necessities when he saw her washing their clothes
and making the best of their difficulties by doing hard things with
her own hands, but now that they were living in a civilized way, he
could not bear to see her, or her mother, doing the rough work. Amalia
only laughed at him. "See how fine we make all things. If I will not
serve for making clean the house, why am I? Is not?"

"It doesn't make any difference what you do, you are always
beautiful."

"Ah, Mr. 'Arry, you must say those compliments only in the French. It
is no language, the English, for those fine eloquences."

"No, I don't seem to be able to say anything I mean, in French. It's
always a sort of make-believe talk with me. Our whole life here seems
a sort of dream,--as if we were living in some wonderful bubble that
w