d Chrissie that afternoon, as she had thought of,
after all.

In the forenoon it was discovered that Denise was much worse, and the
doctor was sent for. He came, and shook his head, that being really
all he could do under the circumstances. When he went away, he was
waylaid at the back door by a small gypsy with big, black, serious
eyes and long black hair.

"Is Denise going to die?" Little Joyce asked in the blunt,
straightforward fashion Grandmother Marshall found so trying.

The doctor looked at her from under his shaggy brows and decided that
here was one of the people to whom you might as well tell the truth
first as last, because they are bound to have it.

"Yes," he said.

"Soon?"

"Very soon, I'm afraid. In a few days at most."

"Thank you," said Little Joyce gravely.

She went to her room and did something with the black doll. She did
not cry, but if you could have seen her face you would have wished she
would cry.

After dinner Grandmother Marshall and Chrissie drove away, and Uncle
Roderick and Aunt Isabella went away, too. Little Joyce crept up to
the kitchen chamber. Denise was lying in an uneasy sleep, with tear
stains on her face. Then Little Joyce tiptoed down and sped away to
the hotel.

She did not know just what she would say or do when she got there, but
she thought hard all the way to the end of the shore road. When she
came out to the shore, a lady was sitting alone on a big rock--a lady
with a dark, beautiful face and wonderful eyes. Little Joyce stopped
before her and looked at her meditatively. Perhaps it would be well to
ask advice of this lady.

"If you please," said Little Joyce, who was never shy with strangers,
for whose opinion she didn't care at all, "I want to see Madame Laurin
at the hotel and ask her to do me a very great favour. Will you tell
me the best way to go about seeing her? I shall be much obliged to
you."

"What is the favour you want to ask of Madame Laurin?" inquired the
lady, smiling.

"I want to ask her if she will come and sing for Denise before she
dies--before Denise dies, I mean. Denise is our French girl, and the
doctor says she cannot live very long, and she wishes with all her
heart to hear Madame Laurin sing. It is very bitter, you know, to be
dying and want something very much and not be able to get it."

"Do you think Madame Laurin will go?" asked the lady.

"I don't know. I am going to offer her my little black doll. If she
will not come f