or that, there is nothing else I can do."

A flash of interest lighted up the lady's brown eyes. She bent
forward.

"Is it your doll you have in that box? Will you let me see it?"

Little Joyce nodded. Mutely she opened the box and took out the black
doll. The lady gave an exclamation of amazed delight and almost
snatched it from Little Joyce. It was a very peculiar little doll
indeed, carved out of some black polished wood.

"Child, where in the world did you get this?" she cried.

"Father got it out of a grave in Egypt," said Little Joyce. "It was
buried with the mummy of a little girl who lived four thousand years
ago, Uncle Roderick says. She must have loved her doll very much to
have had it buried with her, mustn't she? But she could not have loved
it any more than I do."

"And yet you are going to give it away?" said the lady, looking at her
keenly.

"For Denise's sake," explained Little Joyce. "I would do anything for
Denise because I love her and she loves me. When the only person in
the world who loves you is going to die, there is nothing you would
not do for her if you could. Denise was so good to me before she took
sick. She used to kiss me and play with me and make little cakes for
me and tell me beautiful stories."

The lady put the little black doll back in the box. Then she stood up
and held out her hand.

"Come," she said. "I am Madame Laurin, and I shall go and sing for
Denise."

Little Joyce piloted Madame Laurin home and into the kitchen and up
the back stairs to the kitchen chamber--a proceeding which would have
filled Aunt Isabella with horror if she had known. But Madame Laurin
did not seem to mind, and Little Joyce never thought about it at all.
It was Little Joyce's awkward, unMarshall-like fashion to go to a
place by the shortest way there, even if it was up the kitchen stairs.

Madame Laurin stood in the bare little room and looked pityingly at
the wasted, wistful face on the pillow.

"This is Madame Laurin, and she is going to sing for you, Denise,"
whispered Little Joyce.

Denise's face lighted up, and she clasped her hands.

"If you please," she said faintly. "A French song, Madame--de ole
French song dey sing long 'go."

Then did Madame Laurin sing. Never had that kitchen chamber been so
filled with glorious melody. Song after song she sang--the old
folklore songs of the _habitant_, the songs perhaps that Evangeline
listened to in her childhood.

Little Joyce knelt by