could they do?

They retired early. Aristide again sought the message of the stars; but
the sky was clouded over, and soon a fine rain began to fall. A bock at
a cafe brought him neither comfort nor inspiration. He returned to the
hotel, and, eluding a gossip-seeking landlady, went up to his room.

What could be done? Neither the sleeping babe nor himself could offer
any suggestion. One thing was grimly inevitable. He and Jean must part.
To carry him about like an infant prince in an automobile had, after
all, been a simple matter; to drag him through Heaven knew what
hardships in his makeshift existence was impossible. In his childlike,
impulsive fashion he had not thought of the future when he adopted Jean.
Aristide always regarded the fortune of the moment as if it would last
forever. Past deceptions never affected his incurable optimism. Now Jean
and he must part. Aristide felt that the end of the world had come. His
pacing to and fro awoke the child, who demanded, in his own way, the
soothing rocking of his father's arms. There he bubbled and "goo'd" till
Aristide's heart nearly broke.

"What can I do with you, _mon petit Jean_?"

The Enfants Trouves, after all? He thought of it with a shudder.

The child asleep again, he laid it on its bed, and then sat far into the
night thinking barrenly. At last one of his sudden gleams of inspiration
illuminated his mind. It was the only way. He took out his watch. It was
four o'clock. What had to be done must be done swiftly.

In the travelling-basket, which had been sent from the garage, he placed
a pillow, and on to the pillow he transferred with breathless care the
sleeping Jean, and wrapped him up snug and warm in bedclothes. Then he
folded the tiny day-garments that lay on a chair, collected the little
odds and ends belonging to the child, took from his valise the rest of
Jean's little wardrobe, and laid them at the foot of the basket. The
most miserable man in France then counted up his money, divided it into
two parts, and wrote a hasty letter, which, with the bundle of notes, he
enclosed in an envelope.

"My little Jean," said he, laying the envelope on the child's breast.
"Here is a little more than half my fortune. Half is for yourself and
the little more to pay your wretched father's hotel bill. Good-bye, my
little Jean. _Je t'aime bien, tu sais_--and don't reproach me."

* * * * *

About an hour afterwards Miss Anne awoke a