ndrier. He
wanted her to go to the hospital, but she would not be parted from her
daughter. Finally, to complete my investigations, they sent me to a
woman who buys rags and bones. Her name is La Rouquerie. I could not see
her until yesterday, as she had been out in the country."

Fabry paused. Then for the first time he turned to Perrine and bowed
respectfully.

"I saw Palikare, mademoiselle," he said. "He is looking very well."

Perrine had risen to her feet. For some moments she stood listening,
dazed. Then her eyes filled with tears.

"I then had to find out what had become of the little daughter,"
continued Fabry. "This ragpicker told me that she had met her in the
Chantilly woods and that she was dying of hunger. It was her own donkey
that she sold to the ragpicker who found her."

"Tell me," cried M. Vulfran, turning his sightless eyes towards Perrine,
who was trembling from head to foot, "why this little girl did not say
who she was? You understand how deeply a little girl can feel, so can
you explain this?"

Perrine took a few steps towards him.

"Tell me why she does not come into my arms ... her grandfather's arms."

"Oh, grandpapa," cried Perrine, throwing her arms about his neck.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE GRATEFUL PEOPLE

Fabry had left the room, leaving the grandfather and his granddaughter
together. For a long time the old man and the girl sat with their arms
about each other. They only spoke now and again, just to exchange a word
of affection.

"My little granddaughter ... my boy's little girl," murmured the blind
man, stroking her curls.

"My grandpapa," murmured Perrine, rubbing her soft cheek against his.

"Why didn't you tell me who you were?" he asked at last.

"But didn't I try several times?" replied Perrine. "Do you remember what
you said to me the last time I spoke of dear mother and myself. You
said: 'Understand, never speak to me again of those wretched
creatures.'"

"But could I guess that you were my granddaughter?" he said.

"If I had come straight to you, don't you think you would have driven me
away and not have listened to me?" asked Perrine.

"Ah," said the blind man, sadly, "who knows what I would have done!"

"I thought so," said Perrine, "and I thought it best not to let you
know me until, like mama said, 'you would get to love me.'"

"And you have waited so long, and you had so many proofs of my
affection."

"But was it the affection of a grandfather? I d