roll of notes was thrust into one of the little boots, still
caked with mud, which the mother kept mechanically in her hand. There
was a pat on the shoulder, too, and an instant later the Boy's arm was
hooked into mine; I was whisked away with him in as rapid a flight as
if he had been a thief, and not a benefactor.

"How much did you give them, young Santa Claus?" I asked, when he had
me out in the rain again.

"About one thousand three hundred dollars. I can't stop to calculate
it for you in pounds or francs. I'm too excited. Oh, how wet you are,
poor Man! And all for me! But wasn't it splendid! And I just know that
baby'll be better to-morrow. You see if she isn't."

She was. The news was brought to us early in the morning by a poor man
half out of his wits with joy and gratitude.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVII

The Little Game of Flirtation

"To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you
leave them behind you."
--WALT WHITMAN.

The Contessa had to be pacified, but she adored romance, and she was
pleased to say that the story of the bag, lost and found, which I--not
the Boy--told her, came under that category. She was in the best of
tempers for a day of travelling, and saw us off, before her friends
were dressed and ready to begin their drive to Chamounix.

"They are taking as long as they can, on purpose," she whispered to
me, with the air of a naughty child planning mischief behind the backs
of its elders. "Anything to keep me to themselves and away from you!
But you are walking, and the way is uphill for a very long time, so
the hotel people say. We shall catch you up, and just to spite the Di
Nivolis, if nothing more, I shall beg first one of you, then the
other, to let me give you a lift. Neither of you must refuse, or I
shall cry, and no man has ever made me cry yet."

"I'm sure no man ever will," I answered promptly.

"And no boy?" she asked, with a long-lashed glance at my companion,
who had given no answer save a smile.

"I wonder how you would look when you cried, Contessa?" was the only
reply the little wretch deigned, but instead of offending, it appeared
to amuse her. She watched our cavalcade out of the hotel garden (the
_ruecksack_ once more on Souris' faithless back), and the silver bells
of her laughter lightly rang us down the road.

Again we had to pass through Martigny Bourg, and presently, turning
aside fr