ted. "I am always accepting your
kindnesses, and Frieda's, and there is nothing I can do in return,
and--and----"

She seemed to choke a little. Her voice came hoarse and muffled as ever,
and I fear that Dr. Porter's ministrations are doing her little, if any,
good.

"My dear Frances," said Frieda, "we both understand you, perfectly. It
is the most splendid thing for a woman to keep her self-respect and
refuse to be a drag upon her friends. But when she can give them
genuine pleasure by accepting a trifling thing like this, now and then,
she ought to be loath to deprive them. David says that the company
downstairs rather stifles his imagination, and he further alleges that
dining alone at Camus is a funereal pleasure. Now go and get ready.
There is plenty of time, and I'll come in and hook up your waist, if you
want me to."

So Frances ran away to her room, with Baby Paul on her arm. She often
rebels like this, yet generally succumbs to our wiles. The pair of us,
fortunately, is more than she can successfully contend against.

Frieda followed her to her room, and I rummaged among the Sunday papers,
finding the French daily. Frances likes to look at it and I have ordered
the newsman at the corner to deliver me the Sunday number regularly. But
to-day she has been busy with a lot of mending so that it remained
unopened. My first glance revealed a column giving a list of unclaimed
letters in the hands of the French Consul. There was one for Madame Paul
Dupont, it appeared.

I seized the paper and ran with it to the door of her room. My hand was
already lifted to knock, when I bethought myself that a delay of a few
minutes would be unimportant, and that it was best to run no chances of
interfering with Baby Paul's entertainment. I returned to my room and
paced up and down the worn Brussels. She had often told me how sorry she
was that she had never heard from her late husband's parents. This
letter, in all probabilities, was from them. If I told Frances about it
immediately, she would worry over it until next day. Why not wait at
least until our return from Camus, or even until the morning? If she
knew about it, she would probably not have a wink of sleep. I determined
to postpone the announcement.

Poor child! She will be harrowed by that letter. It will give her such
details as the old people have been able to obtain and bring the tragedy
back to her. She will read the lines breathlessly. The months that have
gone