But Madame Deberle stepped closer to them, and said:  “I hope we shall see each other frequently now.  As Jeanne is feeling better, she must come down every afternoon.”

Helene was already casting about for an excuse, pleading that she did not wish to weary her too much.  But Jeanne abruptly broke in:  “No, no; the sun does me a great deal of good.  We will come down, madame.  You will keep my place for me, won’t you?”

And as the doctor still remained in the background, she smiled towards him.

“Doctor, please tell mamma that the fresh air won’t do me any harm.”

He came forward, and this man, inured to human suffering, felt on his cheeks a slight flush at being thus gently addressed by the child.

“Certainly not,” he exclaimed; “the fresh air will only bring you nearer to good health.”

“So you see, mother darling, we must come down,” said Jeanne, with a look of ineffable tenderness, whilst a sob died away in her throat.

But Pierre had reappeared on the steps and announced the safe arrival of madame’s seventeen packages.  Then, followed by her husband and Lucien, Juliette retired, declaring that she was frightfully dirty, and intended to take a bath.  When they were alone, Helene knelt down on the rug, as though about to tie the shawl round Jeanne’s neck, and whispered in the child’s ear: 

“You’re not angry any longer with the doctor, then?”

With a prolonged shake of the head the child replied “No, mamma.”

There was a silence.  Helene’s hands were seized with an awkward trembling, and she was seemingly unable to tie the shawl.  Then Jeanne murmured:  “But why does he love other people so?  I won’t have him love them like that.”

And as she spoke, her black eyes became harsh and gloomy, while her little hands fondled her mother’s shoulders.  Helene would have replied, but the words springing to her lips frightened her.  The sun was now low, and mother and daughter took their departure.  Zephyrin meanwhile had reappeared to view, with a bunch of parsley in his hand, the stalks of which he continued pulling off while darting murderous glances at Rosalie.  The maid followed at some distance, inspired with distrust now that there was no one present.  Just as she stooped to roll up the rug he tried to pinch her, but she retaliated with a blow from her fist which made his back re-echo like an empty cask.  Still it seemed to delight him, and he was yet laughing silently when he re-entered the kitchen busily arranging his parsley.

Thenceforth Jeanne was stubbornly bent on going down to the garden as soon as ever she heard Madame Deberle’s voice there.  All Rosalie’s tittle-tattle regarding the next-door house she drank in greedily, ever restless and inquisitive concerning its inmates and their doings; and she would even slip out of the bedroom to keep watch from the kitchen window.  In the garden, ensconced in a small arm-chair which