The French madmizel—­as Mrs. Duff styled her, meaning, of course, Mademoiselle Benoite—­had called in at Mrs. Duff’s shop and made a purchase.  It consisted—­if you are curious to know—­of pins and needles, and a staylace.  Not a parcel that would have weighed her down, certainly, had she borne it herself; but it pleased her to demand that Dan should carry it for her.  This she did, partly to display her own consequence, chiefly that she might have a companion home, for Mademoiselle Benoite did not relish the walk alone by moonlight to Verner’s Pride.  Of course young Dan was at the beck and call of Mrs. Duff’s customers, that being, as mademoiselle herself might have said, his specialite.  Whether a customer bought a parcel that would have filled a van, or one that might have gone inside a penny thimble, Master Dan was equally expected to be in readiness to carry the purchase to its destination at night, if called upon.  Master Dan’s days being connected now with the brick-fields, where his specialite appeared to be, to put layers of clay upon his clothes.

Accordingly, Dan started with Mademoiselle Benoite.  She had been making’ purchases at other places, which she had brought away with her—­shoes, stationery, and various things, all of which were handed over to the porter, Dan.  They arrived at Verner’s Pride in safety, and Dan was ordered to follow her in, and deposit his packages on the table of the apartment that was called the steward’s room.

“One, two, three, four,” counted Mademoiselle Benoite, with French caution, lest he should have dropped any by the way.  “You go outside now, Dan, and I bring you something from my pocket for your trouble.”

Dan returned outside accordingly, and stood gazing at the laundry windows, which were lighted up.  Mademoiselle dived in her pocket, took something from thence, which she screwed carefully up in a bit of newspaper, and handed it to Dan.  Dan had watched the process in a glow of satisfaction, believing it could be nothing less than a silver sixpence.  How much more it might prove, Dan’s aspirations were afraid to anticipate.

“There!” said Mademoiselle, when she put it into his hand.  “Now you can go back to your mother.”

She shut the door in his face somewhat inhospitably, and Dan eagerly opened his cadeau.  It contained—­two lumps of fine white sugar.

“Mean old cat!” burst forth Dan.  “If it wasn’t that mother ’ud baste me, I’d never bring a parcel for her again, not if she bought up the shop.  Wouldn’t I like to give all the French a licking?”

Munching his sugar wrathfully, he passed across the yard, and out at the gate.  There he hesitated which way home he should take, as he had hesitated that far gone evening, when he had come up upon the errand to poor Rachel Frost.  More than four years had elapsed since then, and Dan was now fourteen; but he was a young and childish boy of his age, which might be owing to the fact of his being so kept under by his mother.