rial keeping, of course, the ten-year payments that he had already received.
This was a speculation on the man's part, for he had hoped that before the fifteen years expired there would come a day when the florist would be unable to meet his notes. This day had come at last! Now what was going to happen?
We were not left long in doubt. The day after the notes fell due—this sum which was to have been paid from the sale of his season's flowers—a gentleman dressed all in black came to the house and handed us a stamped paper. It was the process server. He came often; so many times that he soon began to know us by name.
"How do you do, Mlle. Etiennette? Hello, Remi; hello, Alexix!"
And he handed us his stamped paper smilingly, as though we were friends. The father did not stay in the house. He was always out. He never told us where he went. Probably he went to call on business men, or he might have been at court.
What would the result be? A part of the winter passed. As we were unable to repair the conservatories and renew the glass frames, we cultivated vegetables and hardier flowers that did not demand shelter. They were not very productive, but at least it was something, and it was work for us. One evening the father returned home more depressed than usual.
"Children," he said, "it is all over."
I was about to leave the room, for I felt that he
