if her bébé were to be always so chétive, so triste. One sickness—
"Bébé," she whispered, her voice trembling at the thought; "you will catch cold, or fever, the air is so bad at this season."
"There, I hope you are satisfied now!" Marie said irritably, jumping down, and grumbling to herself, "If Marcélite would only let her alone! The moonlight was so beautiful, and at school they never enjoyed the moonlight except in contraband. In a week she would be back at school. Why could not Marcélite let her forget that; it was so seldom she could forget it! Marcélite never thought about it, nor Madame either, but she—" she had rehearsed it so often, the whole scene came before her in a flash.
"Tiens, voilà Marie Modeste, back again at school! mais, chère, is le vieux going to make you stay another year? Quelle injustice!" She would shrug her shoulders, and say in an indifferent way, just as if it were a matter of course, "Ah! you know, it is a romance,—all a romance of Marcélite's. My papa, he was killed during the war, my mamma, she died when I was a baby, and Marcélite—just fancy,
