words fell like lead,—about the father Marie had never seen, the mother she had never known, the home-shelter of her baby years, beyond even her imagination, and the guardian uncle, the question of whose coming to the concert had so excited her.
"Is Marie Modeste here?" asked a little voice through a far-off door.
Marie started. "Yes." Her voice was rough, weak, and trembling.
"They want you for the 'Cheval de Bronze.'"
She sat up and let the nurse smooth her hair and bathe her face, keeping her lips tightly shut over the ebbing sobs.
"Thank you, Marcélite. Thank you for everything—for my beautiful dress, and my shoes; and thank my uncle too, and try and persuade him to come to-morrow evening, won't you, Marcélite? Do not tell him about my crying, though. Oh, I want to go home so much, and to see him! You know if you want you can get him to come. Won't you promise me, ma bonne?"
"You know I would kill myself for you, mon bébé."
