moment your father should chance to drop in upon him from his long strolls; for it was now and then your father's wont to pay flying little visits to cousin Ralph in his painting-room.—But, my child, you may draw back the curtain now—it's getting very dim here, seems to me.'
'Well, I thought so all along, aunt,' said little Pierre, obeying; 'but didn't you say the light hurt your eyes?'
'But it does not now, little Pierre.'
'Well, well; go on, go on, aunt; you can't think how interested I am,' said little Pierre, drawing his stool close up to the quilted satin hem of his good aunt Dorothea's dress.
'I will, my child. But first let me tell you, that about this time there arrived in the port, a cabinful of French emigrants of quality;—poor people, Pierre, who were forced to fly from their native land, because of the cruel, blood-shedding times there. But you have read all that in the little history I gave you, a good while ago.'
'I know all about it;—the French Revolution,' said little Pierre.
'What a famous little scholar you are, my dear child,' said aunt Dorothea, faintly smiling—'among those poor, but noble emigrants, there was a beautiful young girl, whose sad fate afterward made a great noise in the city, and made many eyes to weep, but in vain, for she never was heard of any more.'
'How? how? aunt;—I don't understand;—did she disappear then, aunt?'
'I was a little before my story, child. Yes, she did disappear, and never was heard of again; but that was afterward, some time afterward, my child. I am very sure it was; I could take my oath of that, Pierre.'
'Why, dear aunt,' said little Pierre, 'how earnestly you talk—after what? your voice is getting very strange; do now;—don't talk that way; you frighten me so, aunt.'
