old the little Lucille could not be expected to understand—madame is cold?"
Fenella shrunk and shivered at the sound of that hated name. She recovered herself in another instant. She looked at the forlorn creature, who tried to interest her in his little story, with compassionate gentleness.
"Can the father not come himself to see his child?" she asked. "Is he an invalid or——?"
The man answered her shortly and harshly.
"The father is in prison."
He laughed a grating laugh, and ground the heel of his broken boot upon the pavement.
"Has madame patience to hear his story? Common enough, common enough. The father of the little black-haired one was once a clerk in a bank at Lille. He had assured prospects, enough for present wants; a charming—oh! yes, a charming wife—and a child. Charming women are apt to be vain; vain ones are apt to be extravagant, madame. She wanted money—always money. Her husband was like wax in her hands. Hein! She molded her wax well—so well. She made of an honest man a rogue, madame, a forger, and a thief."
He broke off to wipe away the leaden drops that had gathered on his face, with a miserable rag of a tattered handkerchief. His gaunt figure quivered, and the sinews started out like cords on the backs of his wasted hands.
