"Madame," said Monsieur Vignevielle, "wad pud you bout so hearly dis
morning?"
She told him her errand. She asked if he thought she would find any
thing.
"Yez," he said, "it was possible--a few lill' _becassines-de-mer_, ou
somezin' ligue. But fo' w'y you lill' gal lose doze hapetide?"
"Ah, Miche,"--Madame Delphine might have tried a thousand times again
without ever succeeding half so well in lifting the curtain upon the
whole, sweet, tender, old, old-fashioned truth,--"Ah, Miche, she wone
tell me!"
"Bud, anny'ow, Madame, wad you thing?"
"Miche," she replied, looking up again with a tear standing in either
eye, and then looking down once more as she began to speak, "I thing--I
thing she's lonesome."
"You thing?"
She nodded.
"Ah! Madame Carraze," he said, partly extending his hand, "you see? 'Tis
impossible to mague you' owze shud so tighd to priv-en dad. Madame, I
med one mizteg."
"Ah, _non_, Miche!"
"Yez. There har nod one poss'bil'ty fo' me to be dad guardian of you'
daughteh!"
Madame Delphine started with surprise and alarm.
Pages:
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74