poor as themselves, but they felt
sure this kind-hearted old Frenchman was far from being well-off.

Corsini raised a protesting hand. "Sir, you have been kindness itself
already. You have warmed us, and we are very grateful, but we cannot
eat you out of house and home."

They guessed pretty accurately that these viands which he had produced
with such abandon, were meant to last some little time. The average
Frenchman is a small eater, and a very thrifty person.

Papa Peron beat the table impetuously. "_Mon Dieu_, do you refuse my
little whim? I am not rich, I admit. One does not lodge on the third
floor if one is a millionaire. That is understood. But I can show
hospitality when I choose. To table at once, my children, or I shall
be seriously displeased."

The old gentleman, in spite of his frail appearance, was very
masterful; it was impossible to resist him. Obediently they sat down,
but their native politeness forbade them to eat very much. They just
stayed their appetites, and left enough to satisfy their host for a
couple of days at least. In vain he exhorted them to persevere.
Brother and sister exchanged a meaning glance, and assured their host
that they had already done too well.

When they had finished and were back in the two easy-chairs, basking
in the warmth of the glowing fire, the old Frenchman went to a little
cupboard affixed to the wall. On his face was a sly smile.

From this receptacle he produced a bottle, dusty with age. He
performed some strenuous work with a somewhat refractory corkscrew
whose point had become blunt with the years. In a trice, he produced
three glasses and placed them on a small table which he drew close to
the fire.

"This is fine Chambertin," he explained to his astonished guests.
"A dozen bottles were sent to me by an old friend, since dead,
three years ago. In those three years I have drunk six--I am very
abstemious, my children. To-night, in your honour, I open the first of
the six that remain. We will carouse and make merry. It is a long time
since I have felt so inclined to merriment."

To this sally they could make no retort; they were still in state
of bewilderment. To a certain extent they felt themselves in a kind
of shabby fairyland. Was this strange old Frenchman as poor as
appearances suggested--or a miser with occasional freakish impulses
of generosity?

Papa Peron shot at them a shrewd glance. Perhaps he divined their
thoughts. Long experience had mad