revoir_."

Thereupon the two children blew one another a kiss with their
finger-tips.

CHAPTER III.

Every Tuesday Helene had Monsieur Rambaud and Abbe Jouve to dine with
her. It was they who, during the early days of her bereavement, had
broken in on her solitude, and drawn up their chairs to her table with
friendly freedom; their object being to extricate her, at least once a
week, from the solitude in which she lived. The Tuesday dinners became
established institutions, and the partakers in these little feasts
appeared punctually at seven o'clock, serenely happy in discharging
what they deemed a duty.

That Tuesday Helene was seated at the window, profiting by the last
gleams of the twilight to finish some needle work, pending the arrival
of her guests. She here spent her days in pleasant peacefulness. The
noises of the street died away before reaching such a height. She
loved this large, quiet chamber, with its substantial luxury, its
rosewood furniture and blue velvet curtains. When her friends had
attended to her installation, she not having to trouble about
anything, she had at first somewhat suffered from all this sombre
luxury, in preparing which Monsieur Rambaud had realized his ideal of
comfort, much to the admiration of his brother, who had declined the
task. She was not long, however, in feeling happy in a home in which,
as in her heart, all was sound and simple. Her only enjoyment during
her long hours of work was to gaze before her at the vast horizon, the
huge pile of Paris, stretching its roofs, like billows, as far as the
eye could reach. Her solitary corner overlooked all that immensity.

"Mamma, I can no longer see," said Jeanne, seated near her on a low
chair. And then, dropping her work, the child gazed at Paris, which
was darkening over with the shadows of night. She rarely romped about,
and her mother even had to exert authority to induce her to go out. In
accordance with Doctor Bodin's strict injunction, Helene made her
stroll with her two hours each day in the Bois de Boulogne, and this
was their only promenade; in eighteen months they had not gone three
times into Paris.[*] Nowhere was Jeanne so evidently happy as in their
large blue room. Her mother had been obliged to renounce her intention
of having her taught music, for the sound of an organ in the silent
streets made her tremble and drew tears from her eyes. Her favorite
occupation was to assist her