ut Angel doesn't get on at all well here. I've heard her
telling a lady she lent some money to, and wanted to have it back, after
awhile. You see, when we were left poor, people said that she could make
lots of money in Paris, because they pay a good deal there for the
things Angel does; but others seemed to have got all the work for
themselves, before we went over to Paris to live, so some friends she
had told her it would be better to try here where there was no--no
com--com--"

"No compertishun," suggested the would-be nursery governess.

"Yes, that's the right word, I think. But there was some, after all.
Poor Angel's so sad. She doesn't quite know what we'll do next, for we
haven't much money left."

"She's got a job of char--I mean, typin' to-day anyhow," said Jane.

"Yes, she's gone to a hotel, where a gentleman talks a story out loud,
and she puts it down on paper. She's been three times; but it's so sad;
the story is a beautiful one, only she doesn't think he'll live to
finish it. He came here to get well, because there's sunshine, and
flowers; but his wife cried on Angel's shoulder, in the next room to
his, and said he would never, never get well any more. Angel didn't
tell me, for I don't think she likes me to know sad things; but I heard
her saying it all to a lady she works for sometimes, a lady who knows
the poor man. I don't remember his name, but he's what they call a
Genius."

"It's like that out here on the Riviera," said Jane, shaking her head so
gloomily that the ruffled cap wobbled. "Lots of ill people come, as well
as those who wants fun, and throwin' thur money about. In the midst of
loife we are in death. Drat the Biby, I believe 'e's swallowed 'is tin
soldier! No, 'ere it is, on the floor. But, as I was sayin', your ma and
mine might be sisters, in some wyes. Both of 'em lost their 'usbins,
young--"

"How did your father get lost?" Rosemary broke in, deeply interested.

"'E went to the dogs," replied Jane, mysteriously.

"Oh!" breathed the child, thrilled with a vague horror. She longed
intensely to know what had happened to her friend's parent after joining
his lot with that of the dogs, but was too delicate-minded to continue
her questioning, after such a tragic beginning. She wondered if there
were a kind of dreadful dog which made a specialty of eating fathers.
"And did he never come back again?" she ventured to enquire, at last.

"Not 'e. You never do, you know, if once you goes t