ram-cars that pass down this street and then across the
bridge into Tours. Marie found an old friend of hers sitting on one of
the benches,--such a big fat woman, and oh, such a gossip! Marie said
she was tired, so we sat there a long time. Her friend's name is
Clotilde Robard. They talked about everybody in St. Symphorien.

"Then I gossiped, too. I asked Clotilde Robard if she knew why the gate
with the big scissors was never opened any more. She told me that she
used to be one of the maids there, before she married the spice-monger
and was Madame Robard. Years before she went to live there, when the old
Monsieur Ciseaux died, there was a dreadful quarrel about some money.
The son that got the property told his brother and sister never to
darken his doors again.

[Illustration: OUT WITH MARIE.]

"They went off to America, and that big front gate has never been opened
since they passed out of it. Clotilde says that some people say that
they put a curse on it, and something awful will happen to the first one
who dares to go through. Isn't that interesting?

"The oldest son, Mr. Martin Ciseaux, kept up the place for a long time,
just as his father had done, but he never married. All of a sudden he
shut up the house, sent away all the servants but the two who take care
of it, and went off to Algiers to live. Five years ago he came back to
bring his little grand-nephew, but nobody has seen him since that time.

"Clotilde says that an orphan asylum would have been a far better home
for Jules (that is the boy's name), for Brossard, the caretaker, is so
mean to him. Doesn't that make you think of Prince Ethelried in the
fairy tale? 'Little and lorn; no fireside welcomed him and no lips gave
him a friendly greeting.'

"Marie says that she has often seen Jules down in the field, back of his
uncle's house, tending the goats. I hope that I may see him sometime.

"Oh, dear, the postman has come sooner than I expected. He is talking
down in the hall now, and if I do not post this letter now it will miss
the evening train and be too late for the next mail steamer. Tell mamma
that I will answer all her questions about my lessons and clothes next
week. Oceans of love to everybody in the dear little brown house."

Hastily scrawling her name, Joyce ran out into the hall with her
letter. "Anything for me?" she asked, anxiously, leaning over the
banister to drop the letter into Marie's hand. "One, mademoiselle," was
the answer. "Bu