been before. At madame's entrance Joyce
rose as usual, but when the red velvet train had swept on to a seat
beside the fire, she still remained standing. Her lips seemed glued
together after those first words of greeting.

"Be seated, mademoiselle," said the lady, with a graceful motion of her
hand towards a chair. "How have you enjoyed your holiday?"

Joyce gave a final swallow of the choking lump in her throat, and began
her humble confession that she had framed up-stairs among the rows of
dismal blue wall-paper parrots. She started with Clotilde Robard's story
of Jules, told of her accidental meeting with him, of all that she knew
of his hard life with Brossard, and of her longing for some one to play
with. Then she acknowledged that she had planned the barbecue secretly,
fearing that madame would not allow her to invite the little goatherd.
At the conclusion, she opened the handkerchief which she had been
holding tightly clenched in her hand, and poured its contents in the red
velvet lap.

"There's all that is left of my Christmas money," she said, sadly,
"seventeen francs and two sous. If it isn't enough to pay for the
cushions, I'll write to Cousin Kate, and maybe she will lend me
the rest."

Madame gathered up the handful of coin, and slowly rose. "It is only a
step to the carriage-house," she said. "If you will kindly ring for
Berthe to bring a lamp we will look to see how much damage has
been done."

It was an unusual procession that filed down the garden walk a few
minutes later. First came Berthe, in her black dress and white cap,
holding a lamp high above her head, and screwing her forehead into a
mass of wrinkles as she peered out into the surrounding darkness. After
her came madame, holding up her dress and stepping daintily along in her
high-heeled little slippers. Joyce brought up the rear, stumbling along
in the darkness of madame's large shadow, so absorbed in her troubles
that she did not see the amused expression on the face of the grinning
satyr in the fountain.

Eve, looking across at Adam, seemed to wink one of her stony eyes, as
much as to say, "Humph! Somebody else has been getting into trouble.
There's more kinds of forbidden fruit than one; pony-cart cushions, for
instance."

Berthe opened the door, and madame stepped inside the carriage-house.
With her skirts held high in both hands, she moved around among the
wreck of the cushions, turning over a bit with the toe of her slipper
no