and looked with kindly curiosity at the little
girl.

"Might Mademoiselle wait there? Certainly. But she must not stand," and
as she spoke she drew out a little stool, on which Sylvia was only too
glad to seat herself, and feeling a little less anxious, she mustered
courage to ask the old woman if every one came out at this door.

"To go where?" inquired the old woman, and when Sylvia mentioned the name
of the hotel and the street where they were staying, "Ah, yes!" said her
informant; "Mademoiselle might be quite satisfied. It was quite sure
Madame, her mother, would come out by that entrance."

"Not my mother," said Sylvia. "I have no mother. It is my grandmother."

"The grandmother of Mademoiselle," repeated the old woman with increased
interest. "Ah, yes I too had once a grand-daughter."

"Did she die?" said Sylvia.

"Poor angel, yes," replied the apple-seller; "she went to the good God,
and no doubt it is better. She was orphan, Mademoiselle, and I was
obliged to be out all day, and she would come too. And it is so cold in
Paris, the winter. She got a bad bronchitis and she died, and her old
grandmother is now alone."

"I am so sorry," said Sylvia. And her thoughts went off to her own
grandmother, and Molly, and all of them, with fresh sympathy for the
anxiety they must be suffering. She leant back on the wall against which
the old woman had placed the stool, feeling very depressed and weary--so
weary that she did not feel able to do anything but sit still, which no
doubt from every point of view was the best thing she could do, though
but for her weariedness she would have felt much inclined to rush off
again to look for them, thus decidedly decreasing her chance of finding
them.

"Mademoiselle is tired," said the old woman, kindly. "She need not be
afraid. The ladies are sure to come out here. I will watch well those who
pass. A little demoiselle dressed like Mademoiselle? One could not
mistake. Mademoiselle may feel satisfied."

Somehow the commonplace, kindly words did make Sylvia feel less anxious.
And she was very tired. Not so much with running about the Louvre; that,
in reality, had not occupied more than three quarters of an hour, but
with the fright and excitement, and the excitement of a different kind
too, that she had had the last few days, poor little Sylvia was really
quite tired out.

She laid her head down on the edge of the table on which the apples
were spread out, hardly taking in th