grass mats
exhaled a peculiar fragrance. A bird cage hung up high and its inmate
was warbling an exquisite melody. Jeanne stood quite still and a sense
of harmonious beauty penetrated her, gave her a vague impression of
having sometime been part and parcel of it.

"What is it?" demanded the Indian servant. There were very few negroes
in Detroit, and although there were no factories or mills, French girls
seldom hired out for domestics.

"Madame Fleury--Monsieur sent me for a letter lying on his desk," Jeanne
said in a half hesitating manner.

The servant stepped into the room to consult her mistress. Then she said
to Jeanne:--

"Walk in here, Mademoiselle."

The room was much more richly appointed than the hall, though the
polished floor was quite bare. A great high-backed settee with a carved
top was covered with some flowered stuff in which golden threads
shimmered; there was a tall escritoire going nearly up to the ceiling,
the bottom with drawers that had curious brass handles, rings spouting
out of a dragon's mouth. There were glass doors above and books and
strange ornaments and minerals on the shelves. On the high mantel, and
very few houses could boast them, stood brass candlesticks and vases of
colored glass that had come from Venice. There were some quaint
portraits, family heirlooms ranged round the wall, and chairs with
carved legs and stuffed backs and seats.

On a worktable lay a book and a piece of lace work over a cushion full
of pins. By it sat a young lady in musing mood.

She, too, said, "What is it?" but her voice had a soft, lingering
cadence.

Jeanne explained meeting M. Fleury and his message, but her manner was
shy and hesitating.

"Oh, then you are Jeanne Angelot, I suppose?" half assertion, half
inquiry.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," and she folded her hands.

"I think I remember you as a little child. You lived with an Indian
woman and were a"--no, she could not say "foundling" to this beautiful
girl, who might have been born to the purple, so fine was her figure,
her air, the very atmosphere surrounding her.

"I was given to her--Pani. My mother had died," she replied, simply.

"Yes--a letter. Let me see." She rose and went through a wide open
doorway. Jeanne's eyes followed her. The walls seemed full of arms and
hunting trophies and fishing tackle, and in the center of the room a
sort of table with drawers down one side.

"Yes, here. 'Mademoiselle Jeanne Angelot.'" She seemed to s