ith great contempt--_Elise_.

"Go on," she said. "You're not reading."

So I began--"'I have been thinking of you sometimes--have you been
thinking of me?'"

"Of several others as well, beside her, I'll wager," said Mrs. Goyte.

"Probably not," said I, and continued. "'A dear little baby was born
here a week ago. Ah, can I tell you my feelings when I take my darling
little brother into my arms----'"

"I'll bet it's _his_," cried Mrs. Goyte.

"No," I said. "It's her mother's."

"Don't you believe it," she cried. "It's a blind. You mark, it's her own
right enough--and his."

"No," I said. "It's her mother's. 'He has sweet smiling eyes, but not
like your beautiful English eyes----'"

She suddenly struck her hand on her skirt with a wild motion, and bent
down, doubled with laughter. Then she rose and covered her face with her
hand.

"I'm forced to laugh at the beautiful English eyes," she said.

"Aren't his eyes beautiful?" I asked.

"Oh yes--_very!_ Go on!--_Joey dear, dee-urr Joey!_"--this to the
peacock.

"--Er--'We miss you very much. We all miss you. We wish you were here
to see the darling baby. Ah, Alfred, how happy we were when you stayed
with us. We all loved you so much. My mother will call the baby Alfred
so that we shall never forget you----'"

"Of course it's his right enough," cried Mrs. Goyte.

"No," I said. "It's the mother's. Er--'My mother is very well. My father
came home yesterday--from Lille. He is delighted with his son, my little
brother, and wishes to have him named after you, because you were so
good to us all in that terrible time, which I shall never forget.
I must weep now when I think of it. Well, you are far away in England,
and perhaps I shall never see you again. How did you find your dear
mother and father? I am so happy that your leg is better, and that you
can nearly walk----'"

"How did he find his dear _wife!_" cried Mrs. Goyte. "He never told her
that he had one. Think of taking the poor girl in like that!"

"'We are so pleased when you write to us. Yet now you are in England you
will forget the family you served so well----'"

"A bit too well--_eh, Joey!_" cried the wife.

"'If it had not been for you we should not be alive now, to grieve and
to rejoice in this life, that is so hard for us. But we have recovered
some of our losses, and no longer feel the burden of poverty. The little
Alfred is a great comforter to me. I hold him to my breast and think of
the bi