ng,
absolutely unpresentable, for she had remained in every respect except
that of age what she had been born--a Norman peasant. She had acquired
no veneer of any kind, and looked, as she stood with her plump hands
folded contentedly on her apron-band, much less a lady than Mrs.
Champion, the housekeeper at Kingsmead.

But one fault Brigit had not: she was no snob, and the least worthy
thought roused in her as she contemplated her kindly hostess was that
her mother would be very much annoyed when she met her daughter's future
mother-in-law.

"Such delicious coffee," she said presently, "_and_ the rolls!"

"_Oui, oui, pas mal; c'est moi qui les ai faits._ I make myself----"

As she spoke there came a loud rap at the door, and Joyselle put in his
head, crowned with a gold-tasselled red-velvet cap of archaic shape.

"You permit, _ma fille_?" Without awaiting an answer he came in,
gorgeous from top to toe in a crimson garment between a dressing-gown
and a smoking-costume, girdled round his waist with a gold cord.

"She eats, the most beautiful!" he cried joyously, "and _petite mere_
and Yellow Dog look on! Is it not wonderful, _ma vieille_?"

Madame Joyselle smiled--sensibly. "It is delightful, my man, delightful.
But I fear you should not have come in--she may not like it."

"Not like it? Of course she does. Why should not the old beau-papa visit
his most beautiful while she breakfasts? You are a goose, Felicite!"

Brigit, vastly amused by their discussing her as if she were not
present, gave a bit of roll to the dog.

"A quaint little dog," she observed to them both.

Joyselle laughed. "Yes, yes, _il est bien drole, ce pauvre_.
But-ter-fly. And the name, too, _hein_? Some day I will tell you the
story of why I have had nine dogs all named 'But-ter-fly.' There is so
much to tell you, so much."

He talked on, very rapidly, changing subjects with the rapidity of a
child, using his square brown hands in vivid gesture, marching about the
room, teasing the dog who, since his master had entered, had had eyes
and ears for none but him.

"The concert, you know, yesterday, was a grand success. All the papers
are full of it. Many play the violin to-day, you see, but there is only
one Joyselle."

"There is also a Kubelik," suggested Brigit slily, to see what he would
answer.

"My dear, yes; there is Kubelik, and there is Joachim still, thank God.
_Chacun dans son genre._ But Kubelik is a boy, and he has 'violin
han