rd little
Jack--who sighed as he heard the rain falling like hail on the
Panamas,--and hurried down the garden walk. No sooner had the man
reached the highway, than his melancholy voice resumed the cry, "Hats!
Hats to sell!"

In the dining-room profound silence reigned; the servant was kindling a
fire, and Charlotte was shaking the poet's coat, while he sulkily strode
up and down the room.

As he passed the table he caught sight of the ham on which the pedler's
knife had made sad havoc. D'Argenton turned pale. Remember that the ham
was sacred, like his wine, his mustard, and mineral water. "What! the
ham, too!" he exclaimed.

Charlotte, utterly stupefied by such audacity, could only mechanically
repeat his words.

"I said, madame, that they ought not to cut the ham, that such pork was
too good for such a vagabond. But the little fellow does not know much
yet, he is so young."

Jack by this time was quite alarmed at what he had done, and could only
beg pardon in a troubled tone.

"Pardon, indeed!" cried the poet, giving way, as it must be admitted
he rarely did, to his temper, and shaking the boy violently, exclaimed,
"What right had you to touch that ham? You knew it was not yours. You
know that nothing here is yours; for the bed you sleep on, for the food
you eat, you are indebted to my bounty. And why should I care for you?
I know not even your name!" Here an imploring gesture from Charlotte
stopped the torrent of words. Mother Archambauld was still in the room,
and listening with eagerness. The poet turned away suddenly, and rushed
up stairs, banging the door after him.

Jack remained, looking at his mother in consternation. She wrung her
pretty hands, and again implored heaven to tell her what she had done to
merit such a hard fate.

This was her only resource in the serious perplexities of life; and,
naturally, her question remained unanswered.

To add the finishing touch to the discomfort of the house, D'Argenton
was now taken with one of "his attacks," a form of bilious fever.

Charlotte petted and soothed him, and waited upon him by inches. The
sister-of-charity spirit, that lies in the depths of every womanly
nature, made her love her poet the more because he was suffering. How
tenderly she protected his nerves! She laid a woollen cloth on the table
under the white one to soften the noise of the plates and the silver.
She piled the Henry II. chair with cushions, and had her rolls of hot
flannels a