fter
a while Monsieur the Count came home, and carried away the Countess to
live in Paris, and so--and--so--that was all!

"But not all!" cried the child, springing from her seat, and raising
her head, which had drooped for a moment. "Not all! for I have the
music, see, Abiroc! All days of my life I can make music, make happy,
make joy of myself and ozerbodies. When I take her; Madame, so, in my
hand, I can do what I will, no? People have glad thinks, sorry thinks;
what Marie tells them to have, that have they. _Ah! la tonne aventure,
oh gai_!" and she would throw her head back and begin to play, and play
till the chairs almost danced on their four legs.

De Arthenay never heard the fiddle. Abby managed it somehow, she
hardly knew how or why. He had never spoken about the Evil Thing, as
he would have called it, since that first day; perhaps he thought that
Abby had taken it away, as a pious church member should, and destroyed
it from the face of the earth. At all events there was no mention of
it, and the only sound he heard when he approached the house was the
whir of Abby's wheel (for women still spun then, in that part of the
country), or the one voice he cared to hear in the world, uplifted in
some light godless song.

So things went on for a while; and then came a change. One day Marie
came into the sitting-room, hearing Abby call her. It was the hour of
De Arthenay's daily visit, and he sat silent in the corner, as usual;
but Abby had an open letter in her hand, and was crying softly, with
her apron hiding her good homely face. "Maree," said the good woman,
"I've got bad news. My sister Lizzie that I've told you so much about,
she's dreadful sick, and I've got to go right out and take care of her.
Thank you, dear!" (as she felt Marie's arms round her on the instant,
and the soft voice murmured little French sympathies in her ear),
"you're real good, I'm sure, and I know you feel for me. I've got to
go right off to-morrow or next day, soon as I can get things to rights
and see to the stock and things. But what is troubling me is you,
Maree. I don't see what is to become of you, poor child, unless--Well,
now, you come here and sit down by me, and listen to what Mr. De
Arthenay has to say to you. You know he's ben your friend, Maree, ever
sence you come; so you listen to him, like a good girl."

Abby was in great trouble: indeed, she was the most agitated of the
three, for it was with outward calm