ing the old airs of their nation, despite the Turkish sabre and the
Austrian police; agents of patriotism and liberty, guardians of the old
Hungarian honor.

These poor people, passing their lives upon the river as the Tzigani
lived in the fields and hedges, seemed to Marsa like the very spectres
of her race. More than the musicians with embroidered vests did the
poor prisoners of the solitary barge recall to her the great proscribed
family of her ancestors.

She called to the children playing upon the sunbeaten deck: "Come here,
and hold up your aprons!"

They obeyed, spreading out their little tattered garments. "Catch
these!" she cried.

They could not believe their eyes. From the steamer she threw down to
them mandarins, grapes, ripe figs, yellow apricots, and great velvety
peaches; a rain of dainties which would have surprised a gourmand: the
poor little things, delighted and afraid at the same time, wondered if
the lady, who gave them such beautiful fruit, was a fairy.

The mother then rose; and, coming toward Marsa to thank her, her
sunburnt skin glowing a deeper red, the poor woman, with tears in her
tired eyes, and a wan smile upon her pale lips, touched, surprised,
happy in the pleasure of her children, murmured, faltering and confused:

"Ah! Madame! Madame! how good you are! You are too good, Madame!"

"We must share what we have!" said Marsa, with a smile. "See how happy
the children are!"

"Very happy, Madame. They are not accustomed to such things. Say 'Thank
you,' to the beautiful lady. Say 'Thank you,' Jean; you are the oldest.
Say like this: 'Thank-you-Ma-dame.'"

"Thank-you-Ma-dame" faltered the boy, raising to Marsa big, timid eyes,
which did not understand why anybody should either wish him ill or do
him a kindness. And other low, sweet little voices repeated, like a
refrain: "Thank-you-Ma-dame."

The two men, in astonishment, came and stood behind the children, and
gazed silently at Marsa.

"And your baby, Madame?" said the Tzigana, looking at the sleeping
infant, that still pressed its rosy lips to the mother's breast. "How
pretty it is! Will you permit me to offer it its baptismal dress?"

"Its baptismal dress?" repeated the mother.

"Oh, Madame!" ejaculated the father, twisting his cap between his
fingers.

"Or a cloak, just as you please," added Marsa.

The poor people on the barge made no reply, but looked at one another in
bewilderment.

"Is it a little girl?" asked the Tz