kly, with a little sigh; "he isn't quite
steady?"

"I would nevare say ill of him. He mean well--oh, yes! But he do not
know when it is time to leave off. He take one drink, that make him talk
loud and laugh; he take two, that make him swear bad worts and knock
round the furniture; he take t'ree, that make him come home and beat
thos poor leetle girls till it make your heart sore! And poor Lucie will
try so hard, and then he will be so oogly--but I should not so speak to
a strangare."

"Don't let that trouble you; it shall go no further. I will try and see
this Lucy, soon. What is her other name?"

"It is Hapgood, ma'amselle. I pray you to forget I have ill spoke of a
man who means to be kind, but so troubled he must try somehow to forget
his cares. Many men are like that. And of a truth there is no place to
go for rest. In the small house the children do cry and quarrel, and
tired Lucie will scold at times, and he does come home so weary,
himself. If all is not to please him he snatches his hat and goes
rushing away--but where? The only place that makes welcome is the
saloon--you know it."

"Yes, yes, I do know. And the poor children, too! They ought to have
places where they can be jolly and make a noise besides in these barren
streets. Tell me, Mrs.----"

"I am not that," laughing merrily, "I am Marie Sauzay, and my sister,
she is Babette, though everybody makes it Bab for short, and she likes
the little name."

"I can imagine it is like her--short and sweet. Well, Ma'amselle Marie,
tell me this. Is there no public hall here--no place of meeting where
the people may go for music, or pleasure. Don't you have any
amusements?"

"Amusements!" Marie laughed outright. "And who would care to amuse us,
who have to work? No, no, that is not to be thought of. That Mr. Early,
who is the high boss, he would laugh at such a question. What have we to
do with amusements?"

Joyce winced at what seemed to her a direct slur upon her father's
memory, but knew it was just. She could fairly hear him laugh as Marie
spoke, sitting back in an easy attitude, perhaps mixing a julep and
cackling amusedly in that peculiar voice that was curiously like a
scolding woman's. How often she had heard him say, "Don't try to mix
business and philanthropy, my dear. It won't work. As well hope to
combine oil and water. You would only spoil the one and make a mess of
the other. The working-classes are best off when let quite alone. If you
don'