ame on account of a letter written in care
of the Consulate, and we were informed----"

"That was a letter from my niece Petronille, whose husband keeps a
_cafe_ in Madagascar. She wanted to let me know of the birth of her
fourth daughter. Have you ever seen a letter from there? It is a country
very far away, somewhere in China or Africa. I will show you."

She sought her spectacles, looked over a large and orderly pile of
papers, and brought us the document.

"Please read it," she said, "it is very interesting."

Frances glanced over it, looking badly disappointed, and passed it to
me. It contained vast information as to Petronille's growing family and
the price of chickens and Vermouth in Antanarivo, also certain details
as to native fashions, apparently based on the principle of least worn,
soonest mended.

Before we left, we were compelled to accept a thimbleful of _cassis_,
most delectable, and to promise to return very soon. Her husband would
make us a _vol-au-vent_, for which he had no equal. He would be sorry to
have been absent. She wished her son had been married to such a nice
woman as Frances and had possessed a son like Baby Paul. Alas! She might
never see the boy again, and then there would be nothing left of him, no
little child to be cherished by the old people. It was such a pity!

She insisted on seeing us all the way back to the station and on
carrying Paul, whom she parted with after many embraces. Peace be on her
good old soul, and may the son come back safely and give her the little
one her heart longs for!

"She is a darling," said Frances sorrowfully, "and, oh! I'm so terribly
disappointed."

The poor child had so hoped for news, for some details as to the manner
in which her own Paul had been sacrificed to his motherland, and this
visit made her very sad. For many days afterwards her thoughts, which
had perhaps begun to accept the inevitable with resignation, turned
again to the loved one buried somewhere in France.

Neither Frieda, who came in after suppertime, nor I, was able to give
her much consolation. Again, I wished I had never seen that announcement
and deplored my well-intended folly in calling her attention to it. She
seemed very weary, as if the short trip had been a most fatiguing one,
and retired very soon, alleging the need to rise early to do some
mending of Baby's clothes, and acknowledging the fact that she felt
headachy and miserable.

Frieda looked at me indulgentl