would stop to read it at first; how many yellow posters have I
not read these last few days! But in an instant 'watch' caught my eyes.
Here is the description;" and he drew out a shabby pocket-book in which
he had copied it word for word. "You see it is our old friend, and no
other--'English watch, locket, _souvenir de famille_, etc. Owner to be
found at 99 Avenue Malmaison.' So off I go to No. 99 to-morrow morning
as early as I possibly can."

"And you will be very careful, Bernard," said his wife. "Give it up to
no one but the owner himself."

"And make sure of the reward, eh, my girl?" said he, laughing. "Yes,
yes--you may trust me. I know fifty francs will not fall to us badly
just now. And if it is a rich person I shall take it with a clear
conscience, for I really have worked to find the owner."

And in very much better spirits than they had been since the beginning
of little Paul's illness, the poor young-couple betook themselves to
their night's rest.

One person at No. 99 Avenue Malmaison had not known what a good night's
rest was for some time. Poor Auntie! she was beginning to feel that she
must make an effort to resign herself, and to throw off the excessive
depression which the loss of "grandmother's" watch was causing her. It
was not fair, she argued, to make Sylvia and Molly suffer for what she
and she alone deserved to be blamed for. So she tried to look more
cheerful than she felt. I don't think her efforts deceived the two pairs
of sympathising young eyes, but the sisters nevertheless understood and
appreciated them, and felt that they too must put on a braver face than
came quite easy. So to all outward appearance the trio had recovered
their usual bearing. And Sylvia and Molly, as was only natural, went to
bed and slept soundly, though never without a last waking thought of
"Poor Auntie! oh, if the watch _could_ but be found!" while the watch's
owner tossed about in wakeful distress. The more she tried to look
bright in the day, the more impossible it seemed to forget her troubles
in the temporary oblivion of a sound sleep. "It is really wrong of me to
fret so about the loss of any _thing_," she would say to herself. "I
seem more overwhelmed than even during the first few terrible days after
mother's death. Though after all, _were_ those first few days terrible?
Just at the first when the door seems still as it were half-open, and
we feel almost as if we could see a little way _in_, where our dea