fed her, his house had sheltered her, and now he had gone out
again into the cold night on her service. And yet, she had always been
rude and naughty to him. What would Delphine say, Susan wondered, if
she knew of it? She did not look as though she had the "temper of an
angel" like her brother. Her black eyes had quick sparkles in them,
quite unlike his, which were grey and quiet, shining always with a
gentle light. Mademoiselle Delphine looked quite capable of being
angry. Susan felt half afraid of her; and yet, it was pleasant to watch
her neat movements as she darted swiftly about the room preparing
another dish for Adolphe's supper, and Susan kept her eyes fixed on her.
At last, her arrangements over, she drew a chair near Susan, and took
up her darning; as she did so there was a sudden pattering of rain-drops
against the window-pane.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, holding up the brown sock, "that poor Adolphe! How
he will be wet!"

This made Susan feel still more guilty, but she could not think of
anything to say, and Delphine, who seemed to like talking better than
silence, soon began again.

"Always rain, always clouds and mist, and shadow. The sun does not
shine here as in our beautiful, bright Paris?"

"Doesn't it ever rain in Paris?" asked Susan.

"Mais certainement, at moments," replied Mademoiselle; "enough to give a
charming freshness to the air."

"Why did you come away?" asked Susan, gathering courage.

Delphine dropped the brown sock into her lap, and raised her eyes to the
ceiling.

"Mon enfant," she said slowly, "we are exiles! Exiles of poverty."

Susan remembered that Sophia Jane had called Monsieur "a poor eggsile;"
but this way of putting it sounded much better, and she repeated it to
herself that she might be able to tell her when she went home.

Meanwhile Mademoiselle bent her eyes on her darning again, and
proceeded:

"We were never rich, you see, in Paris, but we had enough to live in a
pretty little appartement, very different from this. My brother Adolphe
wrote articles for a paper of celebrity on political affairs; he had a
great name for them, and if the pay was small it was certain. For me, I
was occupied with the cares of the menage, and we were both content with
our lives--often even gay. But trouble came. There was a crise in
affaires. Adolphe's opinions were no longer those of the many; the
paper for which he wrote changed its views to suit the world. Adolphe
was o