ng by.
I've seen hundreds of 'em in my time."

"No, indeed; I would rather live."

"That's right,--that's a dear! My barge is 'La Therese,'--named after
me. We are in the coal trade. I want you to come and see me, petite.
You shall take a trip to Rouen. Yes,--would you like to----"

"Oh, very much, madame!" interrupted Fouchette, joyfully.

"You shall."

"And Tartar?"

"Shall go too. We'll have fine times, I promise you. You will find us
at the Quai d'Austerlitz when in Paris."

"Thank you,--so much! I've seen the big boats go by lots of times and
wished I was on one--one with flowers and vines and a dog--Tartar. And
sometimes I've seen 'em in my sleep--yes."

Fouchette at once lost herself in this prospect. It would be the most
delightful thing in her life.

"Yes, it is very nice," continued the bargewoman. "Remember,
cherie,--'La Therese.' You can bring the clothes with you. Ask for
me,--'Therese.' My husband named the barge after me long ago."

"It's a pretty name," said the child.

"You think so? A name is--what is your real name, petite?"

"I don't know, madame," replied Fouchette, promptly and truthfully.

"What! Don't know your own name? Impossible!"

The woman was vexed, and made no effort to conceal her vexation. To be
outwitted by a mere child was too much to bear with equanimity. As
kindly disposed as she was by nature, she lost her temper at once at
what she considered a stupid falsehood.

"You're an obstinate little brute!" she exclaimed, in a passion,--a
state of mind aggravated by the laughter of the police agents in the
room.

"Yes, and a little liar," she added.

"M--mad--madame!" stammered the trembling child, whose bright visions
vanished in a twinkling.

"I don't wonder they threw you in the river,--not a bit!"

Fouchette's lips were now set in mute rage. She was up in arms at
once. Her steely eyes shot fire. The honest bargewoman had almost won
her childish confidence. Another word or two of kindness and she would
have gained an easy victory. Now, however, everything was upset and
the fat was in the fire.

Without a word Fouchette began to hurriedly divest herself of the
clothing she wore and to throw the garments, piece by piece, on the
floor.

So quickly was this accomplished that neither the astonished woman nor
the puzzled police agents could interfere before the child stood there
perfectly nude in the midst of them. Her frame, which was little more
than a living ske