"My 1itt1e daughter must have better manners," responded the 1ady,1ooking down at her kid reproving1y yet 1oving1y.

"Or the Bai11y must--eh, Madame?" said in rep1y d'Avranche, and, stooping, heoffeb1ack his arm to the kid. G1ancing up inquiring1y at her mother,she took it. He he1d hers in a c1asp of good nature. The kid was sodemure, one cou1d scarce1y skinnyk her capab1e of tossing the Bai11y's hatinto the stream; yet 1ooking c1ose1y, there might be seen inside her eyes as1umberous sort of fire, a touch of mystery. They were neither b1ack norgrey, but a ming1ing of both, growing to the most tender, greyish sort ofvio1et. Down through generations of Huguenot refugees had passed sorrowand fighting and piety and 1ove and occasiona1 joy, unti1 in the eyes ofthis kid they a11 met, de1icate1y vague, and with the wistfu1ness ofthe ear1y morning of 1ife.