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CHAPTER XXI
GHOSTS OF THE PAST

 
“Oh, it comes o’er my memory
As doth the raven o’er the infected house.”
 

Shakespeare, Othello.

No wonder Floy found the house so quiet. Madame’s dressing-room, adjoining the one where she sat, was tenantless, the lady herself sleeping soundly in the bedroom beyond, Frisky curled up by her side, and Mary dozing on a sofa near by, while Kathleen had locked up her kitchen and gone out upon some household errand.

As the clock on the mantel struck ten Madame awoke.

“Mary!” she called plaintively, “Mary, why did you let me sleep so long?”

“Because if I had not you would have reproved me for waking you,” returned the maid, shaking off her drowsiness and assuming a sitting posture upon the sofa.

“Mary, you are impolite, not to say unkind and disrespectful, to answer me so,” whimpered the mistress, applying a handkerchief to her eyes. “You don’t appreciate all I do for you. It isn’t every girl that can live in the luxury you do – fed and clothed like a lady – and lay by her five or six dollars every week too.”

“That’s true enough, Madame; but I’m sure I earn it all, and you know as well as I that you couldn’t get anybody else to serve you as much to your liking for twice the money. What will you be pleased to have for your breakfast?”

“Nothing,” returned Madame, sobbing behind her handkerchief.

“How will you have it prepared?” asked Mary with unmoved gravity.

Madame burst into a laugh. “I’ll have a broiled sweet-bread, hot buttered muffins, coffee, and marmalade.”

“Shall I prepare it?”

“No, ring for Kathleen.”

Mary touched the bell.

“What gown will Madame be pleased to wear?” she asked, bringing a basin of water and a towel to the bedside.

“That blue silk wrapper. Has Mrs. Sharp come?”

“No, but she has sent a young girl to work for you. I left her in the sewing-room making your skirts.”

“The top o’ the mornin’ to yees, Madame!” cried Kathleen, coming in fresh and rosy from her walk. “I hope ye’re aisy, an’ feel like atin’ a big breakfast. Ye breathe aisier nor ye do sometimes.”

Madame was seized at that moment with a wheezing asthmatic cough.

“I had a bad night,” she said pantingly, “and have no breath to spare. Tell her what to get me, Mary.”

Thirty years ago Madame Le Conte was a slender, graceful girl, with a clear olive complexion, delicate features, ruby lips, bright black eyes, and lively, engaging manners; now she was an overgrown, gross-looking, middle-aged, or rather elderly, woman, immensely fat, tortured with asthma, gout and sundry kindred ailments, dull, heavy, and uninteresting, nervous, irritable, childishly unreasonable and changeable, full of whims and fancies – a wretched burden to herself and all about her.

Rolling in wealth, she constantly sighed over the sad fact that there were none of her own kith and kin to inherit it, and that the service rendered her was not the service of love, but merely of self-interest.

Mary, her personal attendant, had been with her many years, thoroughly understood her ways, and knew how to minister to her wants as no one else did; and quite aware of the fact, sometimes took advantage of it to scold her mistress when much tried by her unreasonable demands, threatening to leave, and occasionally even refusing to obey orders, when Madame would angrily dismiss her, but on being seemingly taken at her word, would relent, burst into tears and pathetic entreaties, and buy a reconciliation with fair promises, increased wages, or expensive presents.

Madame wore a cork hand; how she had come to be deprived of her good right hand no one knew or dared ask, for she was extremely sensitive in regard to her loss, and would not endure the slightest allusion to it. Mary removed the artificial limb at night and replaced it in the morning without question or comment, and made it part of her business to divert the idle curiosity of others from this deformity of her mistress. This she did without waiting for instructions; for Mary had a heart, and often pitied the poor rich cripple from its very depths.

“Yes, she had a bad night, so don’t make her talk any more,” she said to Kathleen as she carefully laved her mistress’s face and hand. “She’ll have a broiled sweet-bread – ”

“No, no, let it be stewed; I’ll have it stewed,” interrupted the Madame.

Mary completed the bill of fare as given by her mistress a few moments before, and Kathleen turned to go, but had scarcely reached the door when she was called back.

“Waffles, waffles, Katty,” wheezed her mistress.

“Yes, ma’am; and muffins too?”

“No – yes, yes. Go, and make haste; I’m starved.”

Kathleen had reached the head of the stairs when she was again recalled, and tea and cream-toast substituted for coffee, muffins, and waffles; then the Madame thought she would prefer chocolate, and finally decided that all three should be prepared, toast and muffins also, and she would take her choice.

Even Kathleen’s almost imperturbable good-nature was somewhat tried. Her face clouded for a moment, but all was sunshine ere she reached her kitchen again, where she flew nimbly about, executing the latest orders of her capricious mistress, saying laughingly to herself:

“Sure an’ it’s me that ’ud better make haste afore she has time to change her mind again; for it won’t be long it’ll take her to do that same.”

There was a knock at the side gate, and Kathleen flew to open it, the rose on her cheek deepening and her pretty blue eyes dancing with delight.

“It’s only me, Kathleen, me darlint!” cried a cheery voice.

“Sure and don’t I know your knock, Rory?” she responded, drawing back the bolt and admitting a strapping young Irishman. “But come into the kitchen; I’ve got the Madame’s breakfast over the fire, and can’t stop here to spake two words to ye,” she added, running back, he following close at her heels.

“Has the Madame sint down her orders yet?” he asked, sitting down beside the fire and watching the girl’s movements with admiring eyes.

“No; she’s just up, and I’m thinking the horses’ll be likely to rest till after dinner anyhow, for she’s got a dressmaker at work makin’ up that illegant silk she bought yesterday, and she’ll be wantin’ to get fit, you know.”

“Av coorse. Well, I’m contint, since me wages goes on all the same, an’ maybe I’ll have the more time to sit here with you.”

“Maybe so, and maybe not,” said Kathleen, turning her muffins; “they’ll maybe be wantin’ me up there to run the machine.”

“I wish it was to make a silk gown for yersilf, jewel; the Madame’s got a plinty now, and all the fine dresses as iver was made couldn’t make her look half as purty as you do in that nate calico. Things isn’t avenly divided in this world, Kathleen, mavourneen.”

“Sure now, Rory, the good things isn’t all on one side, afther all,” returned Kathleen, laughing. “Wouldn’t the Madame give all her fine dresses, and silver and goold too, for my health and strength or yours?”

“That she would; or for your illegant figger and purty skin that’s just like lilies and roses, and your eyes that shine brighter than her diamonds.”

“Whist!” cried Kathleen, hastily lifting her coffee-pot from the fire just as Mary opened the dining-room door with the query:

“Is breakfast ready?”

“Everything’s done to a turn,” said Kathleen. “And here’s Rory ready to carry it up, if ye like.”

“No, she has changed her mind; she’ll eat in the breakfast-room. Rory’s to bring her down in the elevator, and take her up again in it when she’s done.”

When Madame had duly discussed her breakfast, and recovered breath after her ascent to her private apartments, Floy was summoned to her presence.

The young girl came quietly into the dressing-room, where the lady reclined in a large easy chair.

Madame started at sight of her, uttering a low exclamation.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling a little as she spoke, “and what is your name?”

“I am one of Mrs. Sharp’s apprentices, and my name is Florence Kemper. I have cut and basted the lining of your dress; shall I fit it on you now?”

“Yes – no; Mary will put it on me and see if it is all right. Mary knows my ways.”

Madame’s tone was still agitated, and she seemed flurried and uneasy under Floy’s glance.

The girl noted it, and with true delicacy turned her eyes in another direction while Mary performed the required service.

Madame stood up before the glass. “I think it fits, Mary, doesn’t it?”

“I think not quite. Shall Miss Kemper look at it?”

Madame assented, and Floy’s nimble fingers were presently busied about her, she meanwhile earnestly regarding the reflection of the young face in the glass.

It seemed to have far more interest for her than the fit of the new gown, though ordinarily she was eager as a child in regard to any new article of dress.

“Does it satisfy you now, Madame?” asked Floy at length.

The Madame started as if waking from a dream, glanced at the image of her own portly figure, and responded with a hasty “Yes, yes, it is all right! Child, you look tired, wretchedly tired – almost ill. You must rest. Sit down in that chair, and Mary shall bring you some refreshments.”

“Many thanks, but I have no time for rest; these are busy days for dressmakers,” Floy answered, with a sad smile, thinking of the piles of dress patterns still untouched, and garments in various stages of completion, in Mrs. Sharp’s work-room.

“Sit down!” repeated the Madame, with an imperious gesture; “I am used to obedience from all in this house. Just slip my wrapper on again, Mary, and then go to my closet and bring out all the good things you can find.”

Mary obeyed, nothing loath, for she too felt drawn to the young stranger, and Floy presently had spread before her a tempting variety of cakes, confectionery, and tropical fruits.

In vain she protested that she was not hungry; Madame would not be content till she had seen her eat an orange and a bunch of grapes, and put a paper of candies into her pocket.

For the rest of the day the Madame insisted upon occupying an easy chair in the sewing-room, where, with Frisky curled up in her lap and the latest novel in her hand, she furtively watched Floy’s movements, and when she spoke, listened with ill-concealed eagerness to every tone of her voice.

Floy, whose thoughts were far away, was scarcely conscious of this strange interest taken in her, but Mary noted it with wonder and growing curiosity shared by Kathleen, who had been, as she anticipated, summoned to the work of running the machine. They telegraphed each other with nods, winks, and smiles, neither the Madame nor Floy perceiving.

“The sun has set, and it is growing dark,” remarked the Madame, closing her book and breaking in on a long silence. “You are straining your eyes in your efforts to thread that needle, Miss Kemper. Come, put up your work and rest a little, while Mary and Kathleen prepare our tea.”

“Thank you, Madame,” said Floy, “but Mrs. Sharp would not approve of so early a rest, and if I may have a light I will go on with the work.”

“Tut! tut! I’m mistress here, and I’ll have no such overwork!” was the quick, imperative rejoinder. “I’ll make it right with Mrs. Sharp, paying for the time all the same.”

Floy submitted, repeating her thanks, for to the over-strained eyes and weary frame a little rest was most refreshing.

The work was neatly folded and laid aside. Mary and Kathleen tidied the room, gathering up the shreds of silk and lining, and putting things in place; then receiving orders from Madame for a delicious little supper to be served in her dressing-room for Floy and herself, they went down to prepare it.

A bright fire in an open grate filled the room with ruddy light, and Floy was glad that the Madame refused to have any other for the present.

Very sad, very quiet the young girl felt, thinking of Espy and his sorrow; and taking, in obedience to her employer’s direction, an easy chair by the window, she gazed out musingly upon the lake, whose dark, restless waters were now faintly illumined by a line of silver light along the eastern horizon.

“The moon’s about to rise,” wheezed her companion. “I like to watch it as it seems to come up out of the water. Did you ever see it?”

“No, Madame,” returned the girl, smiling slightly, “Mrs. Sharp’s apprentices have little time or opportunity to observe the beauties of nature.”

“But Sundays – you do not work then?”

“No, Madame, but they find me weary enough to go very early to bed.”

“Ah, too bad, too bad! But look, look! what a shame to be deprived of so lovely a sight as that!” cried the Madame as the queen of night suddenly emerged from her watery bed, flooding the whole scene with mellow radiance.

“It is very beautiful,” murmured Floy, sighing softly to herself.

How often in the happy days gone by she and Espy had enjoyed the moonlight together!

“I would not stay there if I were you,” pursued the Madame. “Why should you stay where you are so badly treated? Why should any one?”

“Because, Madame, it is there I must gain the knowledge that is to enable me to earn my bread.”

“A hard thing for a lady to do. Any one can see you are a lady – your speech, your manners, your appearance, all tell it. But, ah well, you have youth, good looks, health! and though I’m rich, I’d be only too glad to exchange with you,” and in her wheezing tones, and with many a pause for breath, the Madame went on to give a long account of her sufferings by day and by night.

Floy listened with a patient attention and sincere sympathy such as the Madame, in her loneliness, was little accustomed to.

“It must be very dreadful to have so many ailments,” she said feelingly. “I don’t know how I could bear your difficulty of breathing even, without any of the others.”

The Madame started, sat upright, and looked earnestly at the girl, while tears gathered in her eyes.

“Your voice is like a half-forgotten strain of music,” she said, sighing; “and your face – ah, it seems as if I must have seen it in the long ago, the happy time when I was young and life full of sunshine and flowers. Alas, child!” she added, sinking back upon her cushions again, “as the years roll on how the sunlight gives place to clouds and darkness, and the flowers fade and die! would that I could be young again!”

“Were you always happy in your youthful days, Madame?”

There were tears in the low, sweet voice that put the question.

“No, no; indeed I believe I sometimes thought myself quite wretched!” exclaimed the Madame; “but I see now what a fool I was.”

“Supper is ready, ladies,” announced Mary, throwing open the door of communication with the dressing-room. “Shall I wheel you in, Madame?”

With a peevish reply in the negative the Madame rose and waddled to the table, preceded by Frisky, for whom a chair had been placed at her right hand.

Floy was invited to the seat opposite her hostess, and, conscious of being a lady, accepted it with no feeling of surprise that it was accorded her. In fact, her thoughts were again far away, and scarcely to be recalled by the tempting nature of the repast or the magnificence of the solid silver and rare old china.

Fortunately she was not called upon to talk or to listen, as Frisky was taking his supper after the same manner in which he had eaten his breakfast, Kathleen attending to him while Mary waited upon the table.

The Madame ate and drank enormously, paying no heed to an occasional reminder from Mary that she would have to suffer for her over-indulgence.

“You are a cruel creature! you would deprive me of the only pleasure left me in life!” she at length exclaimed passionately, as the girl almost absolutely refused to help her for the sixth time to fried oysters.

“Madame,” replied Mary firmly, “you know the doctor has forbidden them altogether, and that an hour or two from now you’ll be abusing me for letting you have any at all.”

At that the Madame rose, angrily pushed back her chair and retired in a pet to her room.

CHAPTER XXII
REMORSE

 
“Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.”
 

Goldsmith.

Madame Le Conte did not appear again that evening.

Floy returned to her work upon the new gown immediately upon leaving the table, and did not lay it aside again until the clock struck ten.

Then Kathleen showed her to an adjoining bedroom, whose appointments seemed to carry her back to the happy days when she was the loved and petted only child of well-to-do parents. Less than a year ago she had seen the last of them, but how far, far away they already seemed!

The young heart was sore with grief and care, and not for itself alone. But the worn-out body must have rest, and all was soon forgotten in sound, refreshing sleep.

She woke in the dull gray light of the winter morning and sprang up instantly, half trembling with affright at thought of the lateness of the hour.

At Mrs. Sharp’s, breakfast was long since over. To-morrow was Christmas, and, though not expecting either to go out or to receive company at home, the Madame must have her new dress to wear on that occasion.

But no one found fault with Floy; the buxom Kathleen had an excellent breakfast ready for her, and greeting her cheerily with “The top o’ the mornin’ to ye, miss,” waited upon her with a smiling face.

She took her meal alone, as on the previous day, and had the cosey work-room to herself for a couple of hours; then the Madame waddled in, wheezing and groaning, dropped into a chair, and told a pitiful tale of her wearisome night and Mary’s crossness, weeping and sighing as she talked.

Floy pitied and tried to console her, but fortunately found it necessary to say but little, as the lady talked on with scarcely a pause except for breath, and presently fell to petting and caressing her lap-dog, then to examining the dress, commenting with much satisfaction upon its beauty and probable becomingness, querying whether it could be finished that day, and consulting Floy about the style of trimming.

Floy advised a deep, heavy silk fringe to match in color, or of a little darker shade.

The Madame caught at the idea, and Mary, coming in at that moment, was sent to order the carriage that she might go at once and select it herself.

Frisky pricked up his ears, gave a short, joyous bark, ran to the window overlooking the side entrance, and jumped upon a chair whence he could see into the street.

“See that, miss?” queried the laughing Kathleen, who was present, engaged in running the sewing-machine as on the day before. “The little baste knows more’n a babby. He always rides with the Madame, an’ whin he hears the carriage ordered he’s ready for a start. He’ll stay there watchin’ now till it comes.”

“Yes,” said the Madame, overhearing the remark, “he’s the most intelligent little creature you ever saw, and the prettiest. I wouldn’t part with him for any money – the darling! Now, Mary,” as her maid re-entered the room, “dress me at once.”

“Certainly, Madame. What will you be pleased to wear?”

“That green silk suit and the green velvet hat,” answered her mistress, waddling into the dressing-room; “gloves to match, and my emerald set, ear-rings, pin, and bracelets, and a point-lace collar and sleeves. Get out one of my worked white skirts too, and a pair of silk stockings and gaiters.”

“It’s very cold, Madame; the wind from the lake cuts like a knife, and you’ll suffer in thin shoes,” Mary objected to the last clause of the order.

“Lamb’s-wool stockings, then, and kid boots.”

Bureau-drawers, wardrobe, and closets were laid under contribution, and the Madame’s toilet began.

It had progressed to the putting on of her hat, when, glancing in the mirror, she suddenly changed her mind.

“Green doesn’t become me to-day,” she said, “why didn’t you tell me? Take it off at once.”

“Tell you? much good that would have done!” grumbled Mary, removing the obnoxious hat; “you wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Get out my black velvet hat and a black silk suit,” said her mistress, ignoring the impertinent rejoinder.

“You’ll not have time for your shopping if you wait to dress again, Madame,” objected the girl; “it is already half-past eleven, and the days are short. Your black velvet cloak and hat will not look amiss with the green dress.”

The Madame yielded to these suggestions all the more readily because at that moment a joyous bark from Frisky announced that the carriage was in waiting.

He sprang from the chair, rushed down to the outside door, and scratched and whined there till Kathleen ran down and opened it for him, when he immediately took possession of one half of the back seat, leaving the other for his mistress, who presently followed, having reached the lower floor, not by the stairs, but by the elevator, carefully lowered by the ever-ready Kathleen.

Mary, without whom the Madame never stirred from the house, took the front seat, a handsome afghan and wolf-skin were tucked carefully about their feet by Rory, and the carriage drove off.

For a short space the Madame puffed and wheezed in silence, then she spoke:

“We’ll get the fringe first, and have it sent up; then the Christmas gifts. Mary, what do you think Miss Kemper would like?”

“How should I now, Madame? I’m not acquainted with the young lady’s tastes,” returned the maid snappishly.

She had a raging headache, the result of an almost sleepless night spent in efforts to undo the evil effects of the rich, heavy, evening meal, indulged in by her wilful charge.

The Madame, who was feeling depressed and hysterical from the same cause, put her handkerchief to her eyes, shed a few tears, and whimpered:

“It’s shameful the way I’m treated by you, Mary. There aren’t many ladies who would put up with it as I do.”

“Handkerchiefs are always acceptable,” remarked the delinquent, ignoring the reproach, but giving the suggestion in answer to the query. Then, by way of salve to her conscience, she added: “It’s like your generosity to think of making a present to a stranger.”

This restored the Madame to good-humor. She was generous, and she liked to have full credit for it.

The day was very cold but clear and bright, and the city was full of life and activity. Vehicles jostled each other in the streets, pedestrians hurried hither and thither along the sidewalks, there was a grand display of holiday goods in the windows, and the stores were crowded with purchasers.

The bustle and excitement were agreeable to Madame Le Conte, and she found much enjoyment in selecting her gifts and paying for them from her well-filled purse.

Meanwhile Floy toiled on at the dress, her thoughts now with Espy in his anxiety and grief, now dwelling mournfully upon the past, memory and imagination bringing vividly before her the loved faces that should gladden her eyes no more on earth, and causing her to hear again each well-remembered tone of the dear voices now silent in the tomb.

She longed to seek out a solitary place and weep, but the luxury of tears was not for her; she forced them back, silently asking help to obey the command to be ever “rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation.”

Hope! ah, she had not lost that even for this life. Espy still lived, still loved her; they might yet be restored to each other. And her mother – that unknown yet already dearly-loved mother – who should say how soon she would be given to her prayers and efforts?

Her needle flew more swiftly, while a tender, loving smile played about her lips and shone in her dark, lustrous eyes.

The Madame came home panting and wheezing, but elated with her success in shopping. She was quite ready for Christmas, and it might come as soon as it pleased. But – ah, there was the dress!

“Are you going to get it done to-day?” she asked, sinking into a chair in front of Floy, and glancing anxiously from her to the garment and back again.

“I shall try, Madame, but fear it is doubtful,” Floy replied, raising her eyes for an instant to her interrogator’s face.

The Madame started, changed color, and seemed quite agitated for a moment. Then recovered herself.

“The girls shall both help you,” she said, “and you won’t mind working in the evening, will you? You’ll not need to go back to Mrs. Sharp’s to-night, will you?”

“No, Madame; and I may as well work late here as there.”

The Madame thanked her, and left the room with a mental resolve that the girl should not lose by her willingness to oblige.

“I’m worn out, Mary,” she said to her maid, who was bestowing in a closet in the dressing-room the numerous parcels which she and Rory had just brought upstairs; “change my dress for a wrapper, and I’ll lie down and take a nap while you and Katty help with the dress. You’re not too tired, I suppose?”

“No, of course not; it isn’t my place ever to be too tired for anything you wish done,” grumbled Mary, putting the last package upon the closet shelf and closing the door with a little more force than was necessary.

Then half ashamed of her petulance, in view of the generous way in which her mistress had just been laying out money in gifts for herself and her brother, “I’ll do my best, Madame,” she added in a pleasant tone, “but I hope you’ll take a light supper to-night for your own sake as well as mine.”

“I’m quite as anxious to rest well at night as you can be to have me, Mary,” returned the Madame in an injured tone, as she sat down and began herself to unfasten and remove her outer wrappings.

“Yes, I suppose so, Madame, and you must excuse my free speaking,” responded Mary, coming to her assistance.

The Madame’s enormous weight made her a burden to herself, and the unwonted exertion of the day had wearied her greatly. Comfortably established on a couch in her bedroom, she presently fell into a sleep so profound that she was not disturbed when her maid stole softly in at nightfall, drew the curtains, lighted the gas, and retired again.

But a moment later the Madame awoke with a low cry, and starting to a sitting posture, rubbed her eyes and glanced hurriedly about the room.

“Ah,” she sighed, sinking back again, “it was a dream, only a dream! I shall never see her more! My darling, oh, my darling! How could I be so cruel, so cruel! Pansy, Pansy! And I am so lonely, so lonely! with not a soul in the wide world to care for me!”

Sobs and tears came thick and fast; then she rose, slowly crossed the room, turned up the gas, and unlocking her jewel-box, took from it a small, plain gold locket attached to a slender chain.

It opened with a touch, showing a sweet, sunny child face, with smiling lips, soft, wavy brown hair, and large, dark, lustrous eyes.

The Madame wept anew as she gazed upon it, and her broad breast heaved with sigh after sigh.

“So many years! so many years!” she moaned, “and my search has been all in vain. Ah, dear one, are you yet in the land of the living? My darling, my darling!” and the tears fell in floods.

But at length growing calmer, she restored the trinket to its place, turned down the gas, and staggering to an easy chair beside the window, dropped heavily into it.

Her breath came pantingly, the tears still stood in her eyes. She wiped them away, and drawing aside the curtain, looked into the street.

The moon had not yet risen, but the lamps were lighted, and there was a clear, starlit sky. She could see the passers-by as they hurried on their way, now singly, now in groups of two or more; mostly well, or at least comfortably, clad, and carrying brown-paper parcels suggestive of the coming festivities.

A confectionery on the opposite corner was ablaze with light, showing a tempting array of sweets in the windows. It was crowded with customers, and there was a constant passing in and out of cheerful-looking men and women and bright-eyed, eager children.

Presently a slender figure, apparently that of a very young girl, very shabbily dressed in faded calico and with an old shawl thrown over her head caught the Madame’s attention.

She came suddenly around the corner, and though shivering with cold, her thin garments flapping in the wind, stood gazing with longing eyes upon the piles of fruit, cakes, and candies. The Madame’s eyes filled as she noted the child’s hungry look and scant clothing. With a great effort she rose and threw a shawl about her shoulders; then she went to a drawer in her bureau where she kept loose change, and returning, tapped on the sash, threw it up, and called to the girl, who had not moved from her station on the other side of the street.

She turned, however, at the sound of the voice, and seeing a beckoning hand, crossed swiftly over.

“Stand under here and hold out your shawl,” wheezed the Madame. “There! now run back and buy yourself a lot of goodies for Christmas.”

“Thank you, ma’am, oh, thank you!” cried the child as the window went down again, and the Madame dropped into her chair, wheezing and coughing, to find her maid close at her side.

“Madame, are you mad?” exclaimed Mary. “Your bare head out of the window this bitter cold night. Well, if either of us gets a wink of sleep it’ll be more than I expect!”

The Madame’s cough forbade a reply for the moment.

“I’ll get you your drops,” said Mary, running to a closet where medicines were kept. “I can’t imagine what on earth induced you to do such a foolish thing. Why didn’t you ring for me?”

“Never mind,” panted the Madame; “you seem to forget that I’m my own mistress, and yours too. Is the dress nearly done?”

“We can finish it by sitting up, if you’ll let Katty wait on you. All the machine stitching’s done, and only Miss Kemper and I can work on it now; so Katty’s gone down to get you some supper.”

“I don’t want any.”

“But you know, Madame, you’ll be ill if you don’t eat; fasting never agrees with you, no more than over-eating.”

Kathleen came in at that moment bearing a tempting little repast upon a silver waiter, which she set down before her mistress.

The Madame at first refused to eat, but presently, yielding to the combined entreaties and expostulations of the two, made a very tolerable attempt. Kathleen was retained to wait upon her, and Mary was directed to assist Floy until the gown should be completed.

“You’re looking very tired,” the latter remarked, as Mary resumed her seat by her side.