So that night Renée slipped out from the supper table and sped like a little sprite along the Rue Royale, and then up the Rue de Rive. The moon was coming over the river with a pale light, as if she was not quite ready for full burning. She heard the sounds of hammering, and rushed in the open doorway. “Well, little one! Your eyes are so bright that if you were an Indian girl I should call you Evening Star.” “I wanted to see you so,” in a breathless fashion. “What has happened?” “Why, nothing. Only the day seemed so long.” “You went to the father’s?” “Oh, yes,” rather indifferently. “Why didn’t you run over then? You might have taken supper with me.” “Because—there were Elise and Sophie.” “But there was supper enough to go round. We had some fine broiled fish. Mère Lunde is an excellent cook.” “Oh, when can I come to stay?” Her tone was full of entreaty, and her eyes soft with emotion. “But—you won’t have any little girls to play with.” “I don’t want any one but you.” He had paused from his work, and now she sprang to him and encircled him as far as she could with her small arms. “You are not homesick?” It would be strange, indeed, since she had never had a true home. “I don’t know. That,” giving her head a turn, “is not my real home.” “Oh, no. But they have all been good to you. Ma’m’selle Barbe is very fond of you.” “Oh, everybody is good and kind. Even Louis, though he teases. And Père Renaud. But not one of them is you—_you_.” “My little girl!” He stooped over and hugged her, kissed her fondly. The child’s love was so innocent, so sincere, that it brought again the hopes of youth. “And you will always keep me—always?” There was a catch in her breath like a sob. “Why, yes. What has any one said to you?” with a slight touch of indignation. “Sophie said you were not my own uncle. What would make you so? Can you never be?” There was a pathos in her tone that touched him to the heart, even as he smiled at her childish ignorance, and was wild to have the past undone. “My dear, you can hardly understand. I must have been your mother’s brother.” “Oh, then you would have belonged to that hateful old man!” and she gave her foot a quick stamp. “No, I should not want you to.” He laughed softly. He would have been glad enough to belong to the hateful old man years ago, and belong to the child as well. “It doesn’t matter, little one,” he said tenderly. “I shall be your uncle all my life long. Don’t bother your head about relationships. Come, see your room. It will soon be dry, and then you shall take possession.”