In the old days women, or at least young girls, could hazard such pet names one upon the other. These--think of it!--dated from the first communion class, the dating period of so much of friendship. "My poor Amour!" "My poor, poor Divine!" The voices were together, close beside the pillow. "I--I--" began Divine. "It could not have happened if God had not wished it," interrupted poor Amour, with the resignation that comes, alas! only with the last drop of the bitter cup. And that was about all. If Mr. Horace had not slipped away, he might have noticed the curious absence of monsieur's name, and of his own name, in the murmuring that followed. It would have given him some more ideas on the subject of woman. At any rate, the good God must thank him for having one affair the less to arrange when the trumpet sounds out there over the old St. Louis cemetery. And he was none too premature; for the old St. Louis cemetery, as was shortly enough proved, was a near reach for all three of the old friends. PUPASSE Every day, every day, it was the same overture in Madame Joubert's room in the Institute St. Denis; the strident: "Mesdemoiselles; à vos places! Notre Père qui est dans le ciel--Qui a fait ce bruit?" "It's Pupasse, madame! It's Pupasse!" The answer invariably was unanimous. "But, Madame Joubert,--I assure you, Madame Joubert,--I could not help it! They know I could not help it!" By this time the fresh new fool's cap made from yesterday's "Bee" would have been pinned on her head. "Quelle injustice! Quelle injustice!" This last apostrophe in a high, whining nasal voice, always procured Pupasse's elevation on the tall three-legged stool in the corner. It was a theory of the little girls in the primary class that Madame Joubert would be much more lenient to their own little inevitabilities of bad conduct and lessons if Pupasse did not invariably comb her the wrong way every morning after prayers, by dropping something, or sniffling, or sneezing. Therefore, while they distractedly got together books, slates, and copy-books, their infantile eyes found time to dart deadly reproaches toward the corner of penitence, and their little lips, still shaped from their first nourishment, pouted anything but sympathy for the occupant of it.