"Well, you remind me of a former dear friend. I like to have you with me. Come to French Cross as often as you will, and never be frightened by my gruff ways." "And you," said Derrice, playfully, "you also remind me of some one." "Who is it?" "My father." Miss Gastonguay immediately became interested in an adventurous fly who, thinking spring had come, had sallied from his retreat in the wall, and was pursuing a shaky course toward the ceiling. "Your voice is like his," said Derrice, "particularly when you lower it. I am fortunate in having Captain White to remind me of his appearance, and you to call up his very tones." There were tears in her eyes, and Miss Gastonguay, suddenly losing interest in the fly, gently patted her head. "Is there not some one in the hall?" asked Derrice. "I thought I heard a step." "No, child. You hear my niece in the kitchen talking to old black Rebecca,--tell me about this father of yours." Derrice was only too glad to do so, and, launching herself on a full tide of happy reminiscences, she soon presented to her interested hearer an almost perfect picture of an indulgent father who had presided over her pleasant wandering life. At last she was interrupted by the entrance of two demure rosy little girls who came running down the hall to salute her with cries of joyful welcome. "Well, papooses," said Miss Gastonguay, as she watched Derrice taking off their woollen caps and smoothing back their tumbled hair, "are you not glad to see me?" "Oh, yes, yes, Miss Gastonguay," they hastened to assure her, "but you don't come so often." "My niece does." "Yes, Miss Chelda," they repeated, without enthusiasm. "She comes often. Rebecca loves her." "Rebecca has cause to," muttered Miss Gastonguay. "I suspect a good many of Chelda's silver pieces find their way into her bag of a pocket," then, sinking back on the sofa, she allowed her eyes to wander about the room. There were no grand apartments at Number 50 Blaine Street, no luxuries in the way of furnishings and decorations, but the small house possessed something that many of the finer houses of the town could not boast of,--an air of quiet cheerfulness and homeliness that made Miss Gastonguay murmur restlessly, "The woman who presides here is happier than I am." "You know the history of that eldest girl," she said, when the two children ran away to hang up their caps and jackets. "Yes,--she was taken out of some dreadful house in this town." "A house--a den, and in it her childish eyes once witnessed a murder. One would never think it to look at her now. Mary Potts Negus is a genius at rescuing and bringing up children. One would fancy that she had had enough trouble in raising her own and settling them in life." The two girls soon returned. One of them, Marion, excused herself on the plea of housewifely duties; the other, Bessie, remained with her callers, and in a gentle and motherly manner received the other children as they came in.