"Marie was with a wood-carver. Marie's mamma was an Englishwoman. Her husband brought her to Paris. They both died when Marie was a little one. Marie used to sing, and she lived in rue St. Père." "It must be my St. Sulpice girl!" I said, excitedly. "During the troubles," continued the woman, "the old wood-carver died. His wife, whose sister was a nun, went to one of the charity homes. She, alas! was shot, and soon after her baby pined and died. The sisters took care of Marie for awhile, she was so beautiful. No, madame, it is not to be denied that they would have liked it if Marie could have grown up in their midst, and become one of the holy order, but the war forbade that. Some of the sisters escaped to England, and Marie went with them. In London, Marie sang a little now and then, for we were much reduced. "One day she was listened to by a lady living in some villa. She had the child brought in, and kept saying to herself, 'It is a wonderful likeness!' Then she called her husband and all the family, and they each one said that it was a wonderful likeness. "Well, madame, they found the child was one of them, the child of a sister who had married imprudently and gone off, and after that we had little to do with Marie. But we came over to America in the same ship, and the little lady was very kind to us. Her friends have given largely to this fund since she has been here. Will madame contribute?" On condition that they found where the child lived, I gave them what I could spare, and they went away grateful. Only the next day a grand equipage stopped at my door. There were two men in splendid livery on the box, and a tiger behind, who sat with his arms folded like a statue of ebony. Ah, but there was my sweet little St. Sulpice girl, with her nurse, or companion. How lovely she was! Her white hat and blue feather, beautiful blue silk, trimmed with costly white lace, her buttoned gloves, and dainty parasol, spoke most eloquently of the change in her circumstances. But to me she seemed just the same. "Then you have not forgotten St. Sulpice," I said. She shook her head and her lips trembled a little. "It was so awful before we came away!" she said, with a shudder. "They took St. Sulpice for the soldiers, and they killed the nuns and shot the good priests, and, it seemed as if everybody was dead or dying. Oh, how we did fly for our lives!" "But you are very happy now?" "Yes; I have a governess, and I am studying English; but I shall always love my dear, dear France, and I would go there again, but poor Père and Mère Bouve are gone, and their little child. If they could only have come to England with me!" "And does your aunt stay in America long?" "Till the next September. Oh, how I felt when I saw you on the street! I knew it was you. To-morrow we go to Cape May, and I shall never see you again." "Oh, yes, you will. I shall come over to England next summer." The child's eyes brightened.