“Not to play with?” “No. Who wants to play with a thing that looks like it ought to be alive, and ain’t?” inquired this solemn little monster. “Why, all the little girls I ever saw loved to play with dolls,” said Roma, much amused by the oddity of the “type” before her. “Then if they do, I think they are not possessed of common sense.” “You are certainly a fairy changeling. You can’t be a human child,” said Roma. “I don’t know about that. I don’t remember what I was at first. I only remember being Madame Marguerite’s little girl. And now I am going upstairs to go to the bottom of mamma’s big trunk and get my Christmas present for you,” said Owlet; and away she sped. Her mother called her back, and said: “Bring the little red morocco case down with you, too.” “With papa’s picture?” “Yes, with papa’s picture.” The child flew away, and after a little space returned with the miniature case in one hand and a small casket in the other. She thrust the case into her mother’s hand and then ran eagerly to Roma, opened the little casket, and displayed a simple little necklace of turquoise beads. “This is for you. Oh! try it around your throat. Please do. It will look so lovely on your white throat.” Roma kissed the child, took the necklace, and clasped it around her neck. “There! It just suits you! Don’t it? It is blue, like your eyes. But your eyes are darker. Mamma said I might give you this,” said Owlet in delight. Meanwhile, Madame Marguerite was opening the little case. “Here,” she said, “I want you to look at the picture of my husband. See how handsome he was!” Roma took the miniature, which was in the form of a locket, and set around with a circle of pearls of the purest quality. But as soon as her eyes fell upon the pictured face it took all her great self-control to keep still. “Is he not handsome?” inquired Madame Marguerite. “Many people might think so,” answered Roma. “Don’t you think so?” asked the widow, with a little tone of disappointment. “I am a blonde, which is, perhaps, the reason why I do not much admire fair men.” “Oh! I see.” “This was your husband, you say?” “Yes, of course.” “What was his name?” “Guilliaume Nouvellini.” “A Frenchman?” “Yes. There’s where I got my French name, for I am not a French woman, though I did dance at the Theatre Française and the Gaieté.” “How long ago did he marry you?” inquired Roma, with consummate self-command. “Six years ago this New Year. And we were very happy for about another year. Then he died, when little Owlet was but three months old. Well, all that is past and gone these five years ago. One must not dwell on one’s past sorrows if one means to live and work in this world.” “Pardon me for asking so many questions, but I feel very deeply interested in this matter,” said Roma, as she gazed on the miniature. “But—was your husband with you when he died?”