“Ah, me! No. I was in Paris with my young babe. He had to go to San Francisco on some very pressing business, I know not what, and there he was taken ill of some fatal fever. He wrote me several letters while he was on his sick bed. Then at last came a letter from his physician, announcing his death, and a newspaper with his obituary in it. Ah, me! It was a great sorrow, but one must not dwell on their own sorrows if they want to be of any use in this world. I did not have that locket brought down here merely to show you my poor husband’s handsome face, but to do this. Please let me have the locket again.” Roma put it in her hand. She touched a little spring, took the miniature out of the jeweled locket, and put the latter in Roma’s hand, saying: “I want you to have these pearls, dear. You see, they are very fine, else I would not offer them. Do take them, dear. They are all I have to give you. Get them reset in a brooch, and wear it sometimes for my sake.” Roma took the pearls, and kissed the forehead of the donor with tears in her own eyes. But Madame Marguerite was pressing the dis-set picture to her lips and to her heart. “Are we going to have any breakfast to-day, ma’am? You and I, I mean. My stomach has gone to my backbone,” said Owlet. “Come, my dear; we will go down,” replied Roma, who, since she had had an invalid domiciled in her parlor, and a little companion to accompany her to the restaurant, always went there for meals. “Now we will see what they will give us for a Christmas breakfast,” said Owlet as she entered the elevator. “What would you like?” inquired Roma. “Milk, real milk, not milk and water; cake and preserved strawberries.” “A rather bilious bill of fare, Owlet.” “Well, then, I won’t eat it; and mind you don’t, either! A person ought not to eat anything to make them sick; any person who does that is not possessed of common sense,” said Owlet authoritatively. “I think you are quite right, ma’am,” said Roma, smiling. “What makes you always call me ma’am? I’m not a married woman.” “Oh, you are not!” “Why, of course not. I’m not even engaged. You know I’m not. So what makes you call me ma’am?” demanded Owlet. “Well,” said Roma, slowly and thoughtfully, “in high courtesy, ladies of distinction, married or unmarried, are, or used to be, always addressed as ‘madam’ or ‘ma’am.’ Now I think a young personage like yourself, who is too wise to hear a fairy tale because you say it is not true—though it may be, for aught you know—or to play with a doll because it is not alive—though they may also be in some sense—ought certainly to be honored with the title of madam.” Owlet gazed at the lady in solemn and sorrowful wonder and disapprobation, and then she gave utterance to her feelings: “If anybody else in this world but you was to talk like that I know what I should think.” “Well, what?” inquired the amused lady. “They were not possessed of common sense,” said Owlet gloomily.