She so far secured the bone of contention as to enable Ned for a moment to recognise its nature. It was a silver medal--a poor devotional charm strung round the infant’s neck. The child by an adroit movement recovered possession. She looked about her, unconscious of the observer, as if, safe from interruption, she would have dared torture and maltreatment. Then suddenly she fell to wheedling. “_Babouin_, little _babouin_, wilt thou not make this sacrifice for thine own loving Nicette, who is so poor, so poor, little _babouin_, because of the small brother she keeps and feeds and clothes?--wilt thou not?” “No!” cried the child again, half hysterical. “It is mine--it was blessed by the Holy Father!” “But the guava, Baptiste! the sweet red jelly in the little box! I have eaten of it once before, and oh! Baptiste, it is like the fruit that tempted the first mother. And it so seldom comes to market, and I have not a sou; and before next wage-day all may be appropriated. Wilt thou not then, _mon poulet, mon p’tit poulet_?” But the _poulet_ only repeated his tearful pipe. “Thou shalt have thy share!” pleaded the girl. “I swear it.” “I should not,” sobbed Baptiste. “Thou wouldst eat up all my medal, and it was blessed by _le Saint Père_.” Ned, peering forth, saw his Madonna jerk erect, her eyelids snapping. “Give me thy hand, then,” she said, in a cold little voice. “Thou shalt walk back to Méricourt all the way, and have thy medal to supper at the end. Give me thy hand!” The child cried out when she took it. Ned showed himself at the window. “Nicette,” he said, with particular softness, “I will exchange thee a louis-d’or for one single little confidence of thine.” The girl started, looked round, and stared at the speaker in breathless consternation. A bright spot of colour, like pink light caught from an opal, waxed and waned on her cheek. “How, monsieur?” she muttered. Ned held out the coin. “Here is a surfeit of guava jelly,” said he, “if thou wilt tell me what was the miracle thou cravedst of the Holy Mother yonder.” He knew, watching her face, that she would reject the condition, and that with all suitable decorum. But he saw the pupils of her eyes dilate at sight of the gold piece. “Monsieur, it seems,” said she, “can better afford to jest than I to accept insult”--and she hurriedly caught at her charge’s hand and drew the child away. Mr Murk, with plentiful complacency, paid for his wine and sauntered in pursuit. At a particular fruit-stall he saw his peasant Madonna linger a moment, hesitate, and then go on her way with an up-toss of her chin. He came to a stop and considered-- “Méricourt! But I have an introduction to Monsieur de St Denys of Méricourt. How far, I wonder? This Nicette would make an admirable study to an artist. I will go to Méricourt.” CHAPTER III.