“Oh, my darling, my baby whom I nursed. I have so longed to hold you in my arms as I held you years ago. Reinette, Reinette, kiss me—because—because—I am—Christine.” It was not in Reinette’s nature to resist such an appeal, and she kissed the poor trembling woman twice, and then drawing a chair to her side spoke very softly to her, and said: “Now tell me.” “Tell you what, child? What do you wish most to know?” Christine asked, and Reinette replied: “About my mother. You are the first I have ever seen who knew her after she was Mrs. Hetherton. I have heard what she was when a girl—the sweetest, loveliest creature, they say, with eyes like the summer sky, and a face so fair and pure, and I wish to hear from beginning to end all you know about her, and when you saw her first, and where, and about her death in Rome, when I was born, and only you there to care for either of us.” “Would you mind holding my hand while I tell you of my first days with Mrs. Hetherton?” Christine said, and Reinette took the cold, clammy hand between both of hers and rubbed and chafed it as tenderly as Margery herself would have done. She was beginning to feel very kindly toward this woman who had known her mother; the insinuations in Messrs. Polignie’s letter were forgotten for the time, and she saw before her only one who had cared for her when an infant and had seen her mother die. “Begin,” she said, “I am impatient to hear.” And so Christine began, and told her of the advertisement for a waiting maid, which she had answered in person; told her of the handsome rooms at the Hotel Meurice, and of the beautiful young lady who was so kind to her, and made her more a companion than a maid, notwithstanding that her proud husband frequently protested against it and talked of bad taste, which sometimes made madame cry. “And did she tell you of Merrivale and her old home? Did you know she was an American?” Queenie asked, and Mrs. La Rue replied: “Yes, she told me all about her home and Merrivale, and I was familiar with every rock, and hill, and tree, I think, especially the elms upon the common, and the poplars near her home. She was so fond of Merrivale and her friends, and used often to cry for the mother so far away.” “Was she very homesick?” Reinette asked, and Mrs. La Rue answered her: “At times, yes, when monsieur was away with his associates, or staid out so late nights, as he sometimes did.” Reinette’s breath came quickly for a moment, and her voice shook as she asked, very low, as if afraid some one might hear: “Was not father kind to her always?” “If beautiful dresses and jewelry, and horses and carriages, and plenty of money means kindness, then he was kind, for she had all these in profusion, but what she wanted most she did not have, and that was her husband’s society,” Mrs. La Rue said, and then Reinette drew back a little haughtily and answered: