Who was he? Not the brother, surely, of that tall blonde with the yellow plume and long lace scarf. That was impossible; and yet some one had said, “Here is another cousin,” and he had acknowledged it with a smile, which came to her now like sunshine breaking through a rift of clouds and clearing up the sky. “Oh! if he only were my cousin, I could bear it so much better,” she thought, just as Pierre came in, offering himself as a victim, provided she spared his hair, of which he had so little. The whole thing was so unexpected and droll that it quieted Reinette at once, and, sitting down in a chair, she laughed and cried alternately for a moment; then dashing her tears away and taking the kittens upon her lap, she bade the old man sit down beside her, as there was something she wished to ask him. “Pierre,” she began, “it was right nice in you to offer yourself a victim to my fury; and, had you come sooner, I might have shaken you a little, for when I’m fighting with my other self I always like to feel something in my power—something which stands for that other girl I’m trying to conquer, and I was half tempted to take one of these little kittens and wreak my temper on that, but I didn’t, and I am glad, and I am going to govern myself hereafter, for I must be a woman now and not a child.” “Yes, miss, that’s very good,” Pierre said, wondering how he should like his little mistress if she were always as mild and gentle as she seemed now, without any fire or spirit at all. “Pierre,” Reinette continued, “how long have you lived with us?” “Fourteen years come Christmas.” “I thought so; and did you know papa before you came to us?” she asked, and he replied: “No, miss: only as I had heard of him as the rich American, who lived so extravagantly at the Hotel Meurice, and had such a handsome chateau in the country.” “Yes, Chateau des Fleurs. It was lovely, and I was so happy there. Then, of course, you never saw my mother.” “Never,” said Pierre, and Reinette continued: “And did you never hear anything of her from strangers? Did you never hear where she came from, where papa found her?” “I heard from you that she was very beautiful and good, and died at Rome when you were born, and I think you told me she was English. Surely _you_ would know about your own mother;” and Pierre looked curiously at his young mistress, who colored painfully and beat the matting with her boot. Reinette was hesitating as to how much she would tell Pierre, for it hurt her to confess to any one how little she really knew of her mother’s antecedents, so wholly silent and non-committal had her father been on the subject. At last, deciding that she must be frank with Pierre if she wished him to be so with her, she said: