The sound was illusive. Flambeau listened with every bit of him, his taut, strong body alert with eagerness. The call might have come from the landing outside the small salon of Madame la Comtesse, but it had sounded higher up; the schoolroom, perhaps, or the nurseries beyond. Flambeau gained the top of a high staircase with a few leaping bounds, ran down a corridor, turned a corner, and almost knocked down his own Marie Josephine, who had been calling him. He leaped upon her in welcome. “I’ve been out on the balcony, Flambeau. I called you from there, for I thought you might be in the garden.” A voice from a half-open door near them called sharply, “Marie Josephine, come in and close the door.” Marie Josephine walked slowly toward a flicker of light reflected on the wall opposite the schoolroom door, and went inside, closing the door after her. Flambeau had come in with her and he walked somewhat disdainfully toward a table which was drawn close to a dancing fire in a deep, old-fashioned fireplace. The table was covered with bits of brocade, satin, and gold lace. Two girls sat one on each side of it, and a short, fat maid sat cross-legged on a stool at their feet, bending over a piece of sewing in her lap. When Marie Josephine and the dog came into the room, the maid stood up and made a curtsy. “Will you sit in your favorite big chair by the fire, Little Mademoiselle?” she asked. Marie Josephine shook her head for reply, watching the swift darting of the maid’s needle as she sat down again and went on with her work. Then she glanced at her cousin Hortense, who held a piece of ermine up before her. “It will do for the edging of the mantle, will it not, Proté?” Hortense asked the maid. Without waiting for an answer, she went on speaking. “I hoped that Tante would allow us to sew the ruby in the crown, but she would not consent!” As she spoke, Hortense looked at Denise, Marie Josephine’s sister, who sat opposite her. Denise tossed her red-brown curls out of her eyes and pouted. The pout made her look younger than her fourteen and a half years. “You’ve made this one crookedly. You must do another one at once, Proté,” she said, handing the maid a small black object. “Yes, Mademoiselle,” Proté answered. [Illustration: Marie Josephine] “Fasten this cord, please, Proté. It does not seem to be right the way I have done it!” Hortense held out another black object to the little maid, who took it smilingly, with a little bow which made her black hair, gathered into a huge knob at the back of her neck, stand out like a big black bun. Marie Josephine still stood by the fire, Flambeau beside her. She looked at her brother as he spoke. “Proté cannot do everything at once,” he said. He sat in the deep shadow of the window seat at the far end of the room, his hands clasped about his knees.