“But it doesn’t suit,” laughed Araminta, “for Miss Kemper has an awful lot of hair, and if she was shorn it’s so dreadful hot to-day that anybody’d be glad to get where the wind would blow on ’em.” “Be quiet, children!” said Mrs. Sharp. “Miss Kemper, I s’pose you’d better go at once.” CHAPTER XXVI. THE MADAME AT HER SOLICITOR’S. “The miserable hath no other medicine But only hope.”--SHAKESPEARE. “The Madame bereaved! of whom, I wonder?” mused Floy, riding along in the almost empty street-car. “Has she discovered the existence of a relative only to see him or her snatched away by death? Ah, poor woman! so unhappy before, what will she be now?” Leaving the car, the young girl quickly passed over the short intervening distance, and glancing up at the Madame’s house as she approached it, saw that the shutters of every window were bowed with white ribbon, while several yards of white cashmere tied with the same were hanging from the bell-pull. “A child!” said Floy to herself in increasing surprise, as she went up the steps and gave a very gentle ring. The door was opened as usual by Kathleen, who recognized our heroine with a faint, rather watery smile. “I’m plazed to see you, miss.” “Who is dead, Kathleen?” Floy asked as she stepped in and the door closed behind her. “Sure, miss, an’ it’s just himself--the Madame’s pet, that was always wid her night an’ day; an’ it’s just breakin’ her heart about him she is, poor dear, that hasn’t a chick nor a child left! An’ it’s sad an’ sore me own heart is whin I think o’ niver seeing the little baste at its purty thricks no more.” “Frisky, her lap-dog!” exclaimed Floy. “I thought it must be a relative.” “Yes, miss, an’ sure she always thrated the little baste like a Christian, an’ she’s kapin’ on wid that now it’s dead.” “What ailed it?” “Well, miss, the docther he said ’twas just laziness and over-feedin’--only he put it into grand words, you know--and the Madame didn’t like it; but it’s dead an’ gone he is, annyhow, the purty darlint!” “Is it Miss Kemper?” asked Mary, appearing at the head of the stairs. “Please walk right up, miss.” Floy was ushered at once into the Madame’s dressing-room, where she found that lady weeping bitterly over her dead favorite as it lay stiff and stark in her lap. “He’s gone, Miss Kemper!” she sobbed, looking up piteously into Floy’s face, with the tears running fast down her own; “he’s gone, my pretty darling--the only thing I had left to love, and the only one that had any love for poor me!” The young girl scarcely knew what consolation to offer; she could only express her sympathy and hope that he might be replaced by another as pretty and playful.