"Mais oui, mais oui," she said impatiently, taking some of the broth in the spoon. "Take it at once, mon enfant, it will do you good." She looked so determined that Susan, much against her own will, submissively took the spoon and drank the soup. It tasted poor and thin, like hot water with something bitter in it; but she finished it all, and Mademoiselle received the empty basin with a nod of satisfaction. Then she busied herself in examining the condition of Susan's wet clothes, and presently hung them all to dry at a careful distance from the hearth. Susan herself, meanwhile, leaning lazily back in the rocking-chair, began to feel warm and comfortable again; how delicious it was after being so cold and wet and frightened! What would she have done without Monsieur's help? His fire had warmed her, his broth had fed her, his house had sheltered her, and now he had gone out again into the cold night on her service. And yet, she had always been rude and naughty to him. What would Delphine say, Susan wondered, if she knew of it? She did not look as though she had the "temper of an angel" like her brother. Her black eyes had quick sparkles in them, quite unlike his, which were grey and quiet, shining always with a gentle light. Mademoiselle Delphine looked quite capable of being angry. Susan felt half afraid of her; and yet, it was pleasant to watch her neat movements as she darted swiftly about the room preparing another dish for Adolphe's supper, and Susan kept her eyes fixed on her. At last, her arrangements over, she drew a chair near Susan, and took up her darning; as she did so there was a sudden pattering of rain-drops against the window-pane. "Ah!" she exclaimed, holding up the brown sock, "that poor Adolphe! How he will be wet!" This made Susan feel still more guilty, but she could not think of anything to say, and Delphine, who seemed to like talking better than silence, soon began again. "Always rain, always clouds and mist, and shadow. The sun does not shine here as in our beautiful, bright Paris?" "Doesn't it ever rain in Paris?" asked Susan. "Mais certainement, at moments," replied Mademoiselle; "enough to give a charming freshness to the air." "Why did you come away?" asked Susan, gathering courage. Delphine dropped the brown sock into her lap, and raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Mon enfant," she said slowly, "we are exiles! Exiles of poverty." Susan remembered that Sophia Jane had called Monsieur "a poor eggsile;" but this way of putting it sounded much better, and she repeated it to herself that she might be able to tell her when she went home. Meanwhile Mademoiselle bent her eyes on her darning again, and proceeded: