The weather helped--another of those caressing Indian-summer days--the sleepy sun with half-closed eyes dozing at you through its lace curtains of mist; every fire out and all the windows wide open. Leà helped. Never were her sabots so active nor so musical in their scuffle: now hot milk, now fresh coffee, now another crescent--all on the run, and all with a spontaneous, uncontrollable laugh between each serving--all the more unaccountable as of late the dear old woman's face, except at brief intervals, had been as long as an undertaker's. And Mignon helped! Helped? Why, she was the whole programme--with another clear, ringing, happy song that came straight from her heart; her head thrown back, her face to the sun as if she would drink in all its warmth and cheer, the coffee-roaster keeping time to the melody. And it was not many minutes before each private box and orchestra chair in and about the court-yard, as well as the top galleries, were filled with spectators ready for the rise of the curtain. Herbert leaned out over his bedroom sill, one story up; Brierley from the balcony, towel in hand, craned his head in attention; Louis left his seat in the kiosk, where he was at work on a morning sketch of the court, and I abandoned my chair at one of the tables: all listened and all watched for what was going to happen. For happen something certainly must, with our pretty Mignon singing more merrily than ever. I, being nearest to the footlights, beckoned to old Leà carrying the coffee, and pointed inquiringly to the blissful girl. "What's the meaning of all this, Leà?--what has happened? Your Mignon seemed joyous enough the other morning when she came from market, but now she is beside herself." The old woman lowered her voice, and, with a shake of her white cap, answered: "Don't ask me any questions; I am too happy to tell you any lies and I won't tell you the truth. Ah!--see how cold monsieur's milk is--let me run to Pierre for another"--and she was off; her flying sabots, like the upturned feet of a duck chased to cover, kicking away behind her short skirts. Lemois, too, had heard the song and, picking up Coco, strolled toward me his fingers caressing the bird, his uneasy glance directed toward the happy girl as he walked, wondering, like the rest of us, at the change in her manner. To watch them together as I have done these many times, the old man smoothing its plumage and Coco rubbing his black beak tenderly against his master's cheek, is to get a deeper insight into our landlord's character and the subtle sympathy which binds the two. The bird once settled comfortably on his wrist, Lemois looked my way. "You should get him a mate, monsieur," I called to him in answer to his glance, throwing this out as a general drag-net. The old man shifted the bird to his shoulder, stopped, and looked down at me.