"Toto! Who--where----" Recollections were rushing upon her, but she did not yet understand. She seemed straining to catch some distant voice. "The Castle of Lichtenberg, the pine forests, little Carl. I tried to find you, but you were gone--years ago. I was only a child, and I could not find you. But I have found you now!" She was clinging to me, sobbing wildly; and I made her sit down on the side of the little bed. Then I sat by her, holding her whilst the sobs seemed to tear her to pieces. "I knew you," she said at last. "I knew you, but I did not recollect--little Toto! How could I tell?" Ah, yes, how could she tell? Through the miserable veils that lay between her and that happy time, the past seemed vague to her as a dream of earliest childhood. Then, bit by bit, with her head on my shoulder, the miserable tale unfolded itself. The Countess Feliciani had died when Eloise was fifteen. They were in the greatest poverty, living in the Rue St. Lazare. It was the old, old, wicked, weary story that makes us doubt at times the existence of a God. A model at Cardillac's and this wretched room. That was the story. We had entered that room a man and woman, the woman with a laugh on her lips. We sat on the side of the bed together--two children. Children just as we were that day sitting by the pond in the woods of Lichtenberg, with little Carl and his drum. For Eloise had never grown up. The thing she was then in heart and spirit she was now. Then, as the moon drew away slowly, and the room grew darker, we talked: and I can fancy how the evil ones who are for ever about us covered their faces and cowered as they listened and watched. "And little Carl?" asked Eloise. "Where is he?" The question, spoken in the semi-darkness, caused a shiver to run through me. "Who knows?" I said. "Or what he is doing? Eloise, I am half afraid. I met a man to-night, a musician; he saw me at the Schloss that time which seems so long ago. He spoke about Carl, and then I came with him to the ball. Only for him, I would not have met you, and it all seems like fate. Let us talk of ourselves. You can't stay here in this house: you must leave it to-morrow. I will arrange everything. I am rich. Think of it!" She laughed and clung closer to me. Despite her bitter experiences, she had no more real knowledge of the world than myself. Money was a thing to amuse oneself with--a thing very hard to obtain. "You will leave this place and live in the country. You will never go to Cardillac's again. Think, Eloise; it is May! You never see the country here in Paris. The hawthorn is out, and the woods at Etiolles are more beautiful than the forest was at Lichtenberg. Why, you are crying!" "I am crying because I am happy," said she, whispering the words against my shoulder. Then I left her.