“I should like to hear about them,” said Desirée, suddenly coming up to Katie, and sitting down on a stool by her feet. Katie Logan was slightly flattered, in spite of herself. She thought it very foolish, but she could not help it. Once more a lively crimson kindled in her cheek. She bent over her work with great earnestness, and never turned her eyes toward the questioning face of the girl. “I could not describe the Mistress if I were to try all day,” said Katie at last, in a little burst, after having deliberated. Desirée looked up at her very steadily, with grave curiosity. “And that is what I want most,” said the little Frenchwoman. “What! can you not tell if she has black eyes or blue ones, light hair or dark hair?--was she pretty before she grew old--and does she love her boys--and did her husband love her? I want to know all that.” Desirée spoke in the tone of one who had received all these questions from another person, and who asked them with a point-blank quietness and gravity, for the satisfaction of some other curiosity than her own; but the investigation was half amusing, half irritating to Katie. She shook her head slightly, with a gesture expressing much the same sentiment as the movement of her hand, which drew away the skirts on which Desirée almost leaned. Her doubt changed into a more positive feeling. Katie rather feared Desirée was about to fulfill all her unfavorable anticipations as to the quality of French governesses. “Don’t go away,” said Desirée, laying her little white hand upon the dress which Katie withdrew from her touch. “I like to sit by you--I like to be near you--and I want to hear; not for me. Tell me only what you please, but let me sit here till Joanna comes.” There was a little pause. Katie was moved slightly, but did not know what to say, and Desirée, too, sat silent, whether waiting for her answer or thinking, Katie could not tell. At last she spoke again with emotion, grasping Katie’s dress. “I like Joanna,” said Desirée, with tears upon her eyelashes--“but I am older than she is--a great deal older--and no one else cares for me. You do not care for me--it is not likely; but let me sit here and forget all that house and every thing till Joanna comes. Ah, let me! I am far away from home--I am a little beggar girl, begging at your window--not for crumbs, or for sous, but for love. I am so lonely. I do not think of it always--but I have thought so long and so often of coming here.” “You must come oftener then,” said Katie, who, unused to any demonstration, did not quite know what to say. “I can not come often,” said Desirée, softly, “but let me sit by you and forget all the others--only for a very, very little time--only till Joanna comes. Ah, she is here!”