The abbess was watching the children with pleased attention, when one of the lay sisters entered and put a card in her hands, saying that the gentleman and lady were waiting at the porter's wicket, and desired permission to see the interior of the Infant Asylum. "Certainly, they are welcome," said the abbess. "Go and tell Sister Francoise to be their guide." The lay sister left the room, and the abbess gave her attention again to the children, making occasional remarks on their health, beauty, playfulness, and so forth, which were all sympathetically responded to by Salome, until they heard the sounds of approaching voices and footsteps, and the visiting party, escorted by Sister Francoise. Then the abbess and her companion ceased speaking, and lowered their eyes to the floor until the strangers should pass them. But the strangers lingered on their way, noticing individual children for beauty, or brightness, or some other trait which seemed to attract. The gentleman, speaking French with an English accent, asked questions in too low a tone to reach the ears of the abbess and her companion; but the lady kept silence. At length, as the visitors drew nearer, they came upon little Marie Perdue, sitting on her mat, engaged in tossing about her gay-colored balls, and laughing with delight. "Whose child is that?" asked the gentleman, in a voice that thrilled to the heart of Salome. She forgot herself, and looked up quickly, but the form of Sister Francoise, standing, concealed the figure of the speaker, who seemed to be stooping over the child. "Ay! wha's bairn is it?" inquired another voice, that fell with ominous familiarity on her ear, as she turned her head a little and saw the female visitor, a tall, handsome blonde, with bold, blue eyes and a cataraet of golden hair falling on her shoulders. Sister Francoise did not understand the language of the woman, and turned with a helpless and appealing look to the gentleman, who still speaking French with the slightly defective English accent, replied: "Madame asks whose child is that?" "Oh, pardon! We do not know, Monsieur. It was left at our doors on the eighteenth of December last," replied Sister Francoise. "A very fine child! Its name?" "Marie Perdue." "'Marie Perdue?' What? 'Marie Perdue?' What's 'Perdue?'" querulously inquired the tall, blonde beauty. "'Thrown away,' 'lost,' 'abandoned,'" answered the gentleman, in a low voice. As he spoke he stood up and turned around. Salome uttered a low, half-suppressed cry, and covered her face with both hands. The abbess impulsively looked up to see what was the matter, and--echoed the cry! There was dead silence in the room for a minute, and then Salome lifted up her head and cautiously looked around. The visitors had gone, and the children, who with child-like curiosity had suspended their play to gaze upon the strangers, were now re-commencing their noise with renewed vehemence.