The citizen. (Frederick City, Md.) 1895-1923, 1914-03-20

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sliding sounds, and he stared down at
them-his thoughts far away-a look
came into his eyes as If they concen-
trated on something beyond the range
of sight, the Characteristic look of
Francois, the old look of dreamer, of
a seer of visions.
Then Lucy stood in the doorway,
gentle, charming from the slippered
feet, locked over the instep to the
shadowy locks of light hair on her
forehead.
Good evening. Monsieur. l am
sorry I kept you waiting Hannibal
hurt his foot and must find plaster
and bandage for him. But you will
have enough of my talking even now.
Father says l talk great deal. Do
l, Monsieur"
Francois stood regarding her, with
frank admiration in every muscle Of
his face. He smiled, the same gentle
amused smile with which he had ad-
dressed the portrait. You never talk
too much for me, Mademoiselle. 1t
is pleasure to me always to hear
your voice" he answered in the deep
tone of Frenchman, the tone that
has ever half note of tragedy, as of
some race-memory which centuries do
not wipe out. "Only," he went on
speaking in French, "one must not
talk English. That is breaking the
law, you remember, Mademoiselle"
She answered very prettily in his
own tongue, in words that halted a
little. Very well, Monsieur. l will
do my best" He still gazed at her
smiling, without speaking. One could
understand that, to a girl of more
self-contained people, this open hon.
age of manner, this affectionate gen.
tleness, might seem to mean more
than brotherly loyalty. The girls
pulse was beating fast as she made an
effort for conversation. What were
you thinking of as you looked at the
fire when l came in, Monsieur? 1t
had an air of being something pleas
ant. Did l not say all that beauti-
fully?" she finished in English
He corrected lame verb with seri-
GUS accuracy and she repeated the
word, and laughed happily.
But you haven't said yet what you
were thinking about"
The large brown eyes turned on
hers. 1T was of my old home in
France, Mademoiselle, when l was
very little" he said simply. "A large
fire of logs makes me think of that"
Tell me about it," she begged with
quick interest. will you? Was there
always a fire at your house?"
But no, Mademoiselle-not, of
course, in the summer. 1t was of the
winter time thought, when the neigh.
bors came, in the evening, and we sat
about the hearth, sometimes twenty
people, each at his different duty, and
my brothers and sisters were there,
and the dear grandmere, was there
and" he stopped Does Mademoi-
selle really wish to hear how it was
in that old farmhouse of ours, in the
shadow of the Jura Mountains ?"
Indeed, Mademoiselle wishes it,"
she assured him. ut will be a trip
4 W G0AOPCs Gill OulC 0udll SD0dh
better French for going to France for
ten minutes, and being among the
French people, your friends. Wait
now, till l am comfortable" She
turned deep chair so that it faced
him, and dropped into it, Put foot
stool for me-" she ordered, as south
ern women order the men they care
for-and the men they do not. And
she settled back with her little feet
on it and smiled at him. For a mo-
ment the mans brilliant gaze rested
on her and the girl saw it, and thrilled
to it. Now, Monsieur, racontez-moi
une historic" she spoke softly.
Francois Beaupre's look turned from
her to the fire, and the air of gazing
at something far away came again.
1T is picture l see as | think of
that time of my childhood" he began,
as if speaking to himself. "A picture
many times painted in homelike col
ors on my brain. Many a night in the
winter | have sat, little boy, by the
side Of my grandmother, at that great
hearth, and have looked and have seen
all the faces, have heard all the voices
and the fire cracking, and the spin
ning-wheel whirring, even as | see
them and hear them tonight.
"And from time to time one of the
men, as he talked, rose up and strobe
across the room to the great oak table
where lay always on a wooden plate
a long loaf of black bread, with a.
knife, and always glass and a bottle
Of eau-de-vie-brandy And | remem-
Der how manly it looked to me, watch
ing, when / saw him take the loaf
under his arm and hold it, and slice
off boldly a great piece of the fresh
rye bread, and pour out a glass of
brandy and toss it off as he ate the
bread. The stories seemed to grow
better after the teller had done that
And always l waited, even through