Rose was sitting in her little parlor giving Charley his morning bath; the water was dripping from his polished limbs, and he was laughing and splashing about with the nude grace of a young sea-god; now catching his breath, as his head was immersed under water; now shaking back his dripping curls, and flashing upon you his dark bright eyes, as if life were all sunshine, and his infant sky were cloudless.

"I sall inform you zat you can leave my maison—my house—dis morning," said Rose's French landlady, entering the room without a preliminary rap. "You understand, mademoiselle—dis morning, I say—you are von bad woman, mademoiselle."

Twice Rose opened her lips to speak, but the color receded from her lips and cheeks, and she stood terror-struck and speechless.

"Zat is all ver' well," said madame, quite accustomed to see her country-women strike an attitude. "Zat is all ver' well; you did not expect I sall know any ting about it, but one personne tell me zat I know; you can go, for you are von bad woman."

"What is all this?" exclaimed Gertrude, opening the door and seeing Rose's pallid face and madame's angry gesticulations.

"Ah, ha! she has impose on you too!" exclaimed Madame MacquÉ. "She von ver' sly woman—ver' bad; she no' stay in my house long time."

"Woman!" said Gertrude, throwing her arm around Rose, "this is my sister; every word you speak against her you speak against me. She is as pure as that sweet child. If she leaves your house, I leave it."

"Ver' well—trÉs bien," said madame, shaking her overloaded French head-dress; "you can go, den—von day you see I tell you de truf when I say she von—"

"Don't repeat that again, in my hearing," said Gertrude, standing before her with sparkling eyes.

"Speak, Rose—dear Rose!" said Gertrude, kissing her cold face, as madame left the room. "Speak, Rose; do not let that miserable bundle of French trumpery crush so pure and noble a heart as yours. We will go away, Rose—you, and I, and dear little Charley. And, oh, Rose! when could I have a better time to plead for my brother's happiness, for yours, for my own? Put it beyond the power of any one to poison your peace, Rose; be indeed my sister."

Rose's only reply was a low shuddering sob, as she drew closer to Gertrude.

"Just as good as new," said Miss Anne, looking complacently at herself in the brown silk. "Anne, you should be prime minister; you have a talent for diplomacy; femininity is too circumscribed a sphere for the exercise of your talents. You did that well, Anne—Madame Vincent thrown completely off the track, Rose crushed and out of your way forever; the baby ditto. Madame Macque is very careful of her reputation in this country, because she never had any in France. Ha—ha, Anne, you are a genius—and this brown silk is a proof of it. Now, look out for presents about this time, for your star is at its culminating point. Rose has beauty—has she? Vincent fancied her—did he? A rose's doom is to fade and wither—to be plucked, then trodden under foot;" and Miss Anne laughed one of her Satanic laughs.