When MacDaly recovered from the effect of his joy over Colonel Armour’s gift he muttered to himself: “Now for something to satisfy, regale, and otherwise gladden the inner man.”

Opening the door of a small closet in his room he looked on an upper shelf, where he found nothing but a few crumbs on empty dishes, and a huge black teapot standing with its protruding nose toward him.

Clutching the teapot with both hands he proceeded toward the restaurant piously murmuring: “Pray, kind and beneficent spirits of light, vouchsafe unto Mary a quiet and peaceable condition, that she may in all honor and excellency of entertainment receive a poor wayfarer.”

Mary was in an excellent temper, MacDaly was happy to observe through the kitchen window of the eating house. Knocking delicately at the door, he advanced with a mincing step into the room; then bowing low, cap in hand, and placing his mammoth teapot on the back of the stove, he modestly took a seat in the corner.

Mary was dandling a baby on her knee and took no notice of him, and though remarks were fairly bursting from his lips he thought it more prudent to restrain them. Presently the owner of the baby, who was also the superintendent of the eating house, came bustling into the room.

“You here, MacDaly?” she said brusquely; “how is that?”

“Good-evening to your ladyship,” he said, getting up and bowing profoundly. “As I sat in my lonely domicile or dwelling and observed the cheerful light streaming from this mansion and abode of pleasure, I said to myself, ‘Perchance they will find it in the goodness of their amiable hearts to allow me to take my humble refreshment under the shelter of their kindly roof, and in the solacement of their excellent presence, and——’”and——’”

“That will do, MacDaly,” interrupted the superintendent; “where is your tea?” and lifting the cover she gazed into the black, yawning depths of his teapot.

“Truth to tell, I did not bring any, lady,” he said subserviently. “I thought for a single occasion I could do without the liquid refreshment in my enjoyment and appreciation of the solids.”

“And where are the solids?” she asked, looking sharply about her. “Now MacDaly, you know the arrangement is that you cater for yourself. We are not rich people at the Pavilion, and if we give you a room, and a fire, and bedclothing, it is all you should require of us. There are poor creatures worse off than you that we are bound to help. For this once I’ll put some tea in your teapot. Now produce your bread and butter.”

“Madam, beloved lady, neither has your humble servant any of the staff of life nor of its trimmings.”

“Mary, give me the baby, and cut him some bread and spread it thin,” said the superintendent in quiet despair.

“Most high-minded and condescending lady,” exclaimed MacDaly, in a burst of ostentatious generosity, “I will pay you nobly for your entertainment. If you or your worthy and estimable helpmate, Mary, could change this money——” and bowing elegantly he held out to her the bill that he had just received.

She pounced upon it. “Ten dollars! Derrick MacDaly, where did you get this?”

He informed her that it was a present.

“Now, I’ll not believe that,” she said firmly, “till you tell me where it came from.”

In great dejection of spirit at the conceit which had made him show his gift to her, he mentioned Colonel Armour’s name.

“It was kind in him to give it to you,” said the matron quietly pocketing it; “and I am sure he expected you to make good use of it. I shall give it to Miss Turner to buy you some new clothes.”

MacDaly immediately went down upon his knees, begging and praying her to restore the money to him.

“I will do nothing of the sort,” she said. “You would drink it away; and if I buy you clothes you’ll keep them; for that much may be said in your favor, MacDaly, however drunk you are, you never allow anyone to cheat you out of your clothing. Get up and take your food.”

MacDaly ate the bread and drank the waters of affliction that evening. He would not be able to go to town again the next day and have a jollification as he had planned to do, and with melancholy tears dropping down his cheeks, he sat watching Mary tidy her kitchen and afterward put on her hat and jacket to go for a stroll with her soldier lover, who was waiting for her by the Pavilion entrance.

Later on he was sent for to go and see Stargarde. He found her busy with a heap of sewing.

“Good-evening, MacDaly,” she said kindly. “Did you deliver my note?”

“Yes, gracious lady,” he responded mournfully; then he proceeded to give her an account of the afflicting manner in which he had been treated by one of her deputies.

Stargarde was listening indulgently and attentively when he suddenly paused and began to fidget with his hat.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“’Tis the foreign and unlooked-for young lady,” he said, pointing to the inner room. “If it is not unbecoming, may your humble servant ask wherefore and whence does she come?”

“Vivienne,” called Stargarde; “come here, dear.”

The girl sauntered out with a book in hand, whereupon MacDaly fell into a state of great agitation. Vivienne surveyed him curiously, and Stargarde laid down her work. “MacDaly, did you know this young lady’s father?”

“Yes, complacent lady, yes,” he murmured.

“Did you?” said Vivienne eagerly. “Stargarde, may I ask him some questions?”

“Certainly, dear.”

Vivienne sat down near the bewildered man who was spinning his hat through his hands like a teetotum. “Yes, yes,” he ejaculated; “I knew him. A beautiful gentleman he was; never gave me the cross word. It was a sad grief to the colonel to lose him—a sad grief.”

“Were you here when my father died?” asked Vivienne softly.

Stargarde gazed at her in deep anxiety while MacDaly gabbled on, “When he died, my dear—I mean my revered young lady—oh yes, I was here; he is dead—of course not being alive and present is to be dead and buried, otherwise interred and sepulchred.”

“Vivienne,” said Stargarde in a pained voice, “your father did not die here.”

“Did he not?” said the girl; “I thought that both he and my mother did, and that they were sent to their French home to be buried.”

“No,” said Stargarde, “your mother died in the French village; I do not know where your father’s body lies. MacDaly, I think that you had better go home.”

“May I not just ask him a few things more?” said Vivienne pleadingly. “I want to know whether he remembers my father when he first came here.”

“Do you, MacDaly?” asked Stargarde.

“Perfectly and most harmoniously; a youth fitted in every way to attract and embosom in himself the affections of the master who, progressing at a nimble pace through a settlement inhabited by the curious people known as the French, thrusts his white hand in the gutter and picks out the treasure-trove, enunciating and proclaiming with his accustomed clearness, ‘What’ll you take for him?’ throws the money and brings him home and his fortune’s made. Stamp-licker, office lad, confidential man, and keeper of the rolls to the master, and to top, crown, and in every way ornament his bliss, joins himself in joyful matrimony and dwells in peaceful and well-to-do habitation with his greatly-esteemed spouse, while at the same time some of us poor lads had nothing but a hut and a housekeeper,” and concluding his long sentence with a groan MacDaly looked with a dull and melancholy eye about him.

“I don’t understand him,” said Vivienne with a puzzled gesture.

Stargarde was hanging her beautiful head in a way unusual with her. “He refers to your father,” she said, “and to the manner in which Colonel Armour became acquainted with him.”

“Oh I know that,” said Vivienne. “Colonel Armour was having a driving tour through the province and seeing a pretty orphan boy that he thought would make a good pet he paid some money to the people who took care of him so that they would give him up.”

“Yes,” said Stargarde.

Vivienne gazed at the half-witted specimen of humanity before her in silence. Then she said, “I will not detain you any longer. Perhaps I will see you again some day.”

Without his usual politeness MacDaly darted from the room as if he had been held there a prisoner.

“I wished to talk more to him,” said Vivienne; “but I saw that you did not care for it, Stargarde.”

“Come here, darling, and sit on this stool by me,” said her friend as soothingly as if she were talking to a child; “I am so glad to find this interest in your parents in you, and yet, and yet——”

“And yet—what?” queried Vivienne.

“I wish that you had chosen to speak to me first rather than to MacDaly.”

“This was an impulse,” said Vivienne. “I have always intended to ask you some questions; but we are so seldom alone—and though my father and mother are much in my thoughts I dread to mention their names. Can you understand?”

Stargarde replied by a pressure of her hand.

“They are sacred to me,” said Vivienne dreamily. “I would not for the world have the Armours know that I often wake up sobbing because my parents have been taken from me. You know I am supposed to be a proud person,” and she looked up at Stargarde, her eyes filled with tears.

“You are not proud—that is, not too proud,” said Stargarde warmly. “You are an ardent, generous girl, with a heart full of love that will be bestowed on your fellow-creatures.”

Vivienne suddenly put her hands to her face. “O Stargarde, Stargarde,” she exclaimed, “how shall I tell Captain Macartney that I cannot marry him? And Mr. Armour, what will he say?”

“Do not afflict yourself too much. You have made a mistake, as many another girl has done. The only way to make amends is to say, I have done wrong—forgive me. Then start over again. That is all any of us can do in the perpetual error of this life.”

Vivienne looked up over her shoulder and pressed one of Stargarde’s hands adoringly to her lips. They had slipped into their usual relation. The girl was sitting at the feet of the woman she so much loved. She was curled up on the hearth rug, her red draperies wound around her, her back against Stargarde’s knees.

“Let us return to my question,” said Vivienne at length, “my parents. Will you not tell me what you know about them? Was my father,” proudly, “as became his peasant up-bringing, a boorish man, or was he a gentleman?”

“The latter, I think, from what I have heard; you know I never saw him. He is said to have been a gentle, amiable young man, a favorite with all who knew him.”

“And what made him leave the Armours? I have always fancied that it was his health.”

“No, it was not his health,” said Stargarde reluctantly.

“What was it?” asked Vivienne wistfully.

“My dear child, you have confidence in me?”

“Most implicit confidence.”

“Then take my advice; go to Stanton Armour. He knows more about your parents than any man living. He will tell you just what is good for you to know. Will you do this?”

“Yes,” said Vivienne, in a constrained voice. “But you speak as if there were some mystery. Surely there is nothing that all the world may not know?” Stargarde looked down at her compassionately. “Sometimes,” said Vivienne, struggling with an emotion that she could not altogether hide, “sometimes I fancy that there is something I do not understand. Judy once gave me a hint of it. Mammy Juniper in her ravings urges the wicked Ephraim to make restitution to some one that I think is my father. Do you know what she means, Stargarde?”

“Go to Stanton,” said her friend, with a lovely smile of pity and affection. Then leaning forward till Vivienne felt her sweet breath on her face added, “You need comforting; let me rock you.”

She held out her arms invitingly, and half laughing, half protesting Vivienne found herself, dignity and all, enwrapped in a close embrace. Stargarde had her on her lap and was rocking back and forth, soothing her as a mother would a child.

To and fro they went, the one slim and graceful, with dark skin, brilliant and questioning eyes, and black hair lying loosely on her forehead, the other a Venus of Milo, who held her burden, tall as it was, as easily as she would have held a baby.

The soreness and tightness about Vivienne’s heart gave away, and burying her face on Stargarde’s shoulder she shed a few surreptitious tears.

“That’s right; it will do you good to cry,” murmured Stargarde.

“There is some one at the door,” said Vivienne presently. “Let me get up, dear Stargarde.”

“It’s only Mary with the milk; come in, Mary.”

“It’s not Mary,” said a well-known voice. “Beg pardon for interrupting so charming a tableau. You missed that, Armour,” and Dr. Camperdown turned to his friend, who was following him.

“Not altogether,” said Mr. Armour, with a swift glance at Stargarde’s amused face and Vivienne’s flushed one.

“What an unexpected honor!” said Stargarde, gayly shaking hands with them. “You,” looking at Armour, “rarely honor us with a visit.”

“And I come too often, I suppose,” said Camperdown gruffly. “Take off your coat, Armour; we’ll stay a little while.”