"That won't," said Dorothy, crossly; "you never, never had a dog; how should you know what I feel?"
"I am not thinking so much about what you feel," Irene said, with refreshing frankness; "I am thinking of your mamma, and how vexed and grieved she is about you."
At this moment a door from another room opened, and, rattling a big bunch of keys, a pretty, bright femme de chambre came in.
"Ah!" she said, in her broken English, "Ah! what pains little ma'm'selle? Is she ill? Does she want a doctor?"
"No," Irene said; "her favourite little dog was drowned as we crossed the sea. He fell over the edge of the steamer, and we never saw him again."
"Ah! but that is sad; but oh! dear petite," the kind woman said, going up to Dorothy, "think what grief my poor mother has, for my little brother Antoine fell into the river when all the flowers were coming out in May, and was dragged out cold and dead. Ah! but that was grief."
"How old was he?" Dorothy said.
"Five years old, ma'm'selle, and as lovely as an angel."
"What did your mother do?" Irene asked; "your poor mother!"
"She comforted my poor father, for it was when cutting the rushes with him that Antoine fell into the water. She dried her eyes, and tried to be cheerful for his, my father's, sake. The pain at her poor heart was terrible, terrible, but she said to me, 'Jeanette, I must hide the pain for the sake of the dear father. I only tell it to God.'"