FLIGHT
Madame Garneau's hair straggled untidily about her head, her hands were red, calloused, inclined indeed to be grimy, she had passed even that poets'-consolation-prize age of forty, and she had no figure; but Madame Garneau was possessed of a heart. She pushed open the door of Marie-Louise's room, and dangled in her hand a yellow paper bag that was grease specked on the bottom.
"Voilà, my little lodger!" she cried gaily. "I have this for you, and you will never guess what it is; and, besides, I have something else—a message for you from Father Anton. Now which will you have first?"
Marie-Louise, from her chair by the window, rose quickly to her feet, with a little exclamation of pleased surprise.
Madame Garneau immediately pushed her back into the chair.
"But you are to remain quiet—eh, ma petite!" She wagged her finger severely in front of Marie-Louise's nose. "Now sit still, or you shall have neither one nor the other!"
"What nonsense!" laughed Marie-Louise, as she stood up once more. "I am quite well again—and I am even to go out this morning."
The paper bag banged belligerently on Madame Garneau's hip, as she placed her arms akimbo.
"You are to go out! And who said you are to go out?"
"But, who else—the doctor," Marie-Louise answered with a smile.