During a moment of silence, when the room seemed rather close and uncomfortable,—for the windows were shut, and the blinds were drawn,—there came a gentle tapping on the door. Madame Babet sprang to her feet.
"No, no, sit still; she can come in." Then turning to the others, Alexandre added, "It is Yvonne, our little one. Come in, Yvonne," he called in a louder tone; "here are Americans."
Upon this the door was pushed open, and a little girl wearing a pink gingham gown and a white sunbonnet, entered slowly, holding one hand outstretched, as if not quite sure of herself. Then, walking directly toward Madame Babet, she slipped to the floor beside her, and laid her head on her lap.
The girls looked from her to Alexandre to read an explanation in his face, and he, understanding, raised his hand to his eyes.
"Blind!" exclaimed Martine, involuntarily. "Poor little thing!"
"She understands English," said the man, warningly; "she does not wish pity."
"I see much," said Yvonne, proudly, "when the light does not glare. I see the American ladies. This one is pretty;" and rising, she made her way carefully to Martine, and laid her hand confidingly in hers.
Martine's color deepened; she felt a great tenderness toward the girl, and she raised the little hand to her lips.
yvonne