“Some am’thysts?” asked René excitedly.
“Perhaps,” replied Jack, giving Desiré one of his rare sweet smiles.
The stores had been left behind now, and on every hand were green tree-shaded lawns enclosed by carefully trimmed hedges of English hawthorne in full bloom. Desiré exclaimed with rapture over their beauty, and the size and style of the houses beyond them. On a little side street they paused before a small cottage, half hidden in vines.
“This must be the place,” decided Jack, opening the white gate which squeaked loudly as if protesting against the entrance of strangers. The sound brought a woman to the door.
“I’m looking for Simon Denard,” began Jack.
“You’ve come to the right place to find him,” she replied, smiling, as she came toward them and put out one hand to pat René’s head. “Simon Denard is my father. I’m Mrs. Chaisson. Come right in.”
In the small living room to which she led them sat old Simon, propped up with pillows in a big chair.
“So here ye are,” was his greeting, as the children dashed across the floor to his side.
“Be careful,” warned Desiré quickly. “You might hurt Simon.”
“Let ’em be! Let ’em be!” protested the old man, beaming upon his visitors. “What’s an extra stab of pain, or two?”