“Ain’t ye, now?” chimes in Franz cheerfully. “Say, ye look awful peaked.” And he hastens to fetch a chair, his feet almost tripping in the act. “There,” he says, placing it beside her, “sit down, do, an’ tell us the news.”
She sinks wearily upon the proffered seat, and again turns her face toward Mamma.
“Yes,” she says coldly, “let me tell my news, since this is a family gathering. You have deplored my loss so often that I have returned. I have come to live with you.”
The consternation that sits upon two of three faces turned toward her, is indeed ludicrous, and Franz Francoise utters an audible chuckle. Then the elders find their tongues.
“Ah,” groans Papa, “she’s jokin’ at the poor old folks.”
“Ah,” sighs Mamma, “there’s no such luck for poor people.”
“Reassure yourselves,” says Leslie calmly. “I have given you all my money; my husband is dead; my little step-daughter has been stolen, or worse, and I have been accused of the crime.”
She pauses to note the effect of her words, but strangely enough, Franz Francoise is the only one who gives the least sign of surprise.
“I am disinherited,” continues Leslie, “cast out from my home, friendless and penniless. You have claimed me as your child, and I have come to you.”
Still she is closely studying the faces of the elder Francoises, and she does not note the intent eyes that are, in turn, studying her own countenance: the eyes of Franz Francoise.