After she had rested her uncle’s wife came for her.
“You are not weary now, are you?” she asked in her soft, caressing voice. “You looked so fatigued, child. Tell me, what is your name?”
“Jeanne.”
“Jeanne? Oh, you darling! That is French, isn’t it? I did not know that the Americans ever named their children so. Jeanne! It is delightful.”
“And you are Aunt Clarisse?”
“Ma foi, Jeanne! Do not call me anything so prim. Call me ‘Cherie.’ Aunt Clarisse indeed!” She laughed gaily.
“Cherie! what does it mean?” asked the girl wonderingly, gazing at the bright face above her with delight. “It should be something brilliant and sweet to suit you, I think. Something like rich red roses heavy with perfume and sweetness.”
“You little flatterer! And you call yourself a Yankee? No, no; Yankees do not make speeches like that. You are French as your name is.”
“But I like to be a Yankee,” cried Jeanne.
“Be what you like, little one, so long as you are as sweet as you are. But now let us go down to your uncle, after you take one little cup of coffee. So! Now we are ready.”