They had gone—no one knew where. The mother was royalist.
She used to sew for a great lady—a Princess.
Perhaps the jailers of a prison could tell where she was.
Once—in the life that was only a memory—was it real—or was the biting cold—was the hunger what had always been—her mother had taken her to the house of the great lady—
Her eyes had opened in childish wonder, as the Princess took her from room to room.
On a great couch of palest blue, among cushions that were all lace and blue and pink—a muff.
It had been carelessly thrown down—she had loved it.
Her greatest desire had been to touch it—to feel the soft gray fur on her face.
A piercing wind blew from the frozen river—the muff—if it would come it would keep her warm—
She would put her hand in it and hold it to her heart.