Miss Gastonguay immediately became interested in an adventurous fly who, thinking spring had come, had sallied from his retreat in the wall, and was pursuing a shaky course toward the ceiling.
"Your voice is like his," said Derrice, "particularly when you lower it. I am fortunate in having Captain White to remind me of his appearance, and you to call up his very tones."
There were tears in her eyes, and Miss Gastonguay, suddenly losing interest in the fly, gently patted her head.
"Is there not some one in the hall?" asked Derrice. "I thought I heard a step."
"No, child. You hear my niece in the kitchen talking to old black Rebecca,—tell me about this father of yours."
Derrice was only too glad to do so, and, launching herself on a full tide of happy reminiscences, she soon presented to her interested hearer an almost perfect picture of an indulgent father who had presided over her pleasant wandering life.
At last she was interrupted by the entrance of two demure rosy little girls who came running down the hall to salute her with cries of joyful welcome.
"Well, papooses," said Miss Gastonguay, as she watched Derrice taking off their woollen caps and smoothing back their tumbled hair, "are you not glad to see me?"
"Oh, yes, yes, Miss Gastonguay," they hastened to assure her, "but you don't come so often."
"My niece does."