A knock at the half-open door distracted her attention, and, languidly turning her head, she said, "What is it, Henry?"
"It's a young woman, Mis' Nimmo," replied that ever alert and demure colored boy, "what sometimes brings you photographs. She come in a hack with a girl."
"Let her come up. She may leave the girl below."
"I guess that girl ain't a girl, Mis' Nimmo,—she looks mighty like a boy. She's the symbol of the little feller in the French place I took you to."
Mrs. Nimmo gave him a rebuking glance. "Let the girl remain down-stairs."
"Madame," said a sudden voice, "this is now Boston,—where is the Englishman?"
Mrs. Nimmo started from her chair. Here was the French child himself, standing calmly before her in the twilight, his small body habited in ridiculous and disfiguring girl's clothes, his cropped curly head and white face appearing above an absurd kind of grayish yellow cloak.
"Narcisse!" she ejaculated.
"Madame," said the faint yet determined little voice, "is the Englishman in his house?"