But only hope.”—Shakespeare.
“The Madame bereaved! of whom, I wonder?” mused Floy, riding along in the almost empty street-car. “Has she discovered the existence of a relative only to see him or her snatched away by death? Ah, poor woman! so unhappy before, what will she be now?”
Leaving the car, the young girl quickly passed over the short intervening distance, and glancing up at the Madame’s house as she approached it, saw that the shutters of every window were bowed with white ribbon, while several yards of white cashmere tied with the same were hanging from the bell-pull.
“A child!” said Floy to herself in increasing surprise, as she went up the steps and gave a very gentle ring.
The door was opened as usual by Kathleen, who recognized our heroine with a faint, rather watery smile.
“I’m plazed to see you, miss.”
“Who is dead, Kathleen?” Floy asked as she stepped in and the door closed behind her.
“Sure, miss, an’ it’s just himself—the Madame’s pet, that was always wid her night an’ day; an’ it’s just breakin’ her heart about him she is, poor dear, that hasn’t a chick nor a child left! An’ it’s sad an’ sore me own heart is whin I think o’ niver seeing the little baste at its purty thricks no more.”
“Frisky, her lap-dog!” exclaimed Floy. “I thought it must be a relative.”
“Yes, miss, an’ sure she always thrated the little baste like a Christian, an’ she’s kapin’ on wid that now it’s dead.”