"A friend?" Madame René looked troubled. Donald, to her, was her own boy almost; but a stranger!—that would be quite different. She glanced anxiously around, first at the shabby apartment, and then at her own well-worn gown—but Mr. Donald, she thought, would know what was best to do. So, with a little Frenchy shrug of her shoulders, and a gesture of resignation, she said, "Oh, certainly"—and that she would be much pleased.
The evening visit was a success in every way, excepting one. The bonne of former days did not at first recognize the "friend," M. Bajeau, though at the first sight he was certain that this tall, comely woman was the veritable person who had come with Mrs. Reed and the pink-faced twins into his little shop. But she remembered the visit perfectly, and nearly all that happened on that day. She recalled, too, that Mrs. Reed had intended to have the baby's full name, Dorothy, engraved upon the clasp, and that on account of the smallness of the space the initials, D. R., were decided upon. Still it was annoying to M. Bajeau, and consequently rather embarrassing to Donald, that the woman did not promptly recognize him as the same jeweller.
The simple-hearted and somewhat vain old gentleman, who felt that this would be a very important link in the chain of evidence, had recognized Madame René; and why could she not return the compliment?
Donald, by way of relieving the awkwardness, remarked during a rather stiff moment that it was unusually warm, and begged leave to open the door. At this, Monsieur, hinting delicately that a draught would in time kill an angel, produced a skull-cap, which he deftly placed upon his head; and no sooner was this change effected than Madame René grew radiant, clasped her hands in honest rapture, and declared that she would now recognize M. Bajeau among a million as the very gentleman who engraved that blessed baby's dear little initials upon the clasp!
CHAPTER XXXV.
A DAY OF JOY.
While the great ship that bears Donald and Madame René to America is plowing its way across the ocean, we who are on dry land may look into the home at Lakewood.
Uncle George and the two girls have just come in from a twilight walk; the glow of exercise is on their faces, and they are merry, not because anything funny has been seen or said, but because their hearts are full of joy. Donald is coming home.
Down stairs in the housekeeper's pleasant sitting-room are a pair of old friends, and if you could open the door without being seen you would hear two familiar voices.