"Oh, yes, monsieur," mademoiselle answered, with animation; "and it is such a pity, isn't it? It makes one low-spirited, one can see nothing, and one does like so to see the country as one goes along."
"Was she going far?" the lawyer inquired.
"Oh, very far!" Mademoiselle makes a little Gallic gesture, with shoulders and eyebrows and hands all together to express the immensity of the distance.
"A great way. To Portland," with a strong accent on the name of that city. "Monsieur knows where Portland is?"
"Yes, very well—he was going there himself en route to New York. You, mademoiselle," he adds, inquiringly, "are going on a visit, probably?"
Mademoiselle shakes her pretty head, and purses her pretty lips.
"Monsieur, no—I am going home."
"Home? But you are French."
"But yes, monsieur, certainly French, still my home is there. Papa and mamma have become dead," the brown eyes fill, "and Uncle Louis and Aunt Mathilde have seven of their own, and are poor. I am going to mamma's relatives, mamma was not French."
"No?" Mr. Gilbert says in sympathetic inquiry.