"No, monsieur. Mamma was Yan-kee, a New England lady, papa French Canadian. Mamma's friends did not wish her to marry papa, and she ran away. It is five years ago since she died, and papa—papa could not live without her, and two years after the good God took him too."
The tearful brown eyes look down at her shabby black dress. "Monsieur beholds I wear mourning still. Then Uncle Louis took me, and sent me to school, but Uncle Louis has so many, so I wrote to mamma's brothers in Portland, and they sent a letter back and money, and told me to come. And I am going—Frollo and me."
She bends over the little dog, her lips quivering like the lips of a grieved child, and the lawyer's middle-aged heart goes out to her in a great compassion.
"Poor little lonely child!" he thinks, watching the sweet overcast face: "I hope they will be good to her, those Yankee friends." Then aloud. "But you are very young, are you not, to travel this distance alone?"
"I am seventeen, and I had to travel alone, there was no one to come with me. My Uncle Kent will meet me at Portland."
"You are Mademoiselle Kent?" he says with a smile.
"No, monsieur, my name is Bourdon—Norine Kent Bourdon."
"Have you ever seen those relatives to whom you are going?"
"Once. They came to see mamma when she was dead. There are three—two uncles and an aunt. They were very kind. I liked them very much."
"I trust you will be happy in your new home, Miss Bourdon," the lawyer says gravely. "Permit me to offer you my card. If you ever visit New York I may meet you again—who knows?"