"A true child of Paris!" in an undertone exclaimed the elder gentleman. "She knows that her mother is a countess, and that she lives in a palace; but she has never been told the name of the street in which is her home."
"How come you to be here, little countess?" inquired the younger man.
"Diana can tell you," was the reply.
"And who may Diana be?"
"Why, who else but mama's Diana?"
"Allow me to question her," here interposed the elder man. Then, to the child: "Diana is the person who helps you put on your clothes, is she not?"
"It is just the other way: she took off my clothes—just see; I have nothing on but this petticoat and this hideous shawl."
As she spoke she flung back the faded shawl and revealed how scantily she was clad.
"You poor child!" compassionately ejaculated the young man; and when he saw that her thin morocco slippers were buried in the snow, he lifted her hastily in his arms. "You are half frozen."
"But why did Diana leave you half clothed in this manner?" pursued the elder man. "Why did she undress you? Can't you tell us that much?"