"Yes; at home I didn't like bread and butter much, but I think I would now. I daresay they'd give it us if I knew what it was called in their talking," said Gladys.
"It wouldn't be so bad if we knew their talking," sighed Roger.
"It wouldn't be so bad if it would get light," said his sister. "I don't know what to do, Roger. It's hours since they've all been up, and nobody's come to us. I wonder if they've forgotten we're here."
"There's a little tiny, weeny inch of light beginning to come over there. Is that the window?" said Roger.
"I suppose so. As soon as it gets more light I'll get up and look if there's a bell," decided Gladys.
"And if there is?"
"I'll ring it, of course."
"But what would Miss—— Oh, Gladys," he burst out with a merry laugh, the first Gladys had heard from him since the journey. "Isn't I silly? I was just going to say, 'What would Miss Susan say?' I quite forgot. I'm not sorry she's not here. Are you, Gladdie?"
"I don't know," the little girl answered. Truth to tell, there were times when she would have been very thankful to see Miss Susan, even though she was determined not to ask to go back to England till all hope was gone. "I'm not——" but what she was going to say remained unfinished. The door opened at last, and the frilled cap, looking so exactly the same as yesterday that Gladys wondered if Madame Nestor slept in it, only if so, how did she keep it from getting crushed, appeared by the light of a candle surrounding the kindly face.
"Bon jour, my children," she said.