"What is it, ma chère? Are you ill?"
"No, I am not ill; but look at this child—quick! Who is she like?"
The gentleman glanced at Julie, nodded his head, pulled his mustache, and said, briefly, "Yes, I see a resemblance."
"To whom, Max?—say, to whom?"
"To your poor little sister, Marie."
"Yes; is it not strange? Oh, how marvellously like Julie! I must waken her. Is she not lovely, the dear little creature, sleeping so innocently? Oh, Max, perhaps—perhaps—"
"Waken her, Marie. Ask her name."
The lady touched Julie gently, but the tired child slept too soundly for the light touch to arouse her, and it was not until she had kissed her on the cheek—the little red and brown cheek—that Julie opened her eyes. Then the lady gave a hysterical scream, not very loud, but enough to frighten Julie, whose eyes grew bigger and browner every moment.
"Oh, those eyes are Julie's!" said the lady.
"Of course they are, madame," replied Julie. "And are you the squaw?"