"It's only this, mamma," began Quillie, impetuously: "I want to take a friend to the country with us."
"Who is the friend? why can not she go with her own people?" said mamma.
"Now, mammy dear, please don't hurry me; you know madame, our French teacher at school, has a little girl about my age—eight and a half. Well, if it wasn't for her, madame says she could go with some pupils to their country-seat, and teach them all summer, but they will not have her child, which is very hateful and disobliging, I think; and it popped into my head that perhaps you would let us have Julie with us, for the madame says she can not leave her alone in the city, and she has no relatives—hardly any friends—and I think it would make madame so happy not to lose this chance of giving lessons, and yet to have Julie, and—and—"
Mamma stooped down and kissed her little girl. "There," she said, in her quick, decisive way, "that will do. It was a kind thought, and I will consider it. Now run off and dig in the garden; your seeds are coming up nicely."
"But, mamma," said Quillie, not quite satisfied, "are you sure you won't forget?"
"I promise not to," was the answer, and she arose to change the coquettish cap and morning-gown for her street costume. Then she took out her pencil, and jotted down two or three errands in her memorandum-book, and gathering up the samples to match for Ellen's work, out she went.
It was a warm day, a balmy air, but one which induces languor, and as Mrs. Coit stopped at a street corner and bought a bunch of roses, she thought she would get the children out of town as soon as possible. Her eye was next attracted by some exquisite laces. She wanted a few yards, and stopped to price them. They were thread, filmy as cobwebs; they were costly; and as she held them in her hand, debating the purchase, she thought of Quillie's request: the cost of the lace would more than meet the expense of sending little Julie away. She concluded not to buy the laces. And so she went on with her errands.
At last she had finished, and turned off into a side street, got into a car, and was whisked away to a quiet place in the old part of the city. She stopped before a house which had in its day been fine; now it looked like a person who is keeping up appearances—a little shabby and worn, and wanting freshness. She rang the bell, and asked if Madame Garnier lived there. She was directed by a slovenly maid to a room on an upper floor, and left there. The air was redolent of garlic. She knocked at the door, and a little pattering of feet was heard, the door was opened on a crack, and a small head was to be seen, covered with a tiny handkerchief tied under the chin; a large checked apron concealed the rest of the small person. When the small person saw that the visitor was a lady, she no longer kept the door more than half closed, but throwing it wide open, she made a profound courtesy, and said, "Pardon, madame; please to enter."
Mrs. Coit paused, smilingly taking in the background of this interior. A sunny window full of plants, a bed with ruffled pillow-cases, a gilt clock, a canary, a table set out for two, a writing-desk and books in a corner, and a cooking stove, with a bubbling saucepan sending the cover dancing up and down. It was very close and warm, and the little hostess was pale, despite the heat.
Mrs. Coit had no time to spare. She asked the child if she were Julie Garnier, and if she wanted to spend two or three months in the country.