CHAPTER I

"I wish there wasn't going to be any Christmas at all this year."

Maisie made this startling assertion in a tone of conviction, but there was a quiver in her voice, nevertheless, and a suspicious moisture in her eyes. The remark caused quite a shock to the members of her family, who were all assembled in their private sitting-room at the Hotel de Nice. Mr. Barton looked up from his American newspaper, that had arrived by the last mail, Mrs. Barton paused in the letter she was writing home to Grandma, and Auntie Belle--who was playing on the piano--whirled around on her stool, and regarded her little niece with an expression of horrified amazement.

"Why, Maisie," she exclaimed indignantly; "how can you say such a dreadful thing? Think of the wonderful winter we are having! You must really be a very unappreciative child."

"I'm not an unappreciative child," declared Maisie, who did not like the long word, although she was not quite sure she knew what it meant, "and I'm not having a wonderful winter at all. It's been horrid ever since we went away from Morristown. First there was that dreadful ocean. You didn't mind that, because you weren't seasick, and didn't have to lie in bed and hate things to eat. Then there was London. I hated London, it was so foggy and rainy, and Françoise was always making me wash my face and hands because of the smoots. We had to go to stupid churches and galleries, and papa made me say history to him every day. I hate history even worse than geography and arithmetic. After that came Paris, and there were more churches and pictures, and everybody talked French. Now we've come here, and it's going to be Christmas next week, though I don't see how it really can be, with all the roses out just the way they are at home in June. I don't see any use in Christmas without any people to give presents, and I just wish there wasn't going to be any, so there!"

"But, Maisie darling," began Mrs. Barton, eagerly, "there will be presents. Grandpa and Grandma and all the aunties and uncles have sent money to spend for our Christmas, and we are planning a very merry day."

But Maisie's cross little face did not brighten.

"It won't be like Christmas at home, anyway," she persisted. "How can it be, without any party, and with nobody but you and papa and Auntie Belle and Françoise to buy presents for? Even if we had a tree, there wouldn't be any people to come to it."

Auntie Belle opened her lips as if she were going to say something, but at a glance from her brother she closed them again. Mrs. Barton looked really distressed, but Mr. Barton only smiled.

"Come here, Maisie," he said, laying down his newspaper, and lifting his little daughter on his knee. "So Europe is a failure in your estimation, and you would much rather have spent the winter in Morristown, New Jersey, than in France or Italy."

"Much rather," said Maisie, with decision; "I wish we hadn't come."

"That is really a very sad state of affairs, especially when mamma and Auntie Belle and I are all enjoying ourselves so much. But I thought we agreed that the pantomime and the Zoo in London were rather good fun, after all, and that the Bois in Paris was even nicer than Central Park. Then how about the ponies?"

Maisie was beginning to look a little ashamed of her outburst.

"London and Paris weren't so very bad," she admitted, reluctantly, "and I do like the ponies, but it's Christmas--oh, Papa, it's dreadful not to be at home on Christmas!" And Maisie took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

"We are all sorry to be away from our dear ones on Christmas, of course," said Mr. Barton, "and we shall miss them very much; but you know people can't expect to have all the good things in the world at the same time. Now, I have an idea. You have always had very 'Merry Christmasses' at home, but you are afraid this one isn't going to be quite the same thing. How would it do to try to make this Christmas just as merry for some one else as your friends made yours for you last year?"

"I don't think that would be any fun," said Maisie, who did not look much impressed by her father's suggestion. "Besides, we don't know any people here."

"It is true that we don't know any one as yet, but Christmas is nearly a week off, and in the meantime we might be on the look out. Suppose you think the matter over for a day or two, and see how it strikes you."

Maisie did not look as if she considered her father's suggestion at all an interesting one, but at the moment her ear was caught by the sound of distant music, and glad of any opportunity to change a conversation which was threatening to become personal, she slipped down off her father's knee, with the remark.

"There are some more musicians; I want to see them." And promptly disappeared through the open French window on to the balcony, which overlooked the garden, where roses bloomed all winter long.

"Poor mite!" said Mrs. Barton, when Maisie had left the room, "we forget what a baby she really is. Of course she cannot be expected to enjoy the things that we do. I almost wish I had taken mother's advice, and left her at home, though it would have been very hard to part from her."

"I don't agree with you at all," said Mr. Barton smiling. "Has it ever occurred to you, Alice, that our small daughter is just a trifle selfish?"

"I don't consider her in the least selfish," Mrs. Barton declared indignantly. "She is the most generous little thing in the world. Why, only this morning I had to prevent her giving a whole franc to some of those ridiculous street musicians she is so fond of. She is always giving away her pocket-money, and one of her chief reasons for being unhappy just now is because she has so few people for whom to buy Christmas presents this year."

"All very true. Maisie loves to shop, and when her pocket-money is all gone she will come to us for more, but honestly now, Alice dear, has the child ever been obliged to give up anything she really wanted?"

Auntie Belle gave her brother a quick, comprehending glance, and with difficulty repressed a laugh. She was really very fond of her little niece, but there had been times lately when she had found Maisie just a little tiresome. But Mrs. Barton looked really unhappy. She was very conscientious, and honestly tried to bring up her little girl in the best way, but Maisie was such a funny, sweet-tempered little person, that it was hard to keep from spoiling her. She was an only child, and the joy of her mother's heart.

Before Mrs. Barton could reply, however, Maisie herself reappeared.

"It's a boy and a little girl this time," she announced, with the air of a person imparting most interesting news. "The little girl isn't much bigger than me. She sings and the boy plays the mandolin. Please give me some money for them, Papa. They look very poor; they haven't any shoes or stockings on."

"I have known boys who preferred going without shoes and stockings to wearing them," said Mr. Barton, laughing, but he handed Maisie some small coins, and the little girl once more disappeared from view.

"Hark!" exclaimed Auntie Belle, in a tone of sudden interest; "listen to that child's singing."

They were all silent for a moment, and through the open window came the sound of a child's voice, singing a little French ballad. It was a very sweet, clear little voice, though as yet quite untrained, and there was a strange pathos in it, which touched the hearers in a way that they could hardly have explained.

"Rather better than one usually hears," Mr. Barton said, when the ballad came to an end. "It is shameful, though, that a child of that age should be allowed to go about the streets singing. She ought to be at school or at home with her mother."

Just then there was a tap at the sitting-room door, and Françoise, Maisie's French maid, appeared, with the announcement that the ponies were at the door.

"I gave them the money, but I don't think they were very polite," remarked Maisie, coming from the balcony at Françoise's summons. "The boy took off his hat, but the little girl didn't even smile, and she never looked up once."

"Perhaps she has never been taught to be polite," said Mrs. Barton. "Now run along, my darling, and have a pleasant drive. Don't stay out late, and do be careful of those dreadful motor cars."

Ten minutes later, Maisie, seated by Françoise's side in the pony cart, was driving the pretty little pair of cobs down the boulevard in the direction of the sea. A small boy in livery occupied the seat behind, but beyond an occasional word to the ponies, he had nothing to do. Maisie had always lived in the country, and had ridden her first pony when she was five. Although only just ten, she could already both drive and ride better than many people twice her age. She had always cared more for animals than for toys, and the leaving her pony and other pets had been one of the hardest things about going abroad for the winter. It had been a great delight to her, when, on their arrival at Nice--where they expected to spend several weeks--her father had hired the little pair of cobs for her use, and the afternoon drives into the country, or along the esplanade by the sea, were by far the pleasantest hours of the day.

To-day she chose the esplanade. It was a glorious afternoon; the air was soft and balmy, and felt much more like April than December. The sea was very calm, but the little waves danced and sparkled in the sunshine. Françoise--who loved everything connected with her native land--was enchanted, and asked Maisie if she did not think it was "_magnifique_," but Maisie--who was still feeling rather aggrieved on the subject of Christmas--replied crossly that she thought Morristown was much prettier, and the maid was forced to fall back on the small groom for sympathy. Antoine had spent three winters in Nice, and was quite ready to talk about the attractions of the place, and he and Françoise became so enthusiastic, and repeated the words "_magnifique_" and "_charmante_" so many times that Maisie grew quite tired of hearing them.

"I wish you'd talk about something else," she said at last. Maisie had had French nurses all her life, and spoke that language quite as fluently as her own.

"You have no love for the beautiful," said Françoise, severely.

"I have, too, but I get tired hearing people always talking about the same thing. I'm not going to stay here any longer. I'm going to buy Christmas presents." And she resolutely turned the ponies' heads in a homeward direction.

"Your mamma does not wish you to shop in the afternoon," remonstrated Françoise; "she says you are to be out in the fresh air."

"I don't like the fresh air, and I've got twenty francs that papa gave me yesterday to buy Christmas presents with. Next Saturday will be Christmas, though I don't see how it can be with all the roses out, and last year I shopped every day for two whole weeks."

Françoise was still inclined to object, but Maisie was in one of her obstinate fits, and the argument was threatening to become a serious one, when the little girl's attention was attracted by something, which for the moment directed her thoughts into a new channel.

"Look at that little girl crying on the bench," she exclaimed, with suddenly aroused interest. "She's bigger than I am; I should think she'd be ashamed to have people see her crying in the street. Why, I do believe it's the same little girl who was singing in front of the hotel just before we went out! What's the matter, Antoine?" For Antoine had suddenly uttered a startled exclamation, and half risen in his seat.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle, but might I be permitted to speak to the little girl for a moment? It is poor little Celeste Noel, and she is alone."

"Why shouldn't she be alone?" Maisie inquired, as she brought the ponies to a stand-still. "She must be ten or eleven."

"Because she is blind, and it always frightens her to be left alone."

"Blind! Oh, how sad! I think I will go and speak to her too."

"Indeed you will do nothing of the kind, Mademoiselle Maisie," cried Françoise, indignantly. "Your mamma would never--"

But already Maisie, with characteristic impetuosity, had sprung out of the pony cart, throwing the reins to Françoise, and the maid, who did not like driving, and was in constant fear of the horses running away, was too frightened to finish her sentence. Meantime Antoine had already reached the bench, on which the little blind girl was crouched, her face buried in her hands, shaking from head to foot with sobs. He was quickly followed by Maisie.

"What is the matter?" she inquired in her pretty, fluent French, before Antoine had had time to utter a word, and she laid a kind little hand on one of the blind child's shoulders.

[Illustration: SHE LAID A KIND LITTLE HAND ON ONE OF THE BLIND CHILD'S SHOULDERS.]

At the sound of the friendly voice, the little girl lifted her head, and an expression of relief came into her face. It was a pretty, pathetic little face, in spite of the tear stains, and there was nothing repulsive or painful in the sight of the downcast eyes.

"Pierre has left me all alone," she said, with a mighty effort to check the rising sobs. "I am afraid to be alone."

"Don't cry, Celeste," said Antoine, soothingly; "you are quite safe here; nothing can harm you. Pierre will soon be back."

Celeste turned her head eagerly in the direction of the new voice.

"It is Antoine Dupont," she said eagerly; "I know your voice. Pierre said he was tired of playing for me to sing, and that I must stay here until he comes for me. He may stay away all the afternoon; he did one day last week, and I am so afraid of the horses and those terrible motor cars; they come so near and make such a dreadful noise. Besides, I am afraid Pierre will spend all the money for sweets and marbles, and there will be nothing to take home to poor Maman Remo."

Antoine's eyes flashed angrily.

"Pierre is a beast," he muttered. "If my father could catch him, he would beat him as he deserves."

"Where do you live?" inquired Maisie, whose interest and sympathy were growing stronger every moment.

"It is a long way from here; I could not possibly go there myself."

"No, of course you couldn't, but we could take you in the pony cart, if Antoine knows the way. Would you like to go with us?"

"It is little Mademoiselle Barton," Antoine explained. "She drives the cobs. I told you about her the other day."

Celeste's face brightened perceptibly.

"I remember," she said, "the little American girl, with the long soft hair, that you said you would like to have me feel. Yes, I will go with you. You are very kind; you gave Antoine chocolates, and he gave them to me."

Antoine blushed at this mention of his generosity, but Maisie was pleased.

"Antoine is a nice boy," she said, approvingly, "and I will give him some more chocolates when we go home. I have a whole box full, that Auntie Belle gave me yesterday. I will send you some, too, if you like them. Now come along."

Celeste rose promptly, and held out her hand, and as Maisie took it, and led the way to the waiting pony cart, her heart was suddenly filled with a great pitying tenderness, such as she had never felt before in her life, and she felt suddenly as if she wanted to cry.

At the sight of Maisie returning with her strange companion, Françoise once more found her voice.

"Leave that child alone, and get in at once, Mademoiselle Maisie," she commanded. "You are a very naughty little girl, and I shall certainly tell your mamma what you have done. Antoine, come here this instant, and hold these ponies. You know it terrifies me to be left alone with a horse."

Antoine, feeling considerably conscience-smitten, sprang to the ponies' heads, but Maisie had no intention of relinquishing her charge.

"I'm going to take the little blind girl home," she explained. "Her brother ran away and left her, and she is frightened. Please move up, Françoise, so she can sit between us on the seat."

"Indeed you will do nothing of the kind," returned Françoise, decidedly. "Your mamma would never allow it. Take the child back to the bench where you found her, and then we must go on. It is getting late, and we must hurry if you wish to shop before going home."

But Maisie did not move.

"The little girl is blind, Françoise," she said, reproachfully, "and she is frightened. I know papa and mamma wouldn't mind my taking her home. They like to have me do kind things for people. Please let us take her. Antoine knows her."

Françoise wavered. She was not really an unkind woman, and she noticed that, although very poorly dressed, the little blind girl was not at all dirty. But now, to the surprise of every one, it was Celeste herself who drew back.

"I--I would rather not go, please," she said, her cheeks crimsoning, and she took a few quick steps backward, in the direction of the bench where she had been sitting.

"Why not?" inquired Maisie, in surprise, and she grasped her new friend's hand still more firmly.

"The lady does not want me. I would rather wait here for Pierre. Please take me back to the bench."

"There, you see, Françoise, you have hurt her feelings," cried Maisie, indignantly. "Please do come, Celeste; I want you very much, and so does Françoise. You do want her, don't you, Françoise?"

"Yes, come, my child," said the maid, in a much gentler tone, and she made room for Celeste to sit beside her on the seat. "Now, Antoine, if you know where the little girl lives, direct us there at once."

Thus urged, Celeste though still looking a little uncomfortable, allowed herself to be lifted into the cart, and in accordance with Antoine's directions, Maisie turned the ponies' heads, and they trotted away towards the home of her little protégée.

"Does your brother often leave you like that?" Maisie inquired, sympathetically, as the little blind girl settled back in her seat, with a sigh of unmistakable enjoyment.

"Pierre is not my brother; he is Maman Remo's boy. My brother would never be so cruel. He was always kind, and once he beat a boy who teased me."

"Why does your brother let you go out with that horrid Pierre--why doesn't he take you himself?"

A shadow crept into the child's face, and her lip trembled.

"He is not here," she said, sadly. "He went away four years ago, to seek his fortune, and he has never come back since."

"To seek his fortune?" repeated Maisie, looking puzzled. "I thought it was only in fairy tales that people did that. Where did he go?"

Celeste shook her head.

"I do not know," she said. "Maman Remo thinks he may have gone to America. We have never heard from him since he went away. He told Maman Remo he would not come back until he had made his fortune."

"And who is Maman Remo?"

"She is the lady who has taken care of me ever since my own maman died. She promised Louis she would let me stay with her until he came back."

"And is she kind--do you love her?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, she is very kind, and I love her very much. She was so good to my poor maman when she was ill, and so was Papa Remo, too, but he is dead now. He was run over by a motor car, two years ago, in Paris. That is why I am so afraid of them. We lived in Paris then, and Papa and Maman Remo had a house where they took lodgers. There was a shop on the first floor, and they sold beautiful flowers. But after papa was killed maman could not pay the rent, and so we came here to Nice, and she does washing for the people in the hotels, and Pierre and I earn money, too."

"I know you do," said Maisie eagerly. "I heard you sing in front of our hotel this afternoon. I threw you some pennies, and I wondered why you never looked up or smiled, as the other musicians do."

Celeste flushed. "That was because I could not see you, and Pierre does not always tell me when people throw pennies. He is afraid I will keep the account, and tell Maman Remo if he does not bring all the money home."

"Pierre must be a very bad boy," said Maisie, with conviction.

"I am afraid he is not always good, and it is a great pity, because his mother loves him so much, and it makes her so unhappy when he does mean, bad things."

"When did you first come to live with Maman Remo?" inquired Maisie, who was beginning to find this new acquaintance very interesting.

"It was five years ago, just after my own papa died, that maman and Louis and I came to her house to live. My papa was a great singer. He had a wonderful voice, and he sang at the opera in Paris. But he caught a terrible cold one winter, and lost his voice, and after that we were very poor. He was ill for a long time, and maman nursed him, and after he died she was ill too. Maman Remo says it was because she had worked so hard to nurse papa and take care of us all. She used to sew all day to earn money for us, and they paid her so little at the shops. She lived a year after we came to the Remo's, and then she died too, and Louis and I were left alone. Louis used to help in the shop, but he never liked it. He had a beautiful voice; even more beautiful than papa's, and he loved music better than anything else in the world. So when maman was dead, he went away to seek his fortune."

"It's very interesting," said Maisie; "it sounds just like a story. Why doesn't your brother ever write to you or let you know where he is?"

"He would not know where to write. You see, there was no way of telling him when we left Paris, after Papa Remo was killed. Maman Remo cannot write."

"How queer," said Maisie. "I thought all grown-up people could write. Suppose your brother comes home some time, and wants to find you; how will he be able to do it?"

"I do not know," said Celeste, mournfully. "It is very sad, and I often cry about it. I am sure he will come some time, and if he does not find us he will be so unhappy, for he was always good, and we loved each other very much."

The little blind girl looked so sad and distressed, that Maisie thought it might be as well to change the subject, so, after they had both been silent for a moment, and Antoine had given a direction about the next turning, she inquired whether Celeste was not glad Christmas was so near.

"Oh, yes, very glad," said the child, her face brightening. "I love Christmas. Maman used to say I must always love it, because my name, Celeste Noel, means Celestial Christmas."

"I think it is a beautiful name," said Maisie, much impressed. "I wish mine were half as pretty, but it's just plain Mary Barton, though everybody calls me Maisie. Do you always have a good time on Christmas?"

"I used to have beautiful times when maman was alive, and Louis was at home, and even now I love it very much."

"What are you going to do this year?" Maisie inquired, with interest.

"Oh, Maman Remo will take me to High Mass at the cathedral, and the music will be beautiful. I think I love music as much as Louis does, though I have not his wonderful voice. In the afternoon perhaps she will take me to the concert in the Public Gardens. She is too busy to take me other days, and Pierre does not like music, though he plays the mandolin for me to sing, but no one ever works on Christmas, not even Maman Remo."

"And don't you expect any presents? I thought everybody had some kind of presents on Christmas."

"I used to have presents when maman and Louis were here, but Maman Remo is very poor; she has no money to spend for such things."

Maisie was silent for a moment. The thought of a Christmas without presents was such a new one, that it took time to accustom herself to it. She really could not imagine what such a Christmas would be like. Then another idea flashed into her mind, and she inquired, eagerly--

"But suppose you knew you were to have a present--what would you rather have than anything else?"

"I know what I would like best, but I could never have it; it is too expensive."

"What is it? Do please tell me."

"The little statue of the Blessed Mother with the Baby Jesus in her arms. It is in the window of a shop on the Boulevard Messina. Pierre told me about it, and one day we went into the shop, and the man was very kind. He let me hold it in my hand, it was so beautiful to feel the dear Mother's face and the precious Baby's. I would rather have it than anything else in the world."

"And how much does it cost?" Maisie asked anxiously.

"Oh, a great deal of money; nearly twenty francs. Certainly we could never buy such a beautiful thing."

"Twenty francs is four dollars, isn't it?" said Maisie reflectively. "Four dollars isn't very much. I spent five for mamma's Christmas present last year, and nearly six for papa's."

Celeste's astonishment was almost too great for words.

"You Americans must be very rich indeed," she said. "We heard about how rich you were. That is why Louis wanted to go to America to seek his fortune."

"There are a good many poor people in America, too," said Maisie. "I think there must be poor people everywhere. I think I would rather be poor in Nice than in New York. New York is such a big, noisy place, but Morristown, where my home is, is lovely."

Celeste began to look troubled again.

"I hope Louis is not very poor," she said, in a tone of real distress. "Sometimes I am so afraid he may be, even poorer than we are. I lie awake thinking about it at night."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said practical Maisie. "He may not be poor at all, you know, and if he isn't, you are worrying all for nothing. Auntie Belle says it is very foolish to worry about things until you are sure they are going to happen. That's what she said to mamma when I was ill last winter, and mamma thought I was getting scarlet fever. It turned out not to be scarlet fever, at all, only German measles, so Auntie Belle was quite right. How old was Louis when he went away to seek his fortune?"

"Just eighteen, and I was eight. He is ten years older than me. He is twenty-two now, and I am twelve."

"A big boy of eighteen ought to be able to take care of himself," Maisie remarked, with cheerful conviction. "I really don't believe you need worry about him. Perhaps he will be very rich when he comes home. In stories the people who go to seek their fortunes always come home rich."

"I don't think I care very much about his being rich if he is only well and strong," said Celeste, with a sigh. "I do miss him so much. Sometimes it seems as if I couldn't wait, but Maman Remo says I must pray to the good God every day, and by and by He will let Louis come home and find us."

"Oh, I am sure He will," said Maisie, "and I know Louis will be rich, too, like the people in books. I don't suppose you ever have to go to school or learn lessons, on account of being--the way you are, you know."

"No," said Celeste, "but I wish I could. I don't want to grow up ignorant like Maman Remo."

"But I don't see how you can help it; you couldn't learn to read and write like other people, could you?"

"Not just the same, but I could learn to read and write the way blind people do. If I could only go to the school for the blind in Paris, I should be so happy."

Maisie was more surprised by this remark than by anything her new friend had said yet. That any person in her senses should actually wish to go to school and to learn lessons, was a state of affairs that she had never even contemplated as the wildest possibility.

"I never heard of a school for the blind," she said, doubtfully; "is it a nice place?"

"Oh, it is a beautiful place! I was there once, when I was a very little girl. Maman and Louis went with me, and a kind gentleman took us around, and told us such interesting things. There were books full of little dots that the blind children read with their fingers, and raised maps to teach them geography, and they let me take them, and told me how they used them. And, oh, so many other wonderful things! But the best of all was the music. Some of the children played and sang for us, and it was beautiful. I wanted to stay there, but the gentleman said they did not take any children under eight, and I was only six."

"Well, you are more than eight now, so why don't you go, if you think you will like it so much?" Maisie inquired, with interest.

"Because Paris is so far away, and it costs so much money to go there. Besides there is no one to take me, and I cannot go by myself. If Louis were here, I know he would take me."

"I should think you would be glad you didn't have to go," said Maisie cheerfully. "I know I should be if I were you. You are the first girl I have ever met who was sorry because she couldn't go to school. I go to school at home, but the very best part about coming abroad this year, was that I wouldn't have to go all winter. At first mamma thought of taking a governess, and that would have been dreadful, but papa said he was sure I would learn enough travelling in different countries, so mamma changed her mind, and I only have to do history and spelling for an hour every morning with her or with Auntie Belle."

Celeste said nothing, and there was a short silence, which was broken by Antoine's direction--

"This is the street, Mademoiselle; it is the first house on the left."

They turned into a little narrow back street, lined on both sides with small, shabby houses, before the very smallest and shabbiest of which the ponies were brought to stand, and the groom sprang to the ground, and came round to the side of the cart, to help the little blind girl out.

Françoise, who had been feeling far from comfortable during the short drive, looked decidedly relieved.

"Bid the little girl good-bye at once, Mademoiselle Maisie," she said; "it is getting late."

But Maisie was in no hurry.

"Good-bye," she said, reluctantly. "Are you sure you will find some one at home? I don't like to leave you alone again."

Celeste smiled, and explained that she did not in the least mind being alone at home; it was only in the street that she was afraid.

"Besides, I am quite sure Maman Remo will be in this afternoon," she added. "She is ironing some clothes that must go back to one of the hotels to-night."

But Maisie insisted that Antoine should take the little blind girl in, and make sure that she was quite safe before leaving her. She would have greatly enjoyed going in herself, and making Maman Remo's acquaintance, but that she dared not suggest, well knowing that Françoise would never consent to such a proceeding. So she bade Celeste good-bye regretfully, and watched the little figure disappear with Antoine into the small, shabby house. In a few moments the boy returned.

"Was Maman Remo at home?" she inquired anxiously, as Antoine resumed his seat, and the ponies started off at a leisurely trot.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, and she was very angry when she heard what had happened. That Pierre of hers is a beast. No one but a beast would leave a little blind child alone in the streets like that. He deserves a good beating."

"Have you known the family long?" asked Françoise, who was, perhaps, more interested in poor little Celeste than she cared to show.

"Oh, yes, a long time. Every one knows Madame Remo, and every one is sorry for the child; she is such a dear little thing. Madame Remo works very hard, and Pierre is too lazy to be of any help. The only thing he will do is to play his mandolin for Celeste to sing, and even that he is getting tired of. You see how he treats her. Madame Remo is a very good woman; my mother respects her greatly."

"She must be a good woman to keep that child all these years," observed Françoise, sympathetically. "I do not suppose she receives a penny for it."

"No, indeed, not one. People often ask her why she does not send Celeste to the asylum, but she says she loves the child like her own, and nothing will induce her to part with her."

"Françoise," said Maisie, with sudden determination, "I'm not going shopping; I'm going straight home. I've got a beautiful plan, and I want to tell papa and mamma all about it."

* * * * *

Mr. and Mrs. Barton and Auntie Belle were just starting out for an afternoon walk when the pony cart drew up once more before the Hotel de Nice. With one bound, Maisie was on the sidewalk, and had seized her father's hand in both her own.

"I've found somebody, Papa," she cried, joyously. "You said a good many things might happen in a week, and one has happened already. She's a little blind girl, the same one that sang in front of the hotel this afternoon, only then I didn't know she was blind. She hasn't any father or mother, only a brother, and he's gone away to seek his fortune. She doesn't expect a single Christmas present because Maman Remo, who is a very good woman, Antoine says, is very poor, but she loves Christmas just the same, because her name is Celeste Noel, which means Celestial Christmas. The thing she wants most in the world is a little statue that costs twenty francs. I want to buy it for her, and a lot of other things besides. Please say I can. You said I could make somebody else's Christmas as merry as mine was last year. I thought I wouldn't care much about doing it at first, but I've changed my mind, and just think what a beautiful surprise it will be for poor little Celeste!"