waiting to see it pass. Only the well-to-do people owned them, and she had never even had a ride in one. There were rumors that possibly that very summer a bus line would be run to the various interesting parts of the country for the convenience of tourists from the States. Then she might be able to ride a little way, if it didn’t cost too much, just to see how it felt. A ramshackle Ford jerked to a sudden halt right in front of the house, and a tall, thin man backed carefully out from the driver’s seat and ambled up the path toward her. “Mademoiselle Wistmore?” he inquired, bashfully removing his blue woolen cap and thrusting it under his arm. “Oui, Monsieur.” “My name’s Pierre Boisdeau,” he drawled, taking the cap out from under his arm and rolling it nervously between his two big hands. “Yes?” replied Desiré encouragingly. “I have a message for you,” pushing the long-suffering cap into his pocket as he spoke. The girl seated herself upon the broad stone step, and with a gesture invited the stranger to do the same; but he merely placed one foot upon the scraper beside the step, and began in halting embarrassed fashion to deliver his message. After he had gone, Desiré fairly raced through preparations for supper; then went to look up the road again. If Jack would only come! René trudged around from the back of the house where he had been playing, and announced that he was hungry; so she took him in, gave him his supper, and put him to bed. Before she had finished, Priscilla returned. “Jack must have been delayed somewhere. We might as well eat, and I’ll get his supper when he comes,” decided the older girl. While they ate, Priscilla chattered on and on about her playmates, while Desiré said “Yes” and “No” rather absent-mindedly. Where could Jack be? “I’m going to bed,” yawned Priscilla, about seven o’clock. “We ran so much, I’m tired.” “All right, dear.” “Where are you going?” inquired the child, stopping on the stairs as she caught sight of her sister throwing a shawl around her shoulders.
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