"No," Irene said; "her favourite little dog was drowned as we crossed the sea. He fell over the edge of the steamer, and we never saw him again."

"Ah! but that is sad; but oh! dear _pet.i.te_," the kind woman said, going up to Dorothy, "think what grief my poor mother has, for my little brother Antoine fell into the river when all the flowers were coming out in May, and was dragged out cold and dead. Ah! but that was grief."

"How old was he?" Dorothy said.

"Five years old, ma'm'selle, and as lovely as an angel."

"What did your mother do?" Irene asked; "your poor mother!"

"She comforted my poor father, for it was when cutting the rushes with him that Antoine fell into the water. She dried her eyes, and tried to be cheerful for his, my father's, sake. The pain at her poor heart was terrible, terrible, but she said to me, 'Jeanette, I must hide the pain for the sake of the dear father. I only tell it to G.o.d.'"

Both the children listened to Jeanette's story with keen interest, and Irene asked,--

"How is your poor mother now?"

"She is calm, she is quiet; she does her work for them all, and her face has a look of peace. M. le Cur says it is the peace that comes of bearing sorrow, as the Lord Jesus bore the cross, and that is the way for us all; little and young, or old, it is the same. But I must go; there is so much work, night and day, day and night. See, dear little ma'm'selle"--and Jeanette foraged in the deep pocket of her white ap.r.o.n--"here are some bon-bons, chocolate of the best; see, all shining like silver."

She laid some round chocolate b.a.l.l.s, covered with silver paper, in Dorothy's hand, and said,--

"Try to sleep away your sorrow, ma'm'selle, and wake fresh and happy for madame's sake."

"Every one tells me that," said Dorothy, "except mother. She does not tell me I don't care for her; she does not tell me to be happy for her sake. As if I could--could--forget my Nino!"

"No one thinks you can forget him," Irene said; "but if crying makes you ill, and makes your mamma miserable, you should try to stop."

Dorothy began to taste the excellence of Jeanette's chocolate, and offered some to Irene, saying,--

"That was a pretty story of Jeanette's about her poor little brother.

Didn't you think so, Irene?"

"Yes," Irene said, thoughtfully; "I hope G.o.d will comfort Antoine's poor father."

"It's the _mother_ that cared the most--it was the mother who was so miserable."

"Ah! but it was the father who let the little boy slip into the water; it was a thousand times worse for him," Irene said.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Nino]

CHAPTER VI.

THE VILLA LUCIA.

"Well, grannie, is she coming?--is Irene coming?"

The question was asked eagerly by a boy of nine years old, who came into the pretty sitting-room of the Villa Lucia at San Remo, with his hands full of pale lilac crocuses. "Is she coming, grannie dear?"

"Do not rush into the room before your sister, w.i.l.l.y. See, you have knocked the basket out of her hand."

"And all my flowers are upset, grannie," said a little plaintive voice.

"Every one!"

"Pick them up, w.i.l.l.y; do not be so rough. Ah! look!"--for a third and very important personage now toddled into the room, having struggled down from his nurse's arms; and before any one could stop him, Baby Bob had trampled on Ella's flowers, so that scarcely one was fit to present to grannie.

Quite unrepentant, and, indeed, unheeding of the cry--"Oh! Baby Bob!

what are you doing?"--Baby Bob stumped up to grannie, and deposited in her lap a very much crushed and flattened crocus, saying--

"Kiss me for it; it's for _you_."

"You darling!" Lady Burnside said. "Thank you. The poor little flower is sadly squeezed; but it is a token of baby's love all the same."

"Now, grannie," exclaimed w.i.l.l.y, "I want to hear about the cousin, because, you see, I never even thought about her till the other day, and I want to be ready--what do you call it?--_prepared_ for her."

"After all, w.i.l.l.y," said a grave-eyed maiden of twelve, who was lying on a couch in the window, "it won't make much difference to _you_ what Irene is like. A rough and noisy boy like you can't expect a stranger to put up with him as _we_ do."

"She's not a stranger," said w.i.l.l.y. "She is a _cousin_, and who knows?

she may like me better than anybody. She may be a jolly girl, who isn't made of sugar and salt, like Ella!"

"I am not made of sugar and salt," pleaded Ella, who had patiently gathered up her flowers, and was answering the call of their nurse to go with Baby Bob to take off his jacket and hat.

"No, that's true," said w.i.l.l.y; "you are all salt and vinegar, no sugar.

Now, grannie, as the little ones are cleared off at last, tell me about the cousin."

But Lady Burnside said gravely, "w.i.l.l.y, I wish you would try to please me by being more considerate and gentle to your sisters."

"Ella is so whiny piny! she is always saying '_Don't_', and 'You _shan't_!'"

"Not always, w.i.l.l.y. Do you remember how ready she was to give up her turn to you to play draughts with Constance last evening? Do you remember how kindly she helped you to find those places in the map for Mr. Martyn?"

"Yes, grannie," w.i.l.l.y said. "I will go and tell her I am sorry I have been so cross; but she _is_ provoking, and you don't know _how_ provoking."

"Well, making all allowance for that, I still think that you should never forget you are a boy and she is a little girl, and should for that very reason be gentle and forbearing, because it is a rule, which all n.o.ble-hearted people recognise, that the weak should be protected by the strong."

w.i.l.l.y gave his grandmother a rather rough kiss, and said,--

"I'll go and stroke Ella the right way, and _when_ I come back you _will_ tell me about the cousin."

When w.i.l.l.y was gone, Constance laid down the book she had been reading, and said,--

"I do not envy Irene Packingham coming here. w.i.l.l.y is an awful tease, and if she is a prim little thing, turned out by a boarding-school, she will have a bad time of it."

"I think you are hard upon w.i.l.l.y, dear Constance," was the gentle reply.

"He is a very high-spirited boy, very much like what your father was; and then w.i.l.l.y has the great disadvantage of having no brother near his own age."

"I think," said Constance, "he ought to go to school. Mr. Martyn thinks so also, I know. It is such a pity mother is so set against schools."