‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter. " "Well said, Jack," cried Figg. “Bring any new songs you may have. The small Diedermayer clan was a captive audience.
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