“Figure to yourself!” she said. “We are in the classroom: it is arithmetic, and I am breaking my head over a problem wholly frightful. On the estrade is Madame, calm as a statue, her little white shawl over her shoulders, _comme ça_. Vivette is making signs to Loulou: it is the peace of every day. Enter Margoton, a _telegramme_ in the hand. Madame opens it; reads; a cry escapes her. Calming herself on the instant, she bids us be _très sages_, and leaves the room. Shortly appears our Sister, and calling me tenderly to her side, takes my hand and conducts me to Madame’s boudoir. There I hear the fearful tidings. My parents are in Paradise!”
Honor paused, and drew a long breath, shaking her hair back with a dramatic gesture. Stephanie clasped her hands.
“_Chèrie_, how terrible! But continue! What--how did this happen? An accident?”
“Cholera!” (I fear Honor was enjoying this part!) “The _choléra Asiatique_, most terrible of all diseases, bringing death in an instant. Two days ago,--figure to thyself, Stephanie: two days ago, they were in health: Mamán, whom you remember, all beautiful; Papa, good as bread, who overwhelmed us with chocolate--the pestilence breathed upon them, and Heaven opened to receive them. Ah! that is terrible, if you will!”
The two girls were sitting together in Honor’s little room. Ordinarily, they would have sat on the floor, but to-day her mourning was to be considered. The waxed floor shone with a brilliant polish; no speck of dust was visible anywhere in the spotless cell (it was hardly more in size); still, one could not be too careful.
“Black is very becoming to thee, my poor dear!” said Stephanie. “Thy hair is like a cloud of golden fire above it. Nothing could be more beautiful, I assure thee.”
Honor looked anxiously in the little mirror that hung over the chest of drawers. It was a pleasant image that she saw; a round rosy face, with a pretty, wilful mouth, dark blue eyes heavily fringed with black lashes, a straight little nose, and, as Stephanie said, a perfect cloud of curly red-gold hair. All this, I say, was pleasant enough; but Honor did not notice the general effect; what she saw was a collection of small brown spots on the bridge of the straight little nose, and extending to the cheeks. Freckles! No one else at Madame Madeleine’s had freckles. Patricia Desmond, with her complexion like moonlight on ivory; Vivette, with the crimson glow mantling in her brown cheeks, Stephanie herself with her smooth, pale skin--