Joyces Investments | Page 4

less frequented lengths of avenue
leading far out into the suburbs. It was a long and not too pleasant drive,
but Joyce Lavillotte was too busy with her thoughts to mind, and
Gilbert Judson too intent upon the safe guidance of her spirited team to
care. The dreamer inside was indeed surprised when he stopped and,
glancing out, she saw they had reached their destination.
It was a corner house, frame-built, and of a comfortable, unfashionable
aspect, set down in a square which showed its well-kept green even in
winter. The lace-hung windows were broad, sunny and many paned,
and a gilded cage flashed back the light in one of them. Joyce flung it
an eager glance of expectancy and ran lightly up the steps of the square
porch, as if overjoyed to be there. Before she could ring, the door was
flung open with the outburst,
"I knowed it was you! I saw you froo de window." She caught up the
laughing child with a loving word. "Of course you knew me,
sweetheart! Where's mama, and Auntie, and 'Wobin', and all?"
The brown curls bobbed against her shoulder and the red lips met her
own in frank affection.

"Dey's heah, but Wobin's wunned away."
"Wunned away? The naughty dog! Ah, Dorette, there you are! How's
the blessed mother?"
"Better, Joyce; no pain in several days. Come in, dear--she'll be so glad!
Oh, Joyce I did think when all restrictions were removed----"
"Ah! no, dear. You knew I would observe every form of respect. I have
been nowhere yet."
She glanced down meaningly at her black gown, and Dorette's olive
skin flushed in a delicate fashion.
"I beg your pardon. You are right, as usual. Come in to ma mère."
Joyce followed the sweet-faced young woman, still carrying the little
child who was so like her, and thus entered the large and pleasant
living-room of the old house. In the embrasure of one broad window,
seeming to focus all the light which streamed in freely through the thin,
parted curtains, sat a woman in a gown of soft white wool, made with
artistic simplicity. Her face had the same soft cream tint as her gown,
and the hair, turned back in loose waves from her broad forehead, was
of a purplish black, occasionally streaked with gray. All the features
were clean-cut and delicate, but the expression in the large black eyes
was that vague, appealing one which too surely indicates the utter loss
of sight.
Evidently the woman, still exceptionally beautiful in her maturity, was
hopelessly blind.
Joyce quickly set down the little one, and advanced on winged feet.
"Ma mère," she said in a voice almost of adoration, as she dropped to
her knees beside the woman's chair, "Ma mère, I have come back."
"Dear one! Ma petite!" exclaimed the other in liquid southern accents,
reaching out a delicate, trembling hand, which the girl caught and

kissed devotedly. "We have longed for you. But we knew you would
come! Let me see your face, child."
Joyce turned it upward and remained very still while the other lightly
touched brow, eyes, lips, and chin, in a swift, assured fashion.
"Ah, you are truly the same little Joyce. There is the breadth between
the eyes like an innocent child's, the straight, firm little nose like a
Greek outline, the full curved lips--do you still pout when angry,
chèrie?--and that square, decided turn to the chin, more apparent than
ever. You have grown, Joyce; you are a woman now."
"Yes, mother, but still a baby to you, and I want always to keep the old
name for you, no matter how I grow. Ma mère, you have grown
younger, and are more beautiful than ever."
"No flattery, mignonne! It is not good for me. Sit down here and tell us
all there is to tell. You are very lonely, now?"
"I am alone--yes."
Joyce drew a chair close beside the other and sat down, while the older
women smiled slightly.
"Yes, there is a difference. They tell me you are very rich."
"Too rich, dear mother; it frightens me!"
"Money is a great power, my child."
"And a terrible responsibility, as you have always taught me, ma mère."
"True. We have both known happy days without it. Still----" "If it had
only come in the right way, Mother Bonnivel!" cried the girl in an
irrepressible outburst, "But oh! there's a stain on every dollar. I must
spend my whole life trying to remove the stain, trying to make it honest
money. Do you remember our little French fable? How the cursed coin
of the oppressor left its mark in boils and burns, until it had been
sanctified by relieving the starving child? I must sanctify what my

father--snatched--ma mère."
"And you will, Joyce--I know that."