What you fancied was Dudu, my little Jeanne," he continued, "must have been a branch of the ivy blown across the window.

In the moonlight, and with the reflections of the snow, things take queer shapes." "But there is no wind, and the ivy doesn't grow so high up, and the ivy could not have _croaked_," thought Jeanne to herself again, though she was far too well brought up a little French girl to contradict her father by saying so.
"Perhaps so, dear papa," was all she said.
But her parents still looked a little uneasy.
"She cannot be quite well," said her mother.

"She must be feverish.

I must tell Marcelline to make her a little tisane when she goes to bed." "Ah, bah!" said Jeanne's white-headed papa.

"What we were speaking of will be a much better cure than tisane.