How that old organ
brings it all back. My fiddle was useless after the hard usage it received
that day. Ninette and I went out on our rounds together, but for the
present I was a sleeping partner in the firm, and all I could do was to
grind occasionally when Ninette's arm ached, or pick up the sous that were
thrown us. Ninette was, as a rule, fairly successful. Since her mother had
died, a year before, leaving her the organ as her sole legacy, she had
lived mainly by that instrument; although she often increased her income
in the evenings, when organ-grinding was more than ever at a discount, by
selling bunches of violets and other flowers as button-holes.
With her organ she had a regular beat, and a distinct _clientele_. Children
playing with their _bonnes_ in the gardens of the Tuileries and the
Luxembourg were her most productive patrons. Of course we had bad days as
well as good, and in winter it was especially bad; but as a rule we managed
fairly to make both ends meet. Sometimes we carried home as much as five
francs as the result of the day's campaign, but this, of course, was
unusual.
Ninette was not precisely a pretty child, but she had a very bright face,
and wonderful gray eyes.
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