“Ze time vill come, ma petite Elsie, ze time vill come ven zat mocking heart sall take back zose idle words.”
“How solemn you are, Lizzette. You frighten me.”
“Non, non, mais, zere ees no love like ze true love in ze heart of ze good woman.”
“It may be,” said Elsie lightly, “but like the old Scotchwoman’s white linen, ‘it taks a sair bit o’ achin’ ta get it,’ and I’ve no desire to prove it.”
“Eet vill prove itself in ze heart, and no ask desire.”
“Dear me! how far we have wandered from our muttons. I suppose your paragon dines here to-night?”
“Oui, and to-morrow I sall go shake ze hand de mon Herbeart, and find him still ze same.”
“Perhaps not.”
“I know,” said Lizzette positively. “My lad ees not made of ze sheap stuff zat wear out memory.”
The next morning as Elsie, in response to Mrs. Mason’s invitation, entered the morning-room, she became at once aware that its fair mistress was not its only occupant. Partially concealed behind a newspaper she saw a blonde head, out of which a pair of blue eyes gave her a quick glance, and she noticed with an odd sense of detail that their owner wore a dark blue smoking-jacket with facings of pale blue satin. There was also a running accompaniment of observation as to a slim white hand, the curling ends of a blonde mustache, and an air of indolent grace in the long lithe figure. Venturing but one glance, she stood with book and pencil in hand, quietly awaiting Mrs. Mason’s orders. It had been one of the results of Elsie Murchison’s secluded life and country rearing that no one had ever told her how beautiful she was, and if she could but read the pleasing tale in her mirror she accepted it in as humble and thankful a spirit as she accepted the sunshine and the flowers, and there was always a refreshing unconsciousness about her that reminded one of the innocence of a child. If she ever knew how charming a picture she made as she stood before her mistress with downcast eyes and flushed cheeks and the quaint cap and kerchief only intensifying her girlish simplicity, it was not till long after. The natural flush of youthful expectancy at coming in contact with the young and handsome man before her was crushed back under the self-scorn with which she regarded any vague desire, as she expressed it, to “look over the fence.” Not for one moment would she allow herself to forget that she was “Elsie the cook,” and a little defiant curve settled around the dimpled mouth as she became aware of the intent gaze of those blue eyes over the top of the newspaper. It was with haste amounting almost to curtness that she received her orders and betook herself out of the room.