“Mère Lunde will be so glad.” She arose and hopped gleefully on one foot, holding his hand as she went part of the way around him. The last rays of golden light in the sky made bewildering shadows and gleams about her and she looked like a fairy sprite.
The town was already lapsing into quiet. No one had need to grumble at the length of working days in this pastoral town and time. Others had come in from journeys, and in more than one home feasting had begun. The boats had been fastened securely, the river was growing dark with shadows, and purple and gold clouds were drifting across the heavens.
“Let us go this way,” Renée said.
This way was up to the Rue de l’Eglise, and she turned into that. Here and there a friend caught his hand and he had to pause for a few words of cordial welcome.
“What now, little one?” as she drew him aside.
She looked up with a sweetly serious expression, though a flush of half-embarrassment wavered over the small face.
“I went to church every afternoon to say a prayer for you that you might come home. I thought the good God would rather hear it in His own house—”
“Did you, my little darling?” he exclaimed, deeply touched.
“And now”—she hesitated—“I think I ought to go and thank Him. Men do that when the Governor grants their wishes.”
“Yes, yes! And I will go, too.”