“Nothing worse than sitting in the arbor, talking.”
“And the child not at all well! When she comes down with a fever—and she looks like a ghost now.”
That was true enough. The cool air had added to her paleness and her eyes had a softness in their brown depths, a mysterious expression, as if she had not shaken off the atmosphere of some far world.
“Go to the fire and warm up, even if it is a summer night. You should have known better than to keep her sitting in the chill dew,” to M. Denys.
Then the good mère made her drink a cup of hot broth.
But she had not much appetite. Now and then she stole a shy glance at Uncle Gaspard, and if she met his eyes a faint color suffused her face. The happy, childlike trust was coming back. And though they sat together awhile afterward, the faint glow of the dying fire lighting the room, neither fell in a humor for talking. She kept half wondering if it was true that he did not care to marry Barbe, half disbelieving it; and yet it did not give her the pang she had suffered from the cruel jealousy that had rent her soul. The tranquillity was very sweet, very comforting.
She was singing the next morning as she went about her duties a gay little French chanson André had taught her, and her voice was like a bird’s.
“You are happy this morning, ma’m’selle,” said Mère Lunde, with fondness in her old eyes. “Has there been news from the boats?”
“From the boats?” What had that to do with it? Then she colored scarlet—that meant André.
“No,” she replied gravely. “Uncle Gaspard would have mentioned it if there was.”