The girlish figure appeared before Michelle quite differently attired; a half-shamed look was on Alaine’s sweet face.
“Voilà!” cried Michelle; “she appears as if for a fête in her silk gown, her Lyons silk, of which she has but two remaining. Perhaps she is bidden by the red men to their cider fête, is it so, then? And a charming figure to be in the midst of howling savages scantily clothed and not too clean. For why is this on a week-day, and no feast at all that good Christians should attend? Ah-h!” she spread her fingers and shrugged her shoulders, “it is for M. Pierre, I doubt not.”
The tears started to Alaine’s eyes. “Mère Michelle,” she said, “you do me wrong all the time of late. You have forgotten, though I have not, that this is my dear father’s fête-day, and I go to Bonnefoy’s Point with those who do not lose their memory of France; there with them I pray and send my psalm of longing across the sea. It is all that I can do to show my father honor, this, to wear my best.”
Michelle dropped on a chair and covered her face with her apron. “Reproach me; that will be right, my poor fatherless one. I do you wrong, I who should cherish you and defend you from unkindness and suspicion. I am to-day, as one would say, at odds with myself. Petite émigrée, pauvrette, fifille, I am a stupide. I ought to have seen why your eyes have all day been triste and your mouth so wistful. It is not the kisses of a husband for which you sigh, but for those of a father. Go, then, star of my life, and I will add my prayers to yours.”
Alaine, overcome at this humility, embraced her and called her dear mamma and her always beloved Michelle, and then she turned to go. From under her little cap her soft brown hair peeped, her high-heeled shoes with their silver buckles clicked as she walked across the floor, and her gown swished softly against the sides of the door as she passed out. It was no peasant girl, but the daughter of one well-born, who appeared that day on the street of New Rochelle. She walked quickly toward a solid-looking new house and knocked at the door. “Enter,” came the word, and almost at the same moment Mathilde appeared.
“I knew it was yourself, my Alaine,” she cried. “I am ready this quarter-hour. All are gone; Pierre and my uncle to the fields, my aunt to the poor young wife of Jean de Caux; she has hoped and feared till now the fear is swallowed up in grief, for she has news that her husband died on the voyage from France. Wait here till I again assure myself that all is well.”
Alaine stood waiting for her before the fireplace, which was adorned with tiles showing forth the history of the prodigal son, the lost piece of silver, and other Scriptural incidents. She was absorbed in contemplation of the raising of Lazarus when Mathilde returned.
“All is well,” she announced, briskly. “Come, I saw Papa Renaud go by but this instant. The poor old one, he has never missed a day in going to the spot where he landed, to turn his eyes toward his beloved France and to lift up his voice in prayer and song. He is smitten with a great home-sickness, is Papa Renaud. But me, I never wish to see France again; it holds too many graves. Ciel! when I think of how many of them, I am affrighted by the number.”
Alaine laid a caressing hand on her shoulder. “I do not wonder, my poor Mathilde; one who alone of all her family is left must feel so. As for me, I know not, and so I still long for France if it contain my father. Hark! Papa Renaud begins his psalm.” They walked soberly to the spot where, with head uncovered, stood the old man, his arms outstretched, and his quavering voice chanting,—
“Estans assis aux rives aquatiques