The after-effects were a surprise. After the first of her husband's spasms of glee the old woman spoke out, but in trembling tones no longer.
"Ah, the cemetery, it is I who forgot to go there this week."
Her husband stopped, the laugh dying on his lip as he turned to her.
"Ah, ma bonne, how came that? You forgot?" His own tones trembled at the last word.
"Yes, you had the cramps again, you remember, and there was no money left for the bouquet."
"Yes, I remember," and the great chest heaved a deep sigh.
"You have children—you have lost someone?"
"Hélas! no living children, mademoiselle. No, no—one daughter we had, but she died twenty years ago. She lies over there—where we can see her. She would have been thirty-eight years now—the fourteenth of this very month!"
"Yes, this very month."
Then the old woman, for the first time, left her refuge along the wall; she crept softly, quietly near to her husband to put her withered hand in his. His large palm closed over it. Both of the old faces turned toward the cemetery; and in the old eyes a film gathered, as they looked toward all that was left of the hope that was buried away from them.