“Thou shalt have thy share!” pleaded the girl. “I swear it.”
“I should not,” sobbed Baptiste. “Thou wouldst eat up all my medal, and it was blessed by le Saint Père.”
Ned, peering forth, saw his Madonna jerk erect, her eyelids snapping.
“Give me thy hand, then,” she said, in a cold little voice. “Thou shalt walk back to Méricourt all the way, and have thy medal to supper at the end. Give me thy hand!”
The child cried out when she took it. Ned showed himself at the window.
“Nicette,” he said, with particular softness, “I will exchange thee a louis-d’or for one single little confidence of thine.”
The girl started, looked round, and stared at the speaker in breathless consternation. A bright spot of colour, like pink light caught from an opal, waxed and waned on her cheek.
“How, monsieur?” she muttered.
Ned held out the coin.
“Here is a surfeit of guava jelly,” said he, “if thou wilt tell me what was the miracle thou cravedst of the Holy Mother yonder.”