“Well, well, my girl, whenever the lad is hungry you must keep him to dinner—that’s all. I give you permission”
Face to face with them, she had again felt within her that tender feeling which once already had banished all thoughts of rigor from her mind. They were so happy in that kitchen! The cotton curtain, drawn half-way, gave free entry to the sunset beams. The burnished copper pans set the end wall all aglow, lending a rosy tint to the twilight lingering in the room. And there, in the golden shade, the lovers’ little round faces shone out, peaceful and radiant, like moons. Their love was instinct with such calm certainty that no neglect was even shown in keeping the kitchen utensils in their wonted good order. It blossomed amidst the savory odors of the cooking-stove, which heightened their appetites and nourished their hearts.
“Mamma,” asked Jeanne, one evening after considerable meditation, “why is it Rosalie’s cousin never kisses her?”
“And why should they kiss one another?” asked Hélène in her turn. “They will kiss on their birthdays.”
CHAPTER VII.
The soup had just been served on the following Tuesday evening, when Hélène, after listening attentively, exclaimed:
“What a downpour! Don’t you hear? My poor friends, you will get drenched to-night!”
“Oh, it’s only a few drops,” said the Abbé quietly, though his old cassock was already wet about the shoulders.
“I’ve got a good distance to go,” said Monsieur Rambaud. “But I shall return home on foot all the same; I like it. Besides, I have my umbrella.”
Jeanne was reflecting as she gazed gravely on her last spoonful of vermicelli; and at last her thoughts took shape in words: “Rosalie said you wouldn’t come because of the wretched weather; but mamma said you would come. You are very kind; you always come.”