“It is of no use; I can’t do it! I may be too young—I may be too bad, but—I can’t learn it!”
At last, one September evening, Bonaventure stood at the edge of Sosthène’s galérie, whither Zoséphine had followed out, leaving le vieux and la vieille in the house. On the morrow Bonaventure was to leave Carancro. And now he said,—
“Zoséphine, I must go.”
“Ah, Bonaventure!” she replied, “my children—what will my children do? It is not only that you have taught them to spell and read, though God will be good to you for that! But these two years you have been every thing to them—every thing. They will be orphaned over again, Bonaventure.” Tears shone in her eyes, and she turned away her face with her dropped hands clasped together.
The young man laid his hand upon her drooping brow. She turned again and lifted her eyes to his. His lips moved silently, but she read upon them the unheard utterance: it was a word of blessing and farewell. Slowly and tenderly she drew down his hand, laid a kiss upon it, and said,—
“Adjieu—adjieu,” and they parted.
As Zoséphine, with erect form and firm, clear tread, went by her parents and into the inner room where her children lay in their trundle-bed, the old mother said to le vieux,—
“You can go ahead and repair the schoolhouse now. Our daughter will want to begin, even to-morrow, to teach the children of the village—les zonfants à la chapelle.”
“You think so?” said Sosthène, but not as if he doubted.
“Yes; it is certain now that Zoséphine will always remain the Widow ’Thanase.”