"Oh, tell me, my mother, who is coming?"
"My darling, it is our blessed friend, Miché Vignevielle!"
"To see me?" cried the girl.
"Yes."
"Oh, my mother, what have you done?"
"Why, Olive, my child," exclaimed the little mother, bursting into tears, "do you forget it is Miché Vignevielle who has promised to protect you when I die?"
The daughter had turned away, and entered the door; but she faced around again, and extending her arms toward her mother, cried:
"How can—he is a white man—I am a poor"—
"Ah! chérie," replied Madame Delphine, seizing the outstretched hands, "it is there—it is there that he shows himself the best man alive! He sees that difficulty; he proposes to meet it; he says he will find you a suitor!"
Olive freed her hands violently, motioned her mother back, and stood proudly drawn up, flashing an indignation too great for speech; but the next moment she had uttered a cry, and was sobbing on the floor.