The summer throbbed and glowed in St. Angé.
Was it possible that things were as they always had been? Jared Birkdale kept his distance and silence; and Joyce grew to forget him.
The Black Cat flourished, and Jude made no attempt to curb his growing desire for popularity there. He was developing a talent for instructing his elders, and laying down the law. He was endeavoring to fill Birkdale's place. Jared had always been the tavern orator. Some one has to occupy that pedestal in all such places, while the others enjoy their pipes and mugs in speculative contemplation.
But nothing was as it had been with Joyce. She had the look of one on the threshold of big happenings. Her pale beauty had a new glow. The thinness of girlhood had given place to a slender womanhood, all grace and charm.
She was rarely seen without her baby on her bosom. Even in her work she managed to bear him on one arm.
Away from her, he wailed pitifully and almost constantly; while pressed against the warm, loving heart he sank into comfort and peace. When he was awake his elfish eyes were fixed in solemn stare upon the mother-face. Not knowingly nor indifferently, but intently, as if from the depths of past experience he was wondering and endeavouring to understand.
One evening, and such an evening it was in late July, Joyce, in her low rocker, the baby on her knees, sat on the piazza facing westward, when Gaston came around the house, fiddle in hand.
"Alone, Joyce?" It was an idle question, but it would do.
"Yes; Jude seems to have a lot to do about Mr. Drew's house, you know."
Joyce still kept up a pretty defence of Jude. Not that it was in the least necessary, or even sensible, but it had its part in her detached and dreamy life.