"Ah," sighed Suzanne, mournfully. "How handsome he was to look at—and so true and brave!"
"I shall never love another," said Zabette, with sad conviction—"never. Love is over for me."
"And for me," said Suzanne. "But we have our memories."
"Mine," corrected Zabette. "You are forgetting."
"Did he ever give you a present that said À ma chérie?" demanded Suzanne, pointedly.
The other explained blandly: "You cannot say anything, my dear, on the back of a tintype.—But I have my letter from St. Pierre."
She showed it.
"Even if I cannot read mine," declared the girl from l'Étang, hotly, "I know it is fully as nice as yours. Nicer!"
"Oh, can I never see you but you must insult me!" cried Zabette. "Keep your old box and your precious letter from St. Pierre Miquelon. What can they matter to me?"
Without a word of good-by she sprang to her feet and set out for the Grande Anse. She did not see the Benoît girl again that winter; but she could not help thinking about her, sometimes with sympathy, sometimes with bitter hatred. The young men came flocking to her home, as usual, vying with one another in attentions to her, for not only was Zabette known as the handsomest girl in three parishes, but also as an excellent housekeeper—"good saver, rare spender."