"And Nature hath remembered, for a trace
Of calm Acadien life yet holds command,
Where, undisturbed, the rustling willows stand,
And the curved grass, telling the breeze's pace."
J. F. H.
Mrs. Rose à Charlitte served her dinner in the middle of the day. The six o'clock meal she called supper.
With feminine insight she noticed, at supper, on a day a week later, that her guest was more quiet than usual, and even dull in humor.
Agapit, who was nearly always in high spirits, and always very much absorbed in himself, came bustling in,—sobered down for one minute to cross himself, and reverently repeat a bénédicité, then launched into a voluble and enjoyable conversation on the subject of which he never tired,—his beloved countrymen, the Acadiens.
Rose withdrew to the innermost recesses of her pantry. "Do you know these little berries?" she asked, coming back, and setting a glass dish, full of a thick, whitish preserve, before Vesper.
"No," he said, absently, "what are they?"
"They are poudabre, or capillaire,—waxen berries that grow deep in the woods. They hide their little selves under leaves, yet the children find them. They are expensive, and we do not buy many, yet perhaps you will find them excellent."
"They are delicious," said Vesper, tasting them.
"Give me also some," said Agapit, with pretended jealousy. "It is not often that we are favored with poudabre."