"Mademoiselle has some sorrow? Can we help, my wife and I?"
"You have helped me by trusting me, by letting me make one of your family all these weeks."
"But you will keep the house till we return?"
"I should like to do this for you, but I cannot stay so late here in the country. I must find employment for the winter."
"We cannot afford to pay you, mademoiselle, but you shall have your keep, if you will, for your help and your company, while you stay." Madame Duchêne spoke earnestly.
"I cannot, dear Madame Duchêne; it is time for me to go."
"May I ask where, Mademoiselle Farrell?" she asked, with such gentle pity audible in her voice, such kindly thoughts visible in her bright blue eyes, that, for a moment, I wavered. This was, at least, a shelter, a "retreat" for both my soul and my body.
"I do not know as yet."
"What can we do for you?" she urged.
"But one thing: say nothing to any one in Richelieu-en-Bas that you have seen me, that I have been with you—that you know me, even."