Genefer looked at Orange, and shook her head, and muttered, 'There be some folks like the fleece of Gideon on which the dew never falls though the grass around be wet.'
Then she prepared a tray, and carried some supper upstairs to Mirelle. 'Ah!' she continued, 'and there be others on whom the dew drops in plenty whilst all around is dry.'
She found her mistress seated in a high-backed, old-fashioned chair covered with red baize. She had her shawl wrapped about her. 'There, my pretty,' said the old woman; 'see, I've a brought you something at last.'
'Oh, Geneviève, I am very cold,' said Mirelle.
'Shall I light the fire, darling?'
'I should like it. I do not think I am well. I am exhausted, and sick at heart. Feel my hand how it shakes.'
Genefer took the little white hand between her own, stroked it, raised it to her lips and kissed it.
'You love me, Geneviève?' Mirelle lifted her large eyes and looked earnestly into the old woman's face.
'Ah, I do, I do, sure-ly.'
'I am so glad, Geneviève, because I do not think there are many who love me.'