"Yes, one or two. That is thy Bible, is it not?" pointing to the book lying open beside her. "I am reading French when times serve. But I have never seen a French Bible. May I look at it? I understand thy speech better every day, and Margaret still better; but I fear my French may be queer enough to thee."
"It is certainly better than my English," said the vicomtesse, adding, after a brief pause: "It is the French of a kind heart." The vicomtesse as she spoke was aware of a breach in her usual reserve of rather formal thankfulness.
"I thank thee for thy pretty way of saying a pleasant thing," returned Mrs. Swanwick. "I learned it—thy language—when a girl, and was foolishly shy of its use before I knew thee so well. Now I shall blunder on at ease, and Margaret hath the audacity of youth."
"A charming child," said madame, "so gay and so gentle and intelligent."
"Yes, a good girl. Too many care for her—ah, the men! One would wish to keep our girls children, and she is fast ceasing to be a child."
She turned to the Bible in her hand, open at a dry leaf of ivy. "It has psalms, I see, here at the end."
"Yes, Clement Marot's. He was burned at the stake for his faith."
"Ah, cruel men! How strange! Here, I see, is a psalm for one about to die on the scaffold."
"Yes—yes," said the vicomtesse.
"What strange stories it seems to tell! It was, I see, printed long ago."