“I can, at least, make things more comfortable out-of-doors. Angelique has let even Snowfoot suffer, sometimes, for want of the grooming and care she’s always had. The poultry, too, and the poor garden. I’m glad I’m strong enough to rake and hoe, even if I couldn’t lift Uncle as Joe does.”
Her industry brought its own reward. Things outside the house took on a more natural aspect. The weeds were cleared away, and both vegetables and flowers lifted their heads more cheerfully. Snowfoot showed the benefit of the attention she received, and the forgotten family in the Hollow chattered and gamboled in delight at the reappearance among them of their indulgent mistress. Margot herself grew lighter of heart and more positive that, after all, things would end well.
“You see, Angelique dismal, we might as well take that broken glass sign to mean good things as evil; that uncle will soon be up and around again, Pierre be at home; and the ‘specimen’ from the old cave prove copper or something just as rich, and—everybody be as happy as a king.”
Angelique grunted her disbelief, but was thankful for the other’s lighter mood.
“Well, then, if you’ve so much time and strength to spare, go yonder and redde up the room that Adrian left so untidy. Where he never should have been, had I my own way, but one never has that in this world; hey, no. Indeed, no. Ever’thin’ goes contrary, else I’d have cleared away all trace long sin’. Yes, indeed, yes.”
“Well, he is gone. There’s no need to abuse him, even if he did not have the decency to say good-by. Though, I suppose it was my uncle put a stop to that. What Uncle has to do he does at once. There’s never any hesitation about Uncle. But I wish—I wish—Angelique Ricord, do you know something? Do you know all the history of this family?”
“Why should I not, eh?” demanded the woman, indignantly. “Is it not my own family, yes? What is Pierre but one son? I love him, oh, yes! But—”
“WHERE IS MY FATHER?”
“You adore him, bad and trying as he is. But there is something you must tell me, if you know it. Maybe you do not. I did not, till that awful morning when he was taken ill. But that very minute he told me what I had never dreamed. I was angry; for a moment I almost hated him because he had deceived me, though afterward I knew that he had done it for the best and would tell me why when he could. So I’ve tried to trust him just the same and be patient. But—he may never be able—and I must know. Angelique, where is my father?”