her. They ruined her appetite. This peculiarity was known at
Stellamare, because Mrs. Winter's cousin, Mr. Carleton, was visiting
there. Would it not be wise to put Nathalie into service, at a distance
from Cap Martin, so that everything might be forgotten?

Mrs. Winter, to whom the suggestion was made by her cook (cousin to the
cook at Stellamare), snapped at it eagerly. She had been out walking
with Dick, and they had both seen the beautiful dark Storm-cloud
chaperoned by the white cows, among the olives.

Nathalie became _femme de chambre_ in the apartment of Mrs. Winter. She
was so charmed with her mistress, and with certain hats and blouses that
Rose bestowed upon her, that she did not much miss the flirtations. But,
being a good Catholic, and having been confirmed by the cure of
Roquebrune, her conscience asked itself whether it could be right to
live in a household not only Protestant, but the abode of a priest who
spread heresy. It occurred to her that she would go and put this
question to the cure, her spiritual father; and she was not deterred
from her resolve by the fact that Achille Gonzales had finished his
military service and returned to visit his family. Achille's father was
the Maire of Roquebrune, a peasant landowner of wealth whose pride was
in his son and in their Spanish ancestry, which dated back to the days
of Saracen fighting on the coast.

Achille was a great match; and the white cows had nibbled mint and
clover from his hands before he went away with his regiment to Algeria.
His father was about to make over to him some land adjoining the cure's
garden, and the young man was there planting orange trees on fine days.

Nathalie chose a fine afternoon to ask Mrs. Winter if she might go to
Roquebrune.

The cure, who was broad-minded, set her heart at rest about the possible
iniquity of her service. He said that different religions were all paths
leading up a steep hill, in the same direction, only some were more
roundabout than others. Nathalie need not after all have taken the
trouble to climb the mule track in the afternoon sun; yet she was not
sorry she had come. Seldom had she looked so beautiful as when her aunt
was giving her orange-syrup with water after her talk with the cure, the
oranges being a present to the house from Achille Gonzales. On the
table in the little kitchen stood a silver photograph frame which
Luciola was going to clean, as the salt air had tarnished its
brightness. I