the same,' the clods o' the valley would never cover her
bones. But there 'tis--we're here to-day, and away tomorrow. Shure,
though, I am not complainin'. Not I--not Mary Flynn. Teddy Flynn used
to say to me, says he: 'Niver born to know distress! Happy as worms in
a garden av cucumbers. Seventeen years in this country, Mary,' says he,
'an' nivir in the pinitintiary yet.' There y'are. Ah, the birds do be
singin' to-day! 'Tis good! 'Tis good, darlin'! You'll not mind Mary
Flynn callin' you darlin', though y'are postmistress, an' 'll be more
than that--more than that wan day--or Mary Flynn's a fool. Aye, more
than that y'll be, darlin', and y're eyes like purty brown topazzes
and y're cheeks like roses-shure, is there anny lether for Mary Flynn,
darlin'?" she hastily added as she saw the Seigneur standing in the
doorway. He had evidently been listening.

"Ye didn't hear what y're ould fool of a cook was sayin'," she added
to the Seigneur, as Rosalie shook her head and answered: "No letters,
Madame--dear." Rosalie timidly added the dear, for there was something
so great-hearted in Mrs. Flynn that she longed to clasp her round the
neck, longed as she had never done in her life to lay her head upon
some motherly breast and pour out her heart. But it was not to be now.
Secrecy was her duty still.

"Can't ye speak to y're ould fool of a cook, sir?" Mrs. Flynn said
again, as the Seigneur made way for her to leave the shop.

"How did you guess?" he said to her in a low voice, his sharp eyes
peering into hers.

"By the looks in y're face these past weeks, and the look in hers," she
whispered, and went on her way rejoicing.

"I'll wind thim both round me finger like a wisp o' straw," she said,
going up the road with a light step, despite her weight, till she was
stopped by the malicious grocer-man of the village, whose tongue had
been wagging for hours upon an unwholesome theme.

Meanwhile, in the post-office, the Seigneur and Rosalie were face to
face.

"It is Michaelmas day," he said. "May I speak with you, Mademoiselle?"

She looked at the clock. It was on the stroke of noon. The shop always
closed from twelve till half-past twelve.

"Will you step into the parlour, Monsieur?" she said, and coming round
the counter, locked the shop-door. She was trembling and confused,
and entered the little parlour shyly. Yet her eyes met the Seigneur's
bravely. "Your father, how is he?" he said, offering her a chair. The
sunlight