te was safe. So she took her
arm. "Sit down, Annette," she said. "You come so seldom."

"But there is Benoit, and the child--"

"The child has the black cat from the House!" There was again a sly ring
to Julie's voice, and she almost pressed Annette into a chair.

"Well, it must only be a minute."

"Were you at the funeral to-day?" Julie began.

"No; I was nursing Benoit. But the poor Seigneur! They say he died
without confession. No one was there except M'sieu' Medallion, the
Little Chemist, Old Sylvie, and M'sieu' Armand. But, of course, you have
heard everything."

"Is that all you know?" queried Julie.

"Not much more. I go out little, and no one comes to me except the
Little Chemist's wife--she is a good woman."

"What did she say?"

"Only something of the night the Seigneur died. He was sitting in his
chair, not afraid, but very sad, we can guess. By-and-by he raised his
head quickly. 'I hear a voice in the Tall Porch,' he said. They thought
he was dreaming. But he said other things, and cried again that he heard
his son's voice in the Porch. They went and found M'sieu' Armand. Then
a great supper was got ready, and he sat very grand at the head of the
table, but died quickly, when making a grand speech. It was strange he
was so happy, for he did not confess-he hadn't absolution."

This was more than Julie had heard. She showed excitement.

"The Seigneur and M'sieu' Armand were good friends when he died?" she
asked.

"Quite."

All at once Annette remembered the old talk about Armand and Julie. She
was confused. She wished she could get up and run away; but haste would
look strange.

"You were at the funeral?" she added, after a minute.

"Everybody was there."

"I suppose M'sieu' Armand looks very fine and strange after his long
travel," said Annette shyly, rising to go.

"He was always the grandest gentleman in the province," answered Julie,
in her old vain manner. "You should have seen the women look at him
to-day! But they are nothing to him--he is not easy to please."

"Good day," said Annette, shocked and sad, moving from the door.
Suddenly she turned, and laid a hand on Julie's arm. "Come and see my
sweet Cecilia," she said. "She is gay; she will amuse you."

She was thinking again what a pity it was that Julie had no child.

"To see Cecilia and the black cat? Very well--some day."

You could not have told what she meant. But, as Annette turned away
again, she glanced at the mill; a