t out.
The little child, Dorine, had slept well, the _patronne_ said, had
lain snug and close with two of her own all through the night, while
she had seen to its nourishment and had herself washed and fed it.

"Heaven bless you, for a true woman," St. Georges said, "Heaven bless
you!"

But the woman would hear of no thanks; she reiterated again and again
that she was a mother herself and had a mother's heart within her; she
only wished monsieur would leave the little thing with her until he
came back; she would warrant it should be well cared for until he did.

"I doubt my ever coming back this way," he said, as he ate his
breakfast--a substantial one, far different from that which the
bishop's servant had been able to set before him--and she ministered
to his wants, "unless the future war rolls toward Burgundy. I am _en
route_ for Paris, and Heaven only knows where to afterward."

"Find a good home for her, monsieur," she said, "a home where she may
at least be safe while you are away campaigning. Nay," she continued,
"if I might make so bold, meaning no offence, find a new mother for
her. It would be a sad life for her even though monsieur followed a
stay-at-home existence; 'twill be doubly hard when you are separated
from her."

But St. Georges only shook his head and said mournfully there was no
other wife for him; a statement from which she dissented vehemently.
Then she asked:

"Does monsieur know of any one in Paris to whom the little Dorine
might be confided? If not," she continued--"she intended no
liberty!--she could recommend one with whom it would always be safe. A
woman of Dijon like herself, married and settled in Paris; married,
indeed, to a cousin of her late husband, who, rest his soul! had been
dead eighteen months. This woman's husband was a mercer in a large way
of business in the Rue de Timoleon, lived well, and had children of
his own; it would be an _abri_ for the child if monsieur cared to
consider it."

"Care to consider it!" exclaimed St. Georges, "why, it is the very
thing I should wish." Then he paused a moment, reflecting deeply and
looking round the kitchen, as though to see that they were alone,
which they were with the exception of the mousquetaire, who sat by the
great fire warming himself.

"Hark you, dame," he said, lowering his voice a little, though not
from any fear of the mousquetaire hearing, but more from instinct
than anything else. "You have done me one great kindne