_,
as Eustacie fondly called this light that had come back to her from the
sunshine she had lost. Had she cried or been heard, the sounds would
probably have passed for the wailings of the ghostly victims of the
Templars, but she exercised an exemplary forbearance in that respect,
for which Eustacie thought she could not be sufficiently admired.

Like the child she was, Eustacie seemed to have put care from her, and
to be solely taken up with the baby, and the amusement of watching the
owl family.

There was a lull in the search at this moment, for the Chevalier had
been recalled to Paris by the fatal illness of his son-in-law, M. de
Selinvine. The old soldier, after living half his life on bread and
salad, that he might keep up a grand appearance at Paris, had, on coming
into the wealth of the family, and marrying a beautiful wife, returned
to the luxuries he had been wont only to enjoy for a few weeks at a
time, with in military occupation of some Italian town. Three months of
festivities had been enough to cause his death; and the Chevalier was
summoned to assist his daughter in providing for his obsequies, and in
taking possession of the huge endowments which, as the last of his race,
he had been able to bequeath to her. Such was the news brought by the
old nurse Perrine, who took advantage of the slackening vigilance of the
enemy to come to see Eustacie. The old woman was highly satisfied;
for one of the peasants' wives had--as if on purpose to oblige her
Lady--given birth to twins, one of whom had died almost immediately; and
the parents had consented to conceal their loss, and at once take the
little Demoiselle de Ribaumont as their own--guarding the secret till
her mother should be able to claim her. It was so entirely the practice,
under the most favourable circumstances, for French mothers to send
their infants to be nursed in cottages, that Perrine was amazed by the
cry of angry refusal that burst from Eustacie: 'Part with my child!
leave her to her enemies!--never! never! Hold your tongue, Perrine! I
will not hear of such a thing!'

'But, Madame, hear reason. She will pass for one of Simonette's!'

'She shall pass for none but mine!--I part with thee, indeed! All that
is left me of thy father!--the poor little orphaned innocent, that no
one loves but her mother!'

'Madame--Mademoiselle, this is not common sense! Why, how can you hide
yourself? how travel with a baby on your neck, whose crying may betray