mother in sewing linen for the children
of the Abbe's poor.

[*] Passy and the Trocadero are now well inside Paris, but at the time
fixed for this story they were beyond the _barrieres_.

Night had quite fallen when the lamp was brought in by Rosalie, who,
fresh from the glare of her range, looked altogether upset. Tuesday's
dinner was the one event of the week, which put things topsy-turvy.

"Aren't the gentlemen coming here to-night, madame?" she inquired.

Helene looked at the timepiece: "It's a quarter to seven; they will be
here soon," she replied.

Rosalie was a gift from Abbe Jouve, who had met her at the station on
the day she arrived from Orleans, so that she did not know a single
street in Paris. A village priest, an old schoolmate of Abbe Jouve's,
had sent her to him. She was dumpy and plump, with a round face under
her narrow cap, thick black hair, a flat nose, and deep red lips; and
she was expert in preparing savory dishes, having been brought up at
the parsonage by her godmother, servant to the village priest.

"Here is Monsieur Rambaud at last!" she exclaimed, rushing to open the
door before there was even a ring.

Full and broad-shouldered, Monsieur Rambaud entered, displaying an
expansive countenance like that of a country notary. His forty-five
years had already silvered his hair, but his large blue eyes retained
a wondering, artless, gentle expression, akin to a child's.

"And here's his reverence; everybody has come now!" resumed Rosalie,
as she opened the door once more.

Whilst Monsieur Rambaud pressed Helene's hand and sat down without
speaking, smiling like one who felt quite at home, Jeanne threw her
arms round the Abbe's neck.

"Good-evening, dear friend," said she. "I've been so ill!"

"So ill, my darling?"

The two men at once showed their anxiety, the Abbe especially. He was
a short, spare man, with a large head and awkward manners, and dressed
in the most careless way; but his eyes, usually half-closed, now
opened to their full extent, all aglow with exquisite tenderness.
Jeanne relinquished one of her hands to him, while she gave the other
to Monsieur Rambaud. Both held her and gazed at her with troubled
looks. Helene was obliged to relate the story of her illness, and the
Abbe was on the point of quarrelling with her for not having warned
him of it. And then they each questioned her. "The attack was quite
over now? She had not had another, had she?" The mother smiled as