the
moonlight, hung down and coiled upon the bench, by her side. Her chaste
drapery was of that revived classic order which the world of fashion was
again laying aside to re-assume the mediaeval bondage of the stay-lace;
for New Orleans was behind the fashionable world, and Madame Delphine
and her daughter were behind New Orleans. A delicate scarf, pale blue,
of lightly netted worsted, fell from either shoulder down beside her
hands. The look that was bent upon her changed perforce to one of gentle
admiration. She seemed the goddess of the garden.

Olive glanced up. Madame Delphine was not prepared for the movement, and
on that account repeated her question:

"What are you thinking about?"

The dreamer took the hand that was laid upon hers between her own palms,
bowed her head, and gave them a soft kiss.

The mother submitted. Wherefore, in the silence which followed, a
daughter's conscience felt the burden of having withheld an answer, and
Olive presently said, as the pair sat looking up into the sky:

"I was thinking of Pere Jerome's sermon."

Madame Delphine had feared so. Olive had lived on it ever since the day
it was preached. The poor mother was almost ready to repent having ever
afforded her the opportunity of hearing it. Meat and drink had become of
secondary value to her daughter; she fed upon the sermon.

Olive felt her mother's thought and knew that her mother knew her own;
but now that she had confessed, she would ask a question:

"Do you think, _maman_, that Pere Jerome knows it was I who gave that
missal?"

"No," said Madame Delphine, "I am sure he does not."

Another question came more timidly:

"Do--do you think he knows _him_?"

"Yes, I do. He said in his sermon he did."

Both remained for a long time very still, watching the moon gliding in
and through among the small dark-and-white clouds. At last the daughter
spoke again.

"I wish I was Pere--I wish I was as good as Pere Jerome."

"My child," said Madame Delphine, her tone betraying a painful summoning
of strength to say what she had lacked the courage to utter,--"my child,
I pray the good God you will not let your heart go after one whom you
may never see in this world!"

The maiden turned her glance, and their eyes met. She cast her arms
about her mother's neck, laid her cheek upon it for a moment, and then,
feeling the maternal tear, lifted her lips, and, kissing her, said:

"I will not! I will not!"

But the voice was one