ng,
the lifting and letting down, the raising and swallowing of dust, and
the smells of turpentine, brass, pumice and woollen rags that go to
characterize a housekeeper's _emeute_; and still, as the work
progressed, Madame Delphine's heart grew light, and her little black
eyes sparkled.

"We like a clean parlor, my daughter, even though no one is ever coming
to see us, eh?" she said, as entering the apartment she at last sat
down, late in the afternoon. She had put on her best attire.

Olive was not there to reply. The mother called but got no answer. She
rose with an uneasy heart, and met her a few steps beyond the door that
opened into the garden, in a path which came up from an old latticed
bower. Olive was approaching slowly, her face pale and wild. There was
an agony of hostile dismay in the look, and the trembling and appealing
tone with which, taking the frightened mother's cheeks between her
palms, she said:

"_Ah! ma mere, qui vini 'ci ce soir?_"--Who is coming here this evening?

"Why, my dear child, I was just saying, we like a clean----"

But the daughter was desperate:

"Oh, tell me, my mother, _who_ is coming?"

"My darling, it is our blessed friend, Miche Vignevielle!"

"To see me?" cried the girl.

"Yes."

"Oh, my mother, what have you done?"

"Why, Olive, my child," exclaimed the little mother, bursting into
tears, "do you forget it is Miche Vignevielle who has promised to
protect you when I die?"

The daughter had turned away, and entered the door; but she faced around
again, and extending her arms toward her mother, cried:

"How can--he is a white man--I am a poor----"

"Ah! _cherie_" replied Madame Delphine, seizing the outstretched hands,
"it is there--it is there that he shows himself the best man alive! He
sees that difficulty; he proposes to meet it; he says he will find you a
suitor!"

Olive freed her hands violently, motioned her mother back, and stood
proudly drawn up, flashing an indignation too great for speech; but the
next moment she had uttered a cry, and was sobbing on the floor.

The mother knelt beside her and threw an arm about her shoulders.

"Oh, my sweet daughter, you must not cry! I did not want to tell you at
all! I did not want to tell you! It isn't fair for you to cry so hard.
Miche Vignevielle says you shall have the one you wish, or none at all,
Olive, or none at all."

"None at all! none at all! None, none, none!"

"No, no, Olive," said the mother, "