difficult, for at Granville a vessel sailed directly for
Jersey, and we were not more than thirty miles from Granville. It was a
distance that we could almost walk. If Mrs. Dobree could not help me,
Tardif would take Minima into his house for a time, and the child could
not have a happier home. I could count upon my good Tardif doing that.
These plans were taking shape in my brain, when I heard a voice calling
softly under the window. I opened the casement, and, leaning out, saw
the welcome face of Rosalie, the milk-woman.

"Will you permit me to come in?" she inquired.

"Yes, yes, come in," I said, eagerly.

She entered, and saluted us both with much ceremony. Her clumsy wooden
_sabots_ clattered over the bare boards, and the wings of her high
Norman cap flapped against her sallow cheeks. No figure could have
impressed upon me more forcibly the unwelcome fact that I was in great
straits in a foreign land. I regarded her with a vague kind of fear.

"So my little Emile and his spouse are gone, mademoiselle," she said, in
a mysterious whisper. "I have been saying to myself, 'What will my
little English lady do?' That is why I am here. Behold me."

"I do not know what to do," I answered.

"If mademoiselle is not difficult," she said, "she and the little one
could rest with me for a day or two. My bed is clean and soft--bah! ten
times softer than these paillasses. I would ask only a franc a night for
it. That is much less than at the hotels, where they charge for light
and attendance. Mademoiselle could write to her friends, if she has not
enough money to carry her and the little one back to their own country."

"I have no friends," I said, despondently.

"No friends! no relations!" she exclaimed.

"Not one," I replied.

"But that is terrible!" she said. "Has mademoiselle plenty of money?"

"Only twelve francs," I answered.

Rosalie's face grew long and grave. This was an abyss of misfortune she
had not dreamed of. She looked at us both critically, and did not open
her lips again for a minute or two.

"Is the little one your relation?" she inquired, after this pause.

"No," I replied; "I did not know her till I brought her here. She does
not know of any friends or relations belonging to her."

"There is the convent for her," she said; "the good sisters would take a
little girl like her, and make a true Christian of her. She might become
a saint some day--"

"No, no," I interrupted, hastily; "I could not le