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, "none at all. He brings none with him
to-night, and shall bring none with him hereafter."

Olive rose suddenly, silently declined her mother's aid, and went alone
to their chamber in the half-story.

Madame Delphine wandered drearily from door to window, from window to
door, and presently into the newly-furnished front room which now seemed
dismal beyond degree. There was a great Argand lamp in one corner. How
she had labored that day to prepare it for evening illumination! A
little beyond it, on the wall, hung a crucifix. She knelt under it, with
her eyes fixed upon it, and thus silently remained until its outline was
indistinguishable in the deepening shadows of evening.

She arose. A few minutes later, as she was trying to light the lamp, an
approaching step on the sidewalk seemed to pause. Her heart stood still.
She softly laid the phosphorus-box out of her hands. A shoe grated
softly on the stone step, and Madame Delphine, her heart beating in
great thuds, without waiting for a knock, opened the door, bowed low,
and exclaimed in a soft perturbed voice:

"Miche Vignevielle!"

He entered, hat in hand, and with that almost noiseless tread which we
have noticed. She gave him a chair and closed the door; then hastened,
with words of apology, back to her task of lighting the lamp. But her
hands