paused in their work again,--Olive's step was on the stairs; then
it came off the stairs; then it was in the next room, and then there was
the whisper of soft robes, a breath of gentle perfume, and a snowy
figure in the door. She was dressed for the evening.

"Maman?"

Madame Delphine was struggling desperately with the lamp, and at that
moment it responded with a tiny bead of light.

"I am here, my daughter."

She hastened to the door, and Olive, all unaware of a third presence,
lifted her white arms, laid them about her mother's neck, and, ignoring
her effort to speak, wrested a fervent kiss from her lips. The crystal
of the lamp sent out a faint gleam; it grew; it spread on every side;
the ceiling, the walls lighted up; the crucifix, the furniture of the
room came back into shape.

"Maman!" cried Olive, with a tremor of consternation.

"It is Miche Vignevielle, my daughter"--

The gloom melted swiftly away before the eyes of the startled maiden, a
dark form stood out against the farther wall, and the light, expanding
to the full, shone clearly upon the unmoving figure and quiet face of
Capitaine Lemaitre.

CHAPTER XII.

THE MOTHER BIRD.

One afternoon, some three weeks after Capitaine Lemaitre had called on
Madame Delphine, the priest started to make a pastoral call and had
hardly left the gate of his cottage, when a person, overtaking him,
plucked his gown:

"Pere Jerome"--

He turned.

The face that met his was so changed with excitement and distress that
for an instant he did not recognize it.

"Why, Madame Delphine"--

"Oh, Pere Jerome! I wan' see you so bad, so bad! _Mo oule dit
quic'ose_,--I godd some' to tell you."

The two languages might be more successful than one, she seemed to
think.

"We had better go back to my parlor," said the priest, in their native
tongue.

They returned

Madame Delphine's very step was altered,--nervous and inelastic. She
swung one arm as she walked, and brandished a turkey-tail fan.

"I was glad, yass, to kedge you," she said, as they mounted the front,
outdoor stair; following her speech with a slight, unmusical laugh, and
fanning herself with unconscious fury.

"_Fe chaud_," she remarked again, taking the chair he offered and
continuing to ply the fan.

Pere Jerome laid his hat upon a chest of drawers, sat down opposite her,
and said, as he wiped his kindly face:

"Well, Madame Carraze?"

Gentle as the tone was, she started, ceased fan