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“What have you been doing?” asked the daughter, in a long-drawn, fondling tone. She leaned forward and unfastened her mother’s bonnet-strings. “Why do you cry?”

“For nothing at all, my darling; for nothing–I am such a fool.”

The girl’s eyes filled. The mother looked up into her face and said:

“No, it is nothing, nothing, only that”–turning her head from side to side with a slow, emotional emphasis, “Miche Vignevielle is the best–best man on the good Lord’s earth!”

Olive drew a chair close to her mother, sat down and took the little yellow hands into her own white lap, and looked tenderly into her eyes. Madame Delphine felt herself yielding; she must make a show of telling something:

“He sent you those birds!”

The girl drew her face back a little. The little woman turned away, trying in vain to hide her tearful smile, and they laughed together, Olive mingling a daughter’s fond kiss with her laughter.

“There is something else,” she said, “and you shall tell me.”

“Yes,” replied Madame Delphine, “only let me get composed.”

But she did not get so. Later in the morning she came to Olive with the timid yet startling proposal that they would do what they could to brighten up the long-neglected front room. Olive was mystified and troubled, but consented, and thereupon the mother’s spirits rose.

The work began, and presently ensued all the thumping, the trundling, 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, “none at all. He brings none with him to-night, and shall bring none with him hereafter.”