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Mere Giraud put her hand to her heart.

“You are not afraid?” she said, quite proudly, beginning at last to comprehend. “You are not afraid of evil to Laure?”

“No, no, no,” he answered; “surely not.”

He said no more then, but he always asked to see the letters, and read them with great care, sometimes over and over again. They came very regularly for six or seven months, and then there was a gap of a few weeks, and then came a strange, almost incomprehensible, letter from Valentin, containing news which almost caused Mere Giraud’s heart to burst with joy and gratitude. Laure was married, and had made such a marriage as could scarcely have been dreamed of. A rich aristocrat, who had visited her employers, had fallen in love with her, and married her. He had no family to restrain him, and her beauty had won him completely from the first hour. He had carried her away with him to make a prolonged tour. The family with whom she had lived had been lavish in their gifts and kindness, but they had left Paris also and were voyaging. The name of Laure’s bridegroom was Legrand, and there came messages from Laure, and inclosed was a handsome present of money.

Mere Giraud was overwhelmed with joy. Before three hours had passed, all St Croix knew the marvelous news. She went from house to house showing the letter and the money, and it was not until night that she cooled down sufficiently to labor through a long epistle to Valentin.

It was a year before Laure returned to Paris, and during that time she wrote but seldom; but Valentin wrote often, and answered all his mother’s questions, though not as fluently, nor with so many words as she often wished. Laure was rich, and beautiful as ever; her husband adored her, and showered gifts and luxuries upon her; she had equipages and jewels; she wore velvet and satin and lace every day; she was a great lady, and had a house like a palace. Laure herself did not say so much. In her secret heart, Mere Giraud often longed for more, but she was a discreet and farseeing woman.

“What would you?” she said. “She must drive out in her equipage, and she must dress and receive great people, and I am not so blind a mother as not to see that she will have many things to learn. She has not time to write long letters,–and see how she cares for me,–money, see you, by every letter, and a silk dress and lace cap she herself has chosen in the Boulevard Capucines. And I must care for myself, and furnish the cottage prettily, and keep a servant. Her wealth and great fortune have not rendered her undutiful,–my Laure.”

So she talked of Madame Legrand, and so all St. Croix talked of Madame Legrand, and some, of course, were envious and prophesied that the end had not come yet, and Mere Giraud would find herself forgotten some fine day; and others rejoiced with her, and congratulated themselves that they knew so aristocratic a person as Madame Legrand.

Jeanne Tallot was of those who sympathized with her in all warm-heartedness and candor.

With her knitting in her hand ready for action, and with friendly unceremoniousness, she presented herself at the cottage door one morning, nodding and speaking before she had crossed the threshold.

“Good-day, neighbor Giraud. Any letters from Laure this morning?”

Mere Giraud, who sat before the window under the swinging cage of her bird, looked up with an air a little more serious than usual.

“Ah!” she said, “I am glad it is you, Jeanne. I have been wishing to see you.”

Jeanne seated herself, smiling.

“Then,” said she, “it is well I came.”

But immediately she noticed the absent look of her friend, and commented upon it.

“You do not look at your best this morning,” she said. “How does it occur?”

“I am thinking,” said Mere Giraud with some importance of manner,–“I am thinking of going to Paris.”