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“I know that he is well and as prosperous as one could expect him to be; but I hope”–bridling a little with great seriousness–“I hope he conducts himself in such a manner as to cause you no embarrassment, though naturally you do not see him often.”

“No,” was the answer,–they did not see him often.

“Well, well,” began Mere Giraud, becoming lenient in her great happiness, “he is not a bad lad–Valentin. He means well”–

But here she stopped,–Laure checked her with a swift, impassioned movement.

“He is what we cannot understand,” she said in a hushed, strained voice. “He is a saint. He has no thought for himself. His whole life is a sacrifice. It is not I you should adore–it is Valentin.”

“Valentin!” echoed Mere Giraud.

It quite bewildered her, the mere thought of adoring Valentin.

“My child,” she said when she recovered herself, “it is your good heart which says this.”

The same night Valentin came. Laure went out into the antechamber to meet him, and each stood and looked at the other with pale face and anguished eyes. Valentin’s eyes were hollow and sunken as if with some great sorrow, and his large awkward frame seemed wasted. But there was no reproach mingled with the indescribable sadness of his gaze.

“Your note came to me,” he said. “Our mother “–

“She is in there,” said Laure in a low, hurried, shaken voice, and she pointed to the salon. “She has come to embrace me,–to make sure that I am happy. Ah, my God!” and she covered her deathly face with her hands.

Valentin did not approach her. He could only stand still and look on. One thought filled his mind.

“We have no time to weep, Laure,” he said gently. “We must go on as we have begun. Give me your hand.”

This was all, and then the two went in together, Laure’s hand upon her brother’s arm.

It was a marvelous life Mere Giraud lived during the next few days. Certainly she could not complain that she was not treated with deference and affection. She wore the silk dress every day; she sat at the wonderful table, and a liveried servant stood behind her chair; she drove here and there in a luxurious carriage; she herself, in fact, lived the life of an aristocrat and a great lady. Better than all the rest, she found her Laure as gracious and dutiful as her fond heart could have wished. She spent every hour with her; she showed her all her grandeurs of jewelry and toilette; she was not ashamed of her mother, untutored and simple as she might be.

“Only she is very pale and quiet,” she remarked to Valentin once; “even paler and more quiet than I should have expected. But then we know that the rich and aristocratic are always somewhat reserved. It is only the peasantry and provincials who are talkative and florid. It is natural that Laure should have gained the manner of the great world.”

But her happiness, poor soul, did not last long, and yet the blow God sent was a kindly one.

One morning as they went out to their carriage Laure stopped to speak to a woman who crouched upon the edge of the pavement with a child in her arms. She bent down and touched the little one with her hand, and Mere Giraud, looking on, thought of pictures she had seen of the Blessed Virgin, and of lovely saints healing the sick.

“What is the matter?” asked Laure.

The woman looked down at the child and shivered.

“I do not know,” she answered hoarsely. “Only we are ill, and God has forsaken us. We have not tasted food for two days.”

Laure took something from her purse and laid it silently in the child’s small, fevered hand. The woman burst into tears.

“Madame,” she said, “it is a twenty-franc piece.”

“Yes,” said Laure gently. “When it is spent come to me again,” and she went to her carriage.

“My child,” said Mere Giraud, “it is you who are a saint. The good God did wisely in showering blessings upon you.”