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“A wife who has realized her ideal,” Mrs. Fontenette was saying, when Senda interrupted:

“Ah! vhat vife is sat? In vhat part of se vorldt does she lif, and how long she is marriedt? No-o, no! Sare is only vun kindt of vife in se whole vorldt vhat realize her ideal hussbandt; and sat is se vife vhat idealize her real hussbandt. Also not se hussbandt and se vife only; I sink you even cannot much Christ-yanity practice vis anybody–close related–vissout you idealize sem. But ze hussbandt and vife–

“You remembeh sat sehmon, ‘Be’–O yes, of course. Vell, sat is vun sing se preacher forget to say–May be he haf not se time, but I sink he forget: sat sare is no hussbandt in se whole vorldt–and also sare is no vife–so sp’–spirit’–spirited? no? Ah, yes–spiritual!–yes, sank you. Vhen I catch me a bigk vord I am so proudt, yet, as I hadt a fish caught!”

I was willing to believe it, but thought how still more true it was of Mrs. Fontenette. But the gentle speaker had not paused. “Sare iss no vife so spiritual,” she repeated, triumphantly, “and who got a hussbandt so spiritual, sat eeser vun–do you say ‘eeser vun’?”

“Either one,” said her hostess, reassuringly.

“Yes, so spiritual sat eeser vun can keep sat rule inside–to be pairfect’ clean, if sat vun do not see usseh vun idealize.”

I made a stir–“Hmm!” Whereupon she came warily to the door. I sat engrossed in a book and wishing I could silently crawl under it snake fashion; but I could feel her eyes all over me, and with them was a glimmering smile that helped them to make me tingle as she softly spoke.

“Ah!–See se book-vorm! He iss all eyes–and ee-ahs. Iss it not so?”

“Pardon,” I murmured; “did you spe’–has any one been speaking and I have failed to give attention?”

“O no, sir! I sink not! Vell, you are velcome to all you haf heardt; but I am ve’y much oblige’ to you for yo’ ‘hmm.’ It vas se right sing in se right place. But do you not sink I shouldt haf been a pre-eacheh? I love to preach.”

I said I knew of three men in one neighborhood with whom she might start a church, and asked how was the Baron.

Improving–would soon be able to sit up. She inquired after my children.

It was quite in accord with a late phase of Mrs. Fontenette’s demeanor that on this occasion she did not appear until I mentioned her. She had not come near me by choice since the night the Baron was found and sent to my address, although I certainly was in every way as nice to her as I had ever been, and I was not expecting now to be less so.

When she appeared I asked her if a superb rose blooming late in August was not worth crossing to our side of the way to see. She knew, of course, that sooner or later, as the best of a bad choice, she must allow me an interview; yet now she was about to decline on some small excuse, when her eyes met mine, and she saw that in my opinion the time had come. So she made her excuses to her guest and went with me.

She gave the rose generous notice and praise, and as she led the way back lingered admiringly over flower after flower. Yet she said little; more than once she paused entirely to let me if I chose change the subject, and when at the gate I did so, she stood like a captive, looking steadily into my face with eyes as helpless as a half-fledged bird’s and as lovely as its mother’s. When I drew something from my breastpocket, they did not move.

“This,” I said, “is the letter that was found on the Baron the night he was taken ill. Your husband handed it to me supposing, of course, I had written it, as it was in one of my envelopes, and he happens not to know my handwriting. But I did not write it. I had never seen it, yet it was sent in one of my envelopes. I haven’t mentioned it to anyone else, because–you see?–I hope you do. I thought–well, frankly, I thought if I should mention it first to you I might never need to mention it to anyone else.” I waited a moment and then asked, eyes and all: “Who could have sent it?”