he ventured at last.

"He is," said Laure, in a hesitant voice,--"he is in Normandy."

"Shall I not see him?" asked Mere Giraud.

"I am afraid not, unless your visit is a long one. He will be absent for
some months."

She did not speak with any warmth. It was as if she did not care to
speak of him at all,--as if the mention of him even embarrassed her a
little.

Mere Giraud felt a secret misgiving.

"I shall not stay long," she said; "but I could not remain away. I
wished so eagerly to see you, and know that you were happy. You are
happy, my Laure?"

Laure turned toward her and gave her a long look--a look which seemed
unconsciously to ask her a question.

"Happy!" she answered slowly and deliberately, "I suppose so. Yes."

Mere Giraud caressed her hand again and again. "Yes," she said, "it must
be so. The good are always happy; and you, my Laure, have always been
dutiful and virtuous, and consequently you are rewarded. You have never
caused me a grief, and now, thank the good God you are prosperous." She
looked at her almost adoringly, and at last touched the soft thick gray
velvet of her drapery with reverence. "Do you wear such things as this
every day?" she asked.

"Yes," Laure answered, "every day."

"Ah!" sighed the happy mother. "How Monsieur Legrand must adore you!"

At length she found time to ask a few questions concerning Valentin.

"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 hol