-assuring tone, and
in the language he had last heard her use:

"'Ow I kin serve you, Madame?"

"Iv you pliz, to mague dad bill change, Miche."

She pulled from her pocket a wad of dark cotton handkerchief, from which
she began to untie the imprisoned note. Madame Delphine had an
uncommonly sweet voice, and it seemed so to strike Monsieur Vignevielle.
He spoke to her once or twice more, as he waited on her, each time in
English, as though he enjoyed the humble melody of its tone, and
presently, as she turned to go, he said:

"Madame Carraze!"

She started a little, but bethought herself instantly that he had heard
her name in Pere Jerome's parlor. The good father might even have said a
few words about her after her first departure; he had such an
overflowing heart.

"Madame Carraze," said Monsieur Vignevielle, "doze kine of note wad you
'_an_' me juz now is bein' contrefit. You muz tek kyah from doze kine of
note. You see--" He drew from his cash-drawer a note resembling the one
he had just changed for her, and proceeded to point out certain tests of
genuineness. The counterfeit, he said, was so and so.

"Bud," she exclaimed, with much dismay, "dad was de manner of my bill!
Id muz be--led me see dad bill wad I give you,--if you pliz, Miche."

Monsieur Vignevielle turned to engage in conversation with an employe
and a new visitor, and gave no sign of hearing Madame Delphine's voice.
She asked a second time, with like result, lingered timidly, and as he
turned to give his attention to a third visitor, reiterated:

"Miche Vignevielle, I wizh you pliz led----"

"Madame Carraze," he said, turning so suddenly as to make the frightened
little woman start, but extending his palm with a show of frankness, and
assuming a look of benignant patience, "'ow I kin fine doze note now,
mongs' all de rez? Iv you pliz nod to mague me doze troub'."

The dimmest shadow of a smile seemed only to give his words a more
kindly authoritative import, and as he turned away again with a manner
suggestive of finality, Madame Delphine found no choice but to depart.
But she went away loving the ground beneath the feet of Monsieur U. L.
Vignevielle.

"Oh, Pere Jerome!" she exclaimed in the corrupt French of her caste,
meeting the little father on the street a few days later, "you told the
truth that day in your parlor. _Mo conne li a c't heure_. I know him
now; he is just what you called him."

"Why do you not make him _your_ banker, al