she took her warm hand from his nervous grasp, and
turned sharply into the path which led back towards the Manor. She did
not turn around, and she walked quickly away.

There was confusion in her eyes and in her mind. It would take some time
to make the confusion into order, and she was now hot, now cold, in all
her frame, when at last she climbed into her wagon.

This physical unrest imparted itself to all she did that day. First her
horses were driven almost at a gallop; then they were held down to a
slow walk; then they were stopped altogether, and she sat in the shade
of the trees on the road to her home, pondering--whispering to herself
and pondering.

As her horses were at a standstill she saw a wagon approaching.
Instantly she touched her pair with the whip, and moved on. Before
the approaching wagon came alongside, she knew from the grey and the
darkbrown horses who was driving them, and she made a strong effort for
composure. She succeeded indifferently, but her friend, Mere Langlois,
did not notice this fact as her wagon drew near. There was excitement in
Mere Langlois' face.

"There's been a shindy at the 'Red Eagle' tavern," she said. "That
father-in-law of M'sieu' Jean Jacques and Rocque Valescure, the
landlord, they got at each other's throats. Dolores hit Valescure on the
head with a bottle."

"He didn't kill Valescure, did he?"

"Not that--no. But Valescure is hurt bad--as bad. It was six to one and
half a dozen to the other--both no good at all. But of course they'll
arrest the old man--your great friend! He'll not give you any more
fur-robes, that's sure. He got away from the tavern, though, and he's
hiding somewhere. M'sieu' Jean Jacques can't protect him now; he isn't
what he once was in the parish. He's done for, and old Dolores will have
to go to trial. They'll make it hot for him when they catch him. No
more fur-robes from your Spanish friend, Virginie! You'll have to look
somewhere else for your beaux, though to be sure there are enough that'd
be glad to get you with that farm of yours, and your thrifty ways, if
you keep your character."

Virginie was quite quiet now. The asperity and suggestiveness of the
other's speech produced a cooling effect upon her.

"Better hurry, Mere Langlois, or everybody won't hear your story before
sundown. If your throat gets tired, there's Brown's Bronchial Troches--"
She pointed to an advertisement on the fence near by. "M. Fille's cook
says they cure a