"Don't tease, auntie, but listen. I called on the little princess."

"Of course."

"And, Aunt Felicie, her father is lost at sea, and she is caring for all those little ones, alone."

"Ah, the poor child! Is she then born to trouble, as the sparks do fly upward? Are they very, very poor, Robert?"

"No; she said they had means, though it is probably but little, a thousand or two at most; they seemed comfortable, though you know how plainly they live; and, aunt, she is more beautiful than ever!"

"Yes, hers is of that kind of beauty that does grow, as her soul grows, for it is from the within. Did she to me send any special word?"

"Yes, her 'love and reverence;' can't you imagine just how she said it, with that little Priscilla touch which is so quaintly charming?" Then he told of Morton's revolt, and the advice he had given Sara, at her request; also the promise he had extorted.

"And now, aunt, she must have help; not only advice, but other things perhaps."

"Never from you, Robare!" sharply. "Of what are you thinking?"

"You have always let me help in your charities, auntie," he said in a wheedling tone; then, tossing back his head suddenly, "But this is different, of course; only just think, Aunt Felicie, how the poor child's hands are tied!"

"But the poor child's spirit is not, my Robare, and it is that of a free-born fisher-la.s.s, who would not be dependent, even in its thought; leave Sara to me, my dear boy; I think it is that you may trust my discretions, is it not?"

He leaned forward, caught the pretty white hand from its flying task, crushed it against his lips, then, flushing hotly, rose from his chair, and walked down the room, ashamed of the agitation he could not suppress.

There was silence for a moment, while the perky little Bougival clock on the mantel ticked merrily, and madame's needles kept the time; then Robert broke it abruptly.

"Aunt, I'm almost twenty-four."

"Yes."

"And worth a clear ten thousand."

"Yes." "And make at least three thousand a year."

"Yes."

"And uncle and yourself are my nearest relatives."

"I am aware."

"Well, haven't I a right to please myself?"

"You haven't a right to tie yourself by your hands, and your feet, for a whimsey which may pa.s.s away. Go back to your busy Chicago, my Robare, and work hard, and live the right, pure life for one year, then tell me what is your thought."

"_Must_ I, auntie?"

It was with the old boyish voice and manner he said this, and his aunt broke into a laugh, though her eyes were wet.

"You naughty child! Will you now obey your good _tante_, or not?"

"Yes, ma'am, I will; but you will keep me posted?"

"Possibly, my boy," bending carelessly over her work.

"Aunt Felicie," he strode up to her with sudden pa.s.sion.

"Do not answer me so! I am a man, and I love this fisher-la.s.s with all my heart!"

He had stopped directly before her, and she saw that his face was white with feeling. Down went the worsted-work, and, rising, she flung both arms about his neck.

"My Robare, my nephew, my son!" she cried in a choked voice, "I want the best that earth and heaven can give to you; and you--you do push over my ambitions, and expect that I will at once be glad and gay."

"But, auntie, you admire her too."

"I do, Robare; she is good and fair to see; but you must of the others take thought too, and she does need many teachings, dear."

"You'll teach her, auntie?"

"Oh, be quiet, then!" pushing him pettishly away. "Of what use to argue with a man so enamoured? Go thy Western way; obey me, and I will tell you every week all that there is to tell. Are you content?"

"I'll have to be," laughing a little at her expression; "but remember,"

turning in the doorway, "if I don't hear, I shall immediately find that business compels an Eastern trip." And, shaking a warning finger at her, he disappeared to his packing in an opposite apartment.

Madame Grandet, meanwhile, resumed her work, and held it till the door had closed behind the young man. Then she dropped it, her smiles vanished, and she grew grave and thoughtful; for, though far less worldly than many, she was too much of a Frenchwoman to look upon a misalliance without a shiver of dread and apprehension. Her relationship to Robert was only by marriage, but an own child could not have been dearer, for he was bound to her by all the traditions and ties of a lifetime. His mother, pretty Nadine Grandet, had been her earliest friend, and they had lived side by side, in a little village on the Ouise, until she was wooed and won by the American artist, Robert Glendenning, who had been attracted to that neighborhood by his studies, and the fame of Sevigne, whom he worshipped afar. He finally brought his pretty French bride to America, and they lived happily in an Eastern city till the little Robert was twelve years old. Then a sudden illness took the wife and mother to heaven, leaving the husband and son to keep house in a Bohemianish way, until Nadine's studious brother, Leon, who had meanwhile married the lifelong friend of his sister, Felicie Bougane, decided to come to America.

The Grandets had no children, and as soon as the madame's eyes fell upon the little Robert, who was wonderfully like his dead mother, her heart went out to him; and from that time on he had been like a son to her, especially after his father's death, a few years later.

As the artist was unusually prudent, and no genius, by which I mean he painted pictures which the public could understand, and therefore did buy, he left a snug little sum to his son. This the young man decided to invest in Chicago, and chose architecture for a profession, two wise moves, as subsequent events proved. As for his uncle and aunt, they had no settled home, but followed wherever science beckoned, and a wild dance she sometimes led the two, as the poor little madame often thought.

But this winter certain proof-sheets anch.o.r.ed them in Boston; hence Robert's intense desire that Sara should make haste to settle under his aunt's protection, before some new flitting should put too great a distance between them. This devoted aunt was ready to make any sacrifice for her dear boy, but not so ready to see him make one; often a much harder thing for a loving heart.

The madame, being of Huguenot ancestry, and as st.u.r.dy a Protestant as ever lived, could have suffered martyrdom, like her grandfather of blessed memory, for the faith that was in her; but to see her boy suffer perhaps a ruined life because of one mistake in early manhood, terrified her, and she was now often sorry she had let her artistic admiration for that unusually fine head in the cottage doorway lead her to such lengths the summer before.

Sara as a pet and _protegee_ was one thing; Sara as her nephew's wife quite, quite another!

But in her varied life she had learned the two wisest lessons G.o.d ever sets his children,--those of waiting and trusting. So, after a half- hour's silent meditation now, she resumed her work with a more cheerful look and manner.

"What is done is done," she said in her own tongue. "The only thing left is to make the best of it;" and when Robert returned, after completing the preparations for his journey, he would never have dreamed that she had a care upon her mind, or the least foreboding in her heart, to see her bright face, and hear her sunny laughter.

CHAPTER XI.

BETTY'S QUILTING-BEE.

As for Sara, the interview with Robert Glendenning roused her to a new interest in her changed life, and to new hopes and plans, which are always delightful to youth; and these kept her from sinking back into that settled sadness which had been almost unnatural in one of her years. First, she wrote the promised letter to Madame Grandet, which was no light task for one so little accustomed to the use of the pen.