‘_Ce n’est pas la petite Ange!_’ they said to one another, shaking their heads the while. In another minute the casement next to mine was thrown open, and I knew that Ange’s sweet face was framed in it, by the roar of delight with which she was received. ‘_Bon jour, ma’m’sel!_’ ‘_Bonheur, ma’m’sel!_’ ‘_Que le bon Dieu te bénisse, petite Ange!_’ resounded from every side, whilst the bunches of flowers were held up simultaneously, till they looked like a forest of blossom. ‘I will be with you directly, dear friends,’ exclaimed Ange, in their own _patois_; and the next moment I saw her in the very midst of them, kissing the women, shaking hands with the men, and laughing and crying by turns, as she attempted to carry in her apron one half the flowers they had brought her. One old woman went down on her knees in the middle of the road and kissed the child’s feet. ‘She saved my boy’s life! He would have died if she had not helped to nurse him with me,’ she said, with the tears running down her yellow, withered cheeks. In her hands she held up a common wooden chaplet, black with dirt and age. ‘See, _petite_ Ange,’ she continued, ‘it is all I have to bring you. It is not much, but my poor daughter died with it in her hand, praying the good God to bless all His saints upon earth. And you are one of them; and this chaplet must surely bring a blessing upon you.’ Amidst the crowd I distinguished Mère Fromard, the woman who had addressed me by the Calvary during the first week of my sojourn in St. Pucelle. ‘I would have brought the best offering of them all, ma’m’selle,’ she said, ‘but you know the reason that prevents me!’ Ange went up to her and touched her forehead with her lips. ‘All will come right in time, Mère Fromard,’ she answered cheerfully. ‘Trust to God! And how is your husband this morning?’ The woman gave some ordinary reply, and moved away in the crowd; but the look she directed at Ange was a strange mixture of surprise, incredulity and despair. ‘It is not _her_ fault!’ I heard her mutter, as she fell back to give place to some one else. When we descended to the _salle_ for breakfast, we found it transformed into a perfect bower of sweets. Flowers bloomed upon the mantelpiece, the buffet and the floor, whilst in the centre of the table was a magnificent nosegay of every coloured rose, which had come from the château for Mademoiselle Ange, with the compliments of Monsieur le Baron. And amidst them all moved the little maid, flushed like the very heart of a rose herself, with unalloyed happiness beaming in her eyes and irradiating every feature of her expressive face. ‘Oh, papa!’ she exclaimed, when at last her excitement had somewhat subsided, and we persuaded her to sit down to her meal. ‘I feel as if this day was to be the commencement of a new life for me!’