“Oh, does it really ache for me? Then I must try. Yes, I will try,” in a more cheerful tone. “That is my own little girl,” and he kissed her fondly. Yes, he would always love her in a way. The guests came up the next day. Madame Renaud was always bright and cheery. Madame Gardepier brought her little girl, who ran about and prattled and was like a bit of sunshine, sitting a moment in Mère Lunde’s lap, then off again chasing the two half-grown kittens. Barbe was very charming and gracious and had a good deal to tell about New Orleans, and thought M’sieu Valbonais would enjoy it very much, though no doubt he would long for the old friends and associations. And was he not coming back in a year? Renée admitted without any change of color that he was. There was no half secret in her face. “And now you must see Ma’m’selle Renée’s room,” exclaimed Madame Renaud. “It is just full of prettiness and ingenuity.” Renée led the way, and if admiration could have lightened her heart, surely all the heaviness would have vanished. They were very cordial, and quite insisted upon having a whole day’s visit from her. Uncle Gaspard promised that she should surely come. As they were walking down the street Barbe said: “She does look poorly. I suppose she has been fretting after M. Valbonais.” “I really wonder that Gaspard let him go. There was no reason why they should not marry.” “And she has some fortune of her own. Why, yes, she could have gone with him. I hope he will not forget her. There are so many attractive women there.” Wawataysee studied her earnestly a few days afterward, when she had been sitting in silence. “What has changed you so, Renée?” she asked with much solicitude. “There is a surmise in the air that you are grieving after André. What happened between you? For I know he loved you sincerely.” “I grieving?” Then Renée’s face went scarlet and she could hardly refrain from tears. “It is not André. I seldom think of him. Oh, how cruel and unjust! And it is not true.” “But something troubles you,” in a tender tone. Renée was silent. “And you never have been so unhappy before. Why do you not tell your uncle?” “No, I cannot,” and Renée shivered. “Then, dear, why not go to the good father? I should if I had any sorrows. But what can I have to pain me, with such a good husband and my lovely children, who are like angels? And Father Lemoine said last month, ‘Madame, your confession is a thanksgiving instead.’ He is so kindly, that Father Lemoine. But you must find some relief, or you will waste quite away.” “I shall get well at once. I will not have people quoting me as a love-sick girl,” a little resentfully.