One Sunday Hélène betook herself to the kitchen. Her slippers deadened the sound of her footsteps, and she reached the threshold unheard by either maid or soldier. Zephyrin was seated in his corner over a basin of steaming broth. Rosalie, with her back turned to the door, was occupied in cutting some long sippets of bread for him. “There, eat away, my dear!” she said. “You walk too much; it is that which makes you feel so empty! There! have you enough? Do you want any more?” Thus speaking, she watched him with a tender and anxious look. He, with his round, dumpy figure, leaned over the basin, devouring a sippet with each mouthful of broth. His face, usually yellow with freckles, was becoming quite red with the warmth of the steam which circled round him. “Heavens!” he muttered, “what grand juice! What do you put in it?” “Wait a minute,” she said; “if you like leeks—” However, as she turned round she suddenly caught sight of her mistress. She raised an exclamation, and then, like Zephyrin, seemed turned to stone. But a moment afterwards she poured forth a torrent of excuses. “It’s my share, madame—oh, it’s my share! I would not have taken any more soup, I swear it! I told him, ‘If you would like to have my bowl of soup, you can have it.’ Come, speak up, Zephyrin; you know that was how it came about!” The mistress remained silent, and the servant grew uneasy, thinking she was annoyed. Then in quavering tones she continued: “Oh, he was dying of hunger, madame; he stole a raw carrot for me! They feed him so badly! And then, you know, he had walked goodness knows where all along the river-side. I’m sure, madame, you would have told me yourself to give him some broth!” Gazing at the little soldier, who sat with his mouth full, not daring to swallow, Hélène felt she could no longer remain stern. So she quietly said: “Well, well, my girl, whenever the lad is hungry you must keep him to dinner—that’s all. I give you permission” Face to face with them, she had again felt within her that tender feeling which once already had banished all thoughts of rigor from her mind. They were so happy in that kitchen! The cotton curtain, drawn half-way, gave free entry to the sunset beams. The burnished copper pans set the end wall all aglow, lending a rosy tint to the twilight lingering in the room. And there, in the golden shade, the lovers’ little round faces shone out, peaceful and radiant, like moons. Their love was instinct with such calm certainty that no neglect was even shown in keeping the kitchen utensils in their wonted good order. It blossomed amidst the savory odors of the cooking-stove, which heightened their appetites and nourished their hearts. “Mamma,” asked Jeanne, one evening after considerable meditation, “why is it Rosalie’s cousin never kisses her?” “And why should they kiss one another?” asked Hélène in her turn. “They will kiss on their birthdays.” CHAPTER VII.