"Perhaps." Then as Ange reached the door: "Angel!" "What is it then, chérie?" Mlle Marthe put a thin arm about her sister’s neck and drew her close. "After all, I will tell you." "Though I did not beg it on my knees?" "Chut!" "Or with my last breath?" "Very well, then; if you do not wish to hear——" "No, no; tell me." "Well then, Ange, she is noble—that girl." "Oh no!" "I am sure of it. The mystery, her coming here. Why has she no relations, no friends? And then her look, her manner. Why, the first tone of her voice made me start." "Oh no, he would not——" "Would not?" scoffed Marthe. "He ’s a fool in love, and I suppose she was in danger. I tell you, I suspected it at once when his letter came. There, go to bed, and dream of our connection with the aristocracy. My faith, how times change! It is an edifying world." She pushed Ange away, and lay a long time watching the stars. CHAPTER XXII AT HOME AND AFIELD Aline slept late in the morning after her arrival. Everything was so fresh, and sweet, and clean that it was a pleasure just to lie between the lavender-scented sheets, and smell the softness of the summer air which came in at the open casement. She had meant to rise early, but whilst she thought of it, she slept again, drawn into the pleasant peace of the hour. When she did awake the sun was quite high, and she dressed hastily and went down into the garden. Here she was aware of Mlle Ange, basket on arm, busily snipping, cutting, and choosing amongst the low herbs which filled this part of the enclosure. She straightened herself, and turned with a kind smile and kiss, which called about her the atmosphere of home. The look and touch seemed things at once familiar and comfortable, found again after many days of loss. "Are you rested then, my dear?" asked the pleasant voice. "Yesterday you looked so tired, and pale. We must bring some roses into those cheeks, or Jacques will surely chide us when he comes." On the instant the roses were there, and Aline stood transfigured; but they faded almost at once, and left her paler than before. Mlle Ange opened her basket, and showed neat bunches of green herbs disposed within. "I make ointments and tinctures," she said, "and to-day I must be busy, for some of the herbs I use are at their best just now, and if they are not picked, will spoil. All the village comes to me for simples and salves, so that between them, and the children, and my poor Marthe, I am not idle." "May I help?" asked Aline eagerly; and Mlle Ange nodded a pleased "Yes, yes."