"I have something else here," I said, taking from my pocket a carefully folded paper, which I handed to Mignonne. The young woman took the paper, and a flush of joy overspread her face; she covered her daughter's hair with kisses, then threw herself into my arms once more. "Oh! thanks! thanks, my friend! I have not lost everything; I have something of her! Her soft, fine hair--I have it all, and it will never leave me! Ah! you have almost made me happy! Let me thank you again." She laid her head on my shoulder and wept profusely; but the tears were soothing and assuaged her grief. Then she knelt beside the gravestone. I walked away in order not to disturb her meditation and her prayers. At last, after spending a long time beside her daughter, Mignonne returned to me; but she was no longer the same woman as when she left her room. Her sombre grief, her wild glance, had given place to an expression of pious melancholy and placid resignation. I took her back to her home; on the way, I tried, not to combat her regrets, but to make her understand that the most unhappy of mankind are not those who are taken away from this world. When we returned, Madame Potrelle looked at us, and was surprised beyond words at the change that had taken place in her tenant; but she dared not question us. Mignonne ran to the good woman and kissed her. "Oh! I am no longer so wretched as I was! I have just been praying at my daughter's grave; I've got the key; there are flowers all around it; I am going to take care of them. Marie will be glad. See, I have all her hair; and it's to him, to monsieur, my best friend, that I owe it all! Ah! you were quite right when you told me that I made a mistake to distrust him!" I bade Mignonne adieu, in order to escape Madame Potrelle's eulogium. The young woman offered me her hand, saying: "Now I will come myself to get the work you are good enough to give me. You will allow me to do it, won't you?" "I do more than that, I beg you to; and, in the interest of your health, I urge you to look carefully after all my linen; for there is nothing like work to distract one's thoughts." Mignonne speedily fulfilled her promise; she appeared one morning, alone; she desired to show me that she no longer had any suspicion of me. I talked a few minutes with her. We spoke of her daughter, the subject in which she was most deeply interested. The people who are afraid to speak of those they have lost are the ones who wish to forget them at once. When one does not wish to forget the dear ones who are no more, why should one shrink from speaking of them? Then I went out, after saying to her: "The keys are in all the drawers. Look over everything, and take away what you choose. That is your affair; and my servant has orders to obey you like myself, if you need anything."