"What is it, mama?" she asked, sitting at her feet, and taking her hand and laying it against her cheek. "What can it be but the loss of you, sweet?" she replied quickly. "You must allow me to be jealous and foolish." "But you are not going to lose me, dearest mama, and are you sure—I have fancied there must be something else troubling you." "Indeed you must not think so; I am selfish to—" "Selfish! You, the best and sweetest woman in the world, selfish! I’ll not believe that." Still she did not feel satisfied, and was greatly relieved when Father Vincent came, and she saw her mother brighten and look like her old self. It was about two weeks before the wedding that he came, and was persuaded to stop with them two days instead of one. He was an old man, small, slender, and ascetic looking, with clear, calm eyes, and a sweet voice. It was the afternoon of his arrival that Madeline went out to make some calls, but after one visit changed her mind, and returned home. She did not at once go to her mother, knowing that she and Father Vincent would probably have much to say to each other, but turned into the parlor, cool, dusky, and deserted, and went to the little alcove, where she had left her embroidery and the last letter from her lover. It was simply a corner of the big room, furnished with a lounge and a small table, and shut in by soft silk curtains. How long she had been there, re-reading that letter, dreaming over her work, she could not tell, when roused by footsteps and voices in the room—her mother and the priest. "You hinted at some special cause for trouble in your letter," he said, as they sat down in close proximity to those curtains and Madeline’s retreat. "Yes; it concerns Madeline." "What of her? I thought her future had been settled. Is she not to be married in a short time?" "Yes; but, Father, she is not my child, and I am growing doubtful of the honor of my course in regard to this marriage." "Not your child!" exclaimed Father Vincent in surprise, for he thought that he knew all the Capelle secrets. "No. I would to God that she were!" she said with deep emotion, "for I love her so well that I’d gladly give my life to know that pure, unmixed blood flowed in her veins." His chair creaked as he drew it a little nearer her; his voice sank to a low key: "You do not mean—" "Yes; her mother was a quadroon," in a trembling whisper. Did he hear that strange gasping sigh, as of a dumb creature struck by a mortal blow, that he so quickly and abruptly exclaimed: "Where is she now?" "Out calling. I did not dare speak of this while she was in the house, for fear the very walls would betray the secret. She must never know it, never! It would ruin her life, kill her, my poor, proud child!" Her voice broke in tears. "Tell me the whole story," said the priest gently, but with authority.