"Come this way," said the lad who had been waiting for them, holding out a great coarse hand to Lucette. "Here, mother; they are come." And, leading the poor girl on, followed by Edward, he conducted her through a little garden in which various kitchen-vegetables were more plentiful than flowers. Half-way between the house and the canal they were met by a goodly-sized dame of forty and a girl of some sixteen or seventeen, who took Lucette frankly in their arms and gave her a warm embrace. "So this is your young man, poor thing?" said the elder, looking at Edward; but then, immediately turning to the boatman, she inquired, eagerly, "What has been the meaning of all that red light out by the abbey?" "There's no abbey by this time," answered the man. "But come, good dame, let us in to your kitchen-fire, if you've got one, and I will tell you all about it. We are all as wet as bull-frogs, except the girl; and I gave her my _peau de bique_." Thus saying, he pushed past the rest and entered a large, roomy kitchen, well stored with every sort of salted and dried provisions, dependent from great racks suspended from the ceiling. There a hearty welcome awaited the poor wayfarers: the fire, which had nearly gone out, was soon blown up into a cheerful blaze; warm soup was produced; and to Lucette the good dame of the house, though she weighed at least two hundred pounds, showed the tenderness and gentleness associated by poets and romance-writers solely with sylphlike forms and nymphlike graces. Her two good, buxom girls, who to very pretty faces added in form a promise of future extent worthy of the stock from which they sprang, joined in, somewhat more shyly, but with real kindness; and, for the first time since they left Rochelle, Edward and Lucette experienced that feeling of security which--to plagiarize a little--"wraps the whole heart up like a blanket." CHAPTER XIV.