"Ours are not priests,--they are ministers," said Mary. "But why do you speak of him?--he is like my father." "Virginie sees something!" said the lady, shaking her head gravely; "she sees he loves little Mary." "Of course he does!" "Of-course-he-does?--ah, yes; and by-and-by comes the mamma, and she takes this little hand, and she says, 'Come, Mary!' and then she gives it to him; and then the poor _jeune homme_, when he comes back, finds not a bird in his poor little nest. _Oh, c'est ennuyeux cela_!" she said, throwing herself back in the grass till the clover-heads and buttercups closed over her. "I do assure you, dear Madame!"-- "I do assure you, dear Mary, _Virginie knows_. So lock up her words in your little heart; you will want them some day." There was a pause of some moments, while the lady was watching the course of a cricket through the clover. At last, lifting her head, she spoke very gravely,-- "My little cat! it is _dreadful_ to be married to a good man, and want to be good, and want to love him, and yet never like to have him take your hand, and be more glad when he is away than when he is at home; and then to think how different it would all be, if it was only somebody else. That will be the way with you, if you let them lead you into this; so don't you do it, _mon enfant_." A thought seemed to cross Mary's mind, as she turned to Madame de Frontignac, and said, earnestly,-- "If a good man were my husband, I would never think of another,--I wouldn't let myself." "How could you help it, _mignonne_? Can you stop your thinking?" Mary said, after a moment's blush,-- "I can _try_!" "Ah, yes! But to try all one's life,--oh, Mary, that is too hard! Never do it, darling!" And then Madame de Frontignac broke out into a carolling little French song, which started all the birds around into a general orchestral accompaniment. This conversation occurred just before Madame de Frontignac started for Philadelphia, whither her husband had been summoned as an agent in some of the ambitious intrigues of Burr. It was with a sigh of regret that she parted from her friends at the cottage. She made them a hasty good-bye call,--alighting from a splendid barouche with two white horses, and filling their simple best-room with the light of her presence for a last half-hour. When she bade good-bye to Mary, she folded her warmly to her heart, and her long lashes drooped heavily with tears. After her absence, the lessons were still pursued with the gentle, quiet little Abbé, who seemed the most patient and assiduous of teachers; but, in both houses, there was that vague _ennui_, that sense of want, which follows the fading of one of life's beautiful dreams! We bid her adieu for a season;--we may see her again. CHAPTER XX.