"He would not come, mamselle. He is in high favor with his employer, who protects him, and he says he has so many opportunities of helping others, that he will not as yet abandon his post. Besides, he cherishes a hope, though I believe it is a vain one, of rescuing Lucille." "Why do you think it a vain one?" I asked. "Because, mamselle, she does not wish to be rescued. She has made a profession, as they call it, and we hear she is high in favor with her superiors, and a willing instrument in their hands in coaxing or compelling the poor little children to abjure. We thought it a great mercy when she, the last of five babes, was spared to us; but now I wish she had died in the cradle, like the rest." "She is not yet out of the reach of mercy, my poor Simon," said my mother. "We must all remember her in our prayers." She paused, and then added, with a great effort, "Do you know what became of my husband's body?" "He rests in peace, madame," answered Sablot. "Jean La Roche and myself buried him at midnight, by the side of my own babes, in our orchard. We levelled the ground and laid back the turf, so that none should suspect." My mother rose and left the room, making me a sign not to follow her. When she came back at the end of an hour she had evidently been weeping bitterly; but she was now quite calm. She asked many questions about our servants, our tenants, and neighbors. The maids had all escaped, in one way or other, he told us. Julienne, he thought, would conform, as her sweetheart was earnest with her to do so. Marie had gone to Charenton. Old Mathew was found dead in the orchard, but without any marks of violence, and Simon thought he had died of the shock, as he was a very old man. Of Henri, he knew nothing. "And what will you do, my poor friends?" said my mother. "How can we help you? If I were not going to the house of another, I would take you with me." "Oh, we shall do very well, madame," said Jeanne cheerfully. "I get a great deal of fine washing and mending, especially of lace, and if Simon could buy some turner's tools of his own, he might set up a little shop." "I have a better plan than that," said Andrew. "My mother writes me that our old gardener is just dead, and she knows not where to find another. You shall go down to Cornwall and take his place. As for Jeanne, she can wait upon madame, and teach old Deborah to make omelettes and galette. That will be better than living in a dingy street in London, will it not?" "May Heaven's blessing rest upon you, my son," said my mother, while my poor foster-parents could hardly speak a word, so overpowered were they with the prospect suddenly opened before them. I was as pleased as my mother, and at that moment would not have exchanged my sailor for the finest gallant about the court.