In the meantime young Baptiste had escaped from the table and the drinking, and had gone back to the dancers, who were now beginning to disperse. He went across the street with his Blanchette and her friends, and secure in the occupation of both their parents, talked for half a happy hour with her at the door. When he bade her good night at last, and little Blanchette went in with the blush on her cheeks, Helen, somewhat pale from her vigil, was standing at the door of the sitting-room. “Will you come in?” she said. She had been sitting there a long time alone, since Janey went to bed, watching the dancers, and listening to the squeak of the fiddle and the hum of all the voices. It was not a kind of merrymaking which Helen could have shared; yet to see people enjoying themselves, and to sit alone and look from a distance at their pleasure, is sad when one is young. She was glad to see the bright countenance of the other girl, who was in the midst of all that little agitation of youthful life from which she was herself shut out. There was but one candle in the bare little _salon_, and that was put away in a corner not to interrupt the sight of the village gaiety outside. Blanchette came in, proud of the invitation, and looked out with great sympathy upon the scene she had herself left, where now the dancing figures were fewer and more irregular, and the lights more smoky and lurid than ever. “Was mademoiselle looking at us all the time?” she said; and then she suddenly took and kissed with fervour, to Helen’s great surprise, her unwilling hand. “_Mon dieu_!” said little Blanchette, “but how sad for mademoiselle!” “Oh, thanks,” cried Helen, much confused and not knowing what to do. She would have liked to kiss the little girl who felt for her, but she was too shy to do this. “It amused me very much,” she said with a little sigh--perhaps she had scarcely thought that her amusement was sad till Blanchette suggested it. “I think I saw you dancing with Baptiste.” “Oh yes, mademoiselle. He came as often as he could. Mademoiselle knows that we are _fiancés_.” “Yes; but you are too young to be married,” Helen said. “Does mademoiselle think so? Baptiste is almost twenty. Provided that he draws a good number, that is all we have to hope for. Will mademoiselle say a little prayer for us when the moment comes? Ursule has promised a candle to St Hubert if all goes well. Ursule has no wishes for herself. She is a saint upon earth. All that she asks from heaven is for me.” “But she is only a very little older than you are. Why should she have no wishes for herself?”