“Ah, Miche Vignevielle, I thang de good God to mid you!”

“Is dad so, Madame Carraze?  Fo’ w’y dad is?”

“A man was chase me all dad way since my ’ouse!”

“Yes, Madame, I sawed him.”

“You sawed ’im?  Oo it was?”

“’Twas only one man wad is a foolizh.  De people say he’s crezzie. Mais, he don’ goin’ to meg you no ’arm.”

“But I was scare’ fo’ my lill’ girl.”

“Noboddie don’ goin’ trouble you’ lill’ gal, Madame Carraze.”

Madame Delphine looked up into the speaker’s strangely kind and patient eyes, and drew sweet reassurance from them.

“Madame,” said Monsieur Vignevielle, “wad pud you bout so hearly dis morning?”

She told him her errand.  She asked if he thought she would find any thing.

“Yez,” he said, “it was possible—­a few lill’ becassines-de-mer, ou somezin’ ligue.  But fo’ w’y you lill’ gal lose doze hapetide?”

“Ah, Miche,”—­Madame Delphine might have tried a thousand times again without ever succeeding half so well in lifting the curtain upon the whole, sweet, tender, old, old-fashioned truth,—­“Ah, Miche, she wone tell me!”

“Bud, anny’ow, Madame, wad you thing?”

“Miche,” she replied, looking up again with a tear standing in either eye, and then looking down once more as she began to speak, “I thing—­I thing she’s lonesome.”

“You thing?”

She nodded.

“Ah!  Madame Carraze,” he said, partly extending his hand, “you see?  ’Tis impossible to mague you’ owze shud so tighd to priv-en dad.  Madame, I med one mizteg.”

“Ah, non, Miche!”

“Yez.  There har nod one poss’bil’ty fo’ me to be dad guardian of you’ daughteh!”

Madame Delphine started with surprise and alarm.

“There is ondly one wad can be,” he continued.

“But oo, Miche?”

“God.”

“Ah, Miche Vignevielle”—­She looked at him appealingly.

“I don’ goin’ to dizzerd you, Madame Carraze,” he said.

She lifted her eyes.  They filled.  She shook her head, a tear fell, she bit her lip, smiled, and suddenly dropped her face into both hands, sat down upon the bench and wept until she shook.

“You dunno wad I mean, Madame Carraze?”

She did not know.

“I mean dad guardian of you’ daughteh godd to fine ’er now one ‘uzban’; an’ noboddie are hable to do dad egceb de good God ’imsev.  But, Madame, I tell you wad I do.”

She rose up.  He continued: 

“Go h-open you’ owze; I fin’ you’ daughteh dad uzban’.”

Madame Delphine was a helpless, timid thing; but her eyes showed she was about to resent this offer.  Monsieur Vignevielle put forth his hand—­it touched her shoulder—­and said, kindly still, and without eagerness: 

“One w’ite man, Madame:  ’tis prattycabble.  I know ’tis prattycabble.  One w’ite jantleman, Madame.  You can truz me.  I goin’ fedge ’im.  H-ondly you go h-open you’ owze.”