“Suppose dad should be true w’at doze peop’ say ’bout Ursin.”

“Qui ci ca?  What is that?” asked the quadroone, stopping her fan.

“Some peop’ say Ursin is crezzie.”

“Ah, Pere Jerome!” She leaped to her feet as if he had smitten her, and putting his words away with an outstretched arm and wide-open palm, suddenly lifted hands and eyes to heaven, and cried:  “I wizh to God—­I wizh to God—­de whole worl’ was crezzie dad same way!” She sank, trembling, into her chair.  “Oh, no, no,” she continued, shaking her head, “’tis not Miche Vignevielle w’at’s crezzie.”  Her eyes lighted with sudden fierceness. “’Tis dad law!  Dad law is crezzie!  Dad law is a fool!”

A priest of less heart-wisdom might have replied that the law is—­the law; but Pere Jerome saw that Madame Delphine was expecting this very response.  Wherefore he said, with gentleness: 

“Madame Delphine, a priest is not a bailiff, but a physician.  How can I help you?”

A grateful light shone a moment in her eyes, yet there remained a piteous hostility in the tone in which she demanded: 

“Mais, pou’quoi ye, fe cette mechanique la?”—­What business had they to make that contraption?

His answer was a shrug with his palms extended and a short, disclamatory “Ah.”  He started to resume his walk, but turned to her again and said:  “Why did they make that law?  Well, they made it to keep the two races separate.”

Madame Delphine startled the speaker with a loud, harsh, angry laugh.  Fire came from her eyes and her lip curled with scorn.

“Then they made a lie, Pere Jerome!  Separate!  No-o-o!  They do not want to keep us separated; no, no!  But they do want to keep us despised!” She laid her hand on her heart, and frowned upward with physical pain.  “But, very well! from which race do they want to keep my daughter separate?  She is seven parts white!  The law did not stop her from being that; and now, when she wants to be a white man’s good and honest wife, shall that law stop her?  Oh, no!” She rose up.  “No; I will tell you what that law is made for.  It is made to—­punish—­my—­child—­for—­not—­choosing—­her—­father!  Pere Jerome—­my God, what a law!” She dropped back into her seat.  The tears came in a flood, which she made no attempt to restrain.

“No,” she began again—­and here she broke into English—­“fo’ me I don’ kyare; but, Pere Jerome,—­’tis fo’ dat I came to tell you,—­dey shall not punizh my daughter!” She was on her feet again, smiting her heaving bosom with the fan.  “She shall marrie oo she want!”

Pere Jerome had heard her out, not interrupting by so much as a motion of the hand.  Now his decision was made, and he touched her softly with the ends of his fingers.

“Madame Delphine, I want you to go at ’ome Go at ’ome.”

“Wad you goin’ mague?” she asked.

“Nottin’.  But go at ‘ome.  Kip quite; don put you’se’f sig.  I goin’ see Ursin.  We trah to figs dat aw fo’ you.”