“Take a seat,” said Doctor Varrillat, with some suddenness, starting from his place and gently guiding her sinking form into the corner of the bench.  The ladies rose up; somebody had to stand; the two races could not both sit down at once—­at least not in that public manner.

“Your salts,” said the physician to his wife.  She handed the vial.  Madame Delphine stood up again.

“We will all go inside,” said Madame Thompson, and they passed through the gate and up the walk, mounted the steps, and entered the deep, cool drawing-room.

Madame Thompson herself bade the quadroone be seated.

“Well?” said Jean Thompson, as the rest took chairs.

“C’est drole”—­it’s funny—­said Madame Delphine, with a piteous effort to smile, “that nobody thought of it.  It is so plain.  You have only to look and see.  I mean about Olive.”  She loosed a button in the front of her dress and passed her hand into her bosom.  “And yet, Olive herself never thought of it.  She does not know a word.”

The hand came out holding a miniature.  Madame Varrillat passed it to Jean Thompson.

“Ouala so popa,” said Madame Delphine.  “That is her father.”

It went from one to another, exciting admiration and murmured praise.

“She is the image of him,” said Madame Thompson, in an austere undertone, returning it to her husband.

Doctor Varrillat was watching Madame Delphine.  She was very pale.  She had passed a trembling hand into a pocket of her skirt, and now drew out another picture, in a case the counterpart of the first.  He reached out for it, and she handed it to him.  He looked at it a moment, when his eyes suddenly lighted up and he passed it to the attorney.

“Et la”—­Madame Delphine’s utterance failed—­“et la ouala sa moman.  That is her mother.”

The three others instantly gathered around Jean Thompson’s chair.  They were much impressed.

“It is true beyond a doubt!” muttered Madame Thompson.

Madame Varrillat looked at her with astonishment.

“The proof is right there in the faces,” said Madame Thompson.

“Yes! yes!” said Madame Delphine, excitedly; “the proof is there!  You do not want any better!  I am willing to swear to it!  But you want no better proof!  That is all anybody could want!  My God! you cannot help but see it!”

Her manner was wild.

Jean Thompson looked at her sternly.

“Nevertheless you say you are willing to take your solemn oath to this.”

“Certainly”—­

“You will have to do it.”

“Certainly, Miche Thompson, of course I shall; you will make out the paper and I will swear before God that it is true!  Only”—­turning to the ladies—­“do not tell Olive; she will never believe it.  It will break her heart!  It”—­

A servant came and spoke privately to Madame Thompson, who rose quickly and went to the hall Madame Delphine continued, rising unconsciously: