But there was the Acadian lady to be first thought of.  Neighbors could be easily spread out on the great floor, with rolls of bedding.  Her own oasis of homestead stood open, showing a small fireplace hollowed in one wall, two feet above the floor; table and heavy chairs; and sleeping rooms beyond.  Yet none of these things were good enough to offer such a stranger.

“Take no thought about me, good friend,” said the girl, noticing Mother Sandeau’s anxiously creased face.  “I shall presently go back to my father.”

“But, no,” exclaimed the miller’s wife, “the priest forbids women below, and there is my son’s bridal room upstairs with even a dressing-table in it.  I only held back on account of Angele La Vigne,” she added to comprehending neighbors, “but Angele will attend to the lady there.”

“Angele will gladly attend to the lady anywhere,” spoke out Angele’s mother, with a resentment of her child’s position which ruin could not crush.  “It is the same as if marriage was never talked of between your son Laurent and her.”

“Yes, neighbor, yes,” said the miller’s wife appeasingly.  It was not her fault that a pig had stopped the marriage.  She gave her own candle to Angele, with a motherly look.  The girl had a pink and golden prettiness unusual among habitantes.  Though all flush was gone out of her skin under the stress of the hour, she retained the innocent clear pallor of an infant.  Angele hurried to straighten her disordered dress before taking the candle, and then led Madame De Mattissart up the next flight of stairs.

The mill’s noise had forced talkers to lift their voices, and it now half dulled the clamp of habitante shoes below, and the whining of children longing again for sleep.  Huge square wooden hoppers were shaking down grain, and the two or three square sashes in the thickness of front wall let in some light from the burning cote.

The building’s mighty stone hollows were as cool as the dew-pearled and river-vapored landscape outside.  Occasional shots from below kept reverberating upward through two more floors overhead.

Laurent’s bridal apartment was of new boards built like a deck cabin at one side of the third story.  It was hard for Angele to throw open the door of this sacred little place which she had expected to enter as a bride, and the French officer’s young wife understood it, restraining the girl’s hand.

“Stop, my child.  Let us not go in.  I came up here simply to quiet the others.”

“But you were to rest in this chamber, madame.”

“Do you think I can rest when I do not know whether I am wife or widow?”

The young girls looked at each other with piteous eyes.

“This is a terrible time, madame.”

“It will, however, pass by, in some fashion.”

“But what shall I do for you, madame?  Where will you sit?  Is there nothing you require?”

“Yes, I am thirsty.  Is there not running water somewhere in this mill?”