“Momselle Aurore—­” began Palmyre, solemnly.

“Now, I know what you are going to say—­but it is of no use to say it; do this much for me this one time and then I will let voudou alone as much as you wish—­forever!”

“You have not lost your purse again?”

“Ah! foolishness, no.”

Both laughed a little, the philosophe feebly, and Aurora with an excited tremor.

“Well?” demanded the quadroon, looking grave again.

Aurora did not answer.

“Do you wish me to work a spell for you?”

The widow nodded, with her eyes cast down.

Both sat quite still for some time; then the philosophe gently drew the landlord’s letter from between Aurora’s hands.

“What is this?” She could not read in any language.

“I must pay my rent within nineteen days.”

“Have you not paid it?”

The delinquent shook her head.

“Where is the gold that came into your purse?  All gone?”

“For rice and potatoes,” said Aurora, and for the first time she uttered a genuine laugh, under that condition of mind which Latins usually substitute for fortitude.  Palmyre laughed too, very properly.

Another silence followed.  The lady could not return the quadroon’s searching gaze.

“Momselle Aurore,” suddenly said Palmyre, “you want me to work a spell for something else.”

Aurora started, looked up for an instant in a frightened way, and then dropped her eyes and let her head droop, murmuring: 

“No, I do not.”

Palmyre fixed a long look upon her former mistress.  She saw that though Aurora might be distressed about the rent, there was something else,—­a deeper feeling,—­impelling her upon a course the very thought of which drove the color from her lips and made her tremble.

“You are wearing red,” said the philosophe.

Aurora’s hand went nervously to the red ribbon about her neck.

“It is an accident; I had nothing else convenient.”

“Miche Agoussou loves red,” persisted Palmyre. (Monsieur Agoussou is the demon upon whom the voudous call in matters of love.)

The color that came into Aurora’s cheek ought to have suited Monsieur precisely.

“It is an accident,” she feebly insisted.

“Well,” presently said Palmyre, with a pretence of abandoning her impression, “then you want me to work you a spell for money, do you?”

Aurora nodded, while she still avoided the quadroon’s glance.

“I know better,” thought the philosophe.  “You shall have the sort you want.”

The widow stole an upward glance.

“Oh!” said Palmyre, with the manner of one making a decided digression, “I have been wanting to ask you something.  That evening at the pharmacy—­was there a tall, handsome gentleman standing by the counter?”

“He was standing on the other side.”

“Did you see his face?”