“It is not because he is so poor that he is ill,” I answered.

“But my father died because he was so poor,” she said; “the doctors told him he could get well if he had only enough money.  Perhaps your husband would not have died if he had not been very poor.”

“No, no,” I cried, vehemently, “he is not dying through poverty.”

Yet the child’s words had a sting in them, for I knew he had been poor, in consequence of my act.  I thought of the close, unwholesome house in London, where he had been living.  I could not help thinking of it, and wondering whether any loss of vital strength, born of poverty, had caused him to fall more easily a prey to this fever.  My brain was burdened with sorrowful questions and doubts.

I sent Minima back to the village before the morning-heat grew strong, and then I was alone, watching the cottage through the fine haze of heat which hung tremulously about it.  The song of every bird was hushed; the shouts of the harvest-men to their oxen ceased; and the only sound that stirred the still air was the monotonous striking of the clock in the church-tower.  I had not seen Monsieur Laurentie since his first greeting of me in the early morning.  A panic fear seized upon me.  Suppose he should have been stricken suddenly by this deadly malady!  I called softly at first, then loudly, but no answer came to comfort me.  If this old man, worn out and exhausted, had actually given his life for Richard’s, what would become of me? what would become of all of us?

Step by step, pausing often, yet urged on by my growing fears, I stole down the parched and beaten track toward the house, then called once more to the oppressive silence.

Here in the open sunshine, with the hot walls of the mill casting its rays back again, the heat was intense, though the white cap I wore protected my head from it.  My eyes were dazzled, and I felt ready to faint.  No wonder if Monsieur Laurentie should have sunk under it, and the long strain upon his energies, which would have overtaxed a younger and stronger man.  I had passed the invisible line which his will had drawn about the place, and had half crossed the court, when I heard footsteps close behind me, and a large, brown, rough hand suddenly caught mine.

“Mam’zelle’” cried a voice I knew well, “is this you!”

“O Tardif!  Tardif!” I exclaimed.  I rested my beating head against him, and sobbed violently, while he surrounded me with his strong arm, and laid his hand upon my head, as if to assure me of his help and protection.

“Hush; hush! mam’zelle,” he said; “it is Tardif, your friend, my little mam’zelle; your servant, you know.  I am here.  What shall I do for you?  Is there any person in yonder house who frightens you, my poor little mam’zelle?  Tell me what I can do?”

He had drawn me back into the green shade of the trees, and set me down upon the felled tree where I had been sitting before.  I told him all quickly, briefly—­all that had happened since I had written to him.  I saw the tears start to his eyes.