“And that’s what I shall do, Minima,” I repeated.

We had many things to settle that morning, making our preliminary arrangements for the spending of my fortune upon many dolls and much jam.  But the conviction was forced upon me that I must be setting about more important plans.  Tardif was still staying in Ville-en-bois, delaying his departure till I was well enough to see him.  I resolved to get up that evening, as soon as the heat of the day was past, and have a conversation with him and Monsieur Laurentie.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD.

A YEAR’S NEWS.

In the cool of the evening, while the chanting of vespers in the church close by was faintly audible, I went downstairs into the salon.  All the household were gone to the service; but I saw Tardif sitting outside in my own favorite seat under the sycamore-tree.  I sent Minima to call him to me, bidding her stay out-of-doors herself; and he came in hurriedly, with a glad light in his deep, honest eyes.

“Thank God, mam’zelle, thank God!” he said.

“Yes,” I answered, “I am well again now.  I have not been really ill, I know, but I felt weary and sick at heart.  My good Tardif, how much I owe you!”

“You owe me, nothing, mam’zelle,” he said, dropping my hand, and carrying the cure’s high-backed chair to the open window, for me to sit in it, and have all the freshness there was in the air.  “Dear mam’zelle,” he added, “if you only think of me as your friend, that is enough.”

“You are my truest friend,” I replied.

“No, no.  You have another as true,” he answered, “and you have this good Monsieur le Cure into the bargain.  If the cures were all like him I should be thinking of becoming a good Catholic myself, and you know how far I am from being that.”

“No one can say a word too much in his praise,” I said.

“Except,” continued Tardif, “that he desires to keep our little mam’zelle in his village.  ‘Why must she leave me?’ he says; ’never do I say a word contrary to her religion, or that of the mignonne.  Let them stay in Ville-en-bois.’  But Dr. Martin, says:  ’No, she must not remain here.  The air is not good for her; the village is not drained, and it is unhealthy.  There will always be fever here.’  Dr. Martin was almost angry with Monsieur le Cure.”

“Dr. Martin?” I said, in a tone of wonder and inquiry.

“Dr. Martin, mam’zelle.  I sent a message to him by telegraph.  It was altered somehow in the offices, and he did not know who was dead.  He started off at once, travelled without stopping, and reached this place two nights ago.”

“Is he here now?” I asked, while a troubled feeling stirred the tranquillity which had but just returned to me.  I shrank from seeing him just then.