Rossignol was the sweetest little woman—­you know that kind of Frenchwoman, don’t you?  Soft-voiced, tender, intelligent, using the most delightful phrases; a jewel of a woman.  My father settled himself by the bedside and fought; Madame Rossignol watching him with eyes he did not dare to meet—­until a certain moment.  Then—­then the soft voice for once was loud. ‘Ii est sauve!’ My father shed tears; everybody shed tears—­except Thibaut himself.”

Piers hung on the speaker’s lips.  No music had ever held him so rapt.  When she ceased he gazed at her.

“No, of course, that’s not all,” Irene proceeded, with the mischievous smile again; and she spoke much as she might have done to an eagerly listening child.  “Six years pass by.  My father is again la the east of France, and he goes to the old village.  He is received with enthusiasm; his name has become a proverb.  Rossignol pere, alas, is dead, long since.  Dear Madame Rossignol lives, but my father sees at a glance that she will not live long.  The excitement of meeting him was almost too much for her—­pale, sweet little woman.  Thibaut was keeping shop with her, but he seemed out of place there; a fine lad of eighteen; very intelligent, wonderfully good-humoured, and his poor mother had no peace, night or day, for the thought of what would become of him after her death; he had no male kinsfolk, and certainly would not stick to a dull little trade.  My father thought, and after thinking, spoke.  ’Madame, will you let me take your son to England, and find something for him to do?’ She screamed with delight.  ‘But will Thibaut consent?’ Thibaut had his patriotic scruples; but when he saw and heard his poor mother, he consented.  Madame Rossignol had a sister near by, with whom she could live.  And so on the spot it was settled.”

Piers hung on the speaker’s lips; no tale had ever so engrossed him.  Indeed, it was charmingly told; with so much girlish sincerity, so much womanly feeling.

“No, that’s not all.  My father went to his inn for the night.  Early in the morning he was hastily summoned; he must come at once to the house of the Rossignols; something was wrong.  He went, and there, in her bed, lay the little woman, just as if asleep, and a smile on her face—­but she was dead.”

Piers had a lump in his throat; he straightened himself, and tried to command his features.  Irene, smiling, looked steadily at him.

“From that day,” she added, “Thibaut has been my father’s servant.  He wouldn’t be anything else.  This, he always says, would best have pleased his mother.  He will never leave Dr. Derwent.  The good Thibaut!”

All were silent for a minute; then Piers pushed back his chair.

“Work?” said Mrs. Hannaford, with a little note of allusion to last evening.

“Work!” Piers replied grimly, his eyes down.

“Well, now,” exclaimed Irene, turning to her cousin, “what shall we do this splendid morning?  Where can we go?”