purposely, and would not part. The eyes which had so much to conceal from Madame had for him abundant revelations, which the lashes did not hide, from eyes that caused her lids to rise merely by glances. Her face came out of the blushes,—a thin, white face in an oval frame of plaited black hair, the lips parted as if again in the tremor of caress;—Madame Goupilleau, with that big back to her chair, might just as well have been in the corridor again with the Sister.
"Tante Eugénie, I shall go with him. I, I—" She had to go, for the hands absolutely would not unclasp.
"My little girl is no more," thought Madame Goupilleau as they left her alone. "Well! Ma bonne!" to Marcélite, who came at last into the room. "Your young lady is going to make a fine marriage,—a fine marriage! Tiens!" interrupting herself suddenly. "I wanted you; where were you? I called you to go into the parlor to chaperon. Ah!—I see now. You were in connivance! What innocence I have, for my age!"
"Madame!" the quadroon's voice was apolo-
