All Kaskaskia seemed in a joyful mood that morning, save only the solitary occupant of that window, who contemplated, absently and sadly, the animated scene before her. The antic gambols of the lively French children called up no smile to her patient face: she even slightly turned her head while merry groups were passing; and once or twice, in the very midst of loud bursts of laughter, she rose from her seat and slowly crossed and re-crossed the room. At each turn she paused for a moment to listen at a door opposite to the window. No sound came forth, however, and at last she resumed her seat with an air of weariness which seemed to forbid her again leaving it.
Scarcely had she done so, when a quaint little figure, in a rusty but well-brushed black coat, and a very large beaver hat, frisked round the corner of the house, and paused in the attitude of a dancing-master, beaver in hand, directly before the open window.
"Ah! Madame Lefrette!" he exclaimed, in a voice of delighted briskness, and with a salutation whose profundity he would have equally devoted to peer or peasant, lady or laundress, "Bon jour, Madame!"
"Good morning, Mr. Maillefert," the lady quietly returned, and was about to add some further common-place; but the vivacious little Frenchman would not allow it.
"I sall see you at mi fête this night, Madame, certainement? Eh? You come?" he broke in rapidly.
"I fear not, Monsieur," she replied.
"Non? Pourquoi? Pardon; eh?"
"My husband is quite ill," she said.
"Est-il malade!" he interrupted. "C'est mal; vraiement!"
He pondered a moment, as if feelingly contemplating her affliction; but suddenly lifting his head, he naïvely exclaimed:
"Mais, Madame, who sall chaperon La Belle Marie?"
"I do not know," she replied with a smile, " that Marie will wish to go. If she should, however, shall I place her in your charge, Monsieur?"
A bow of profound obligation, and a broken speech, expressing his deep sense of the honor, was all the overpowered artist could
