their crimson bows impatiently on the floor. Jeanne drew her father to
one side, and whispered in his ear. He retorted angrily, in a louder
tone. Not a look or tone was lost on Victorine. Presently the old man,
shrugging his shoulders, went back to the pigeons, and began to turn the
spit, muttering to himself in French. Jeanne had conquered.

"Thy grandfather is in a rage," she said to Victorine, "because we must
give meat and drink to the man who has treated me so ill; that is why he
did not wish thee to serve. But I have persuaded him that it is needful
that we do all we can to keep Willan Blaycke well disposed to us. He
might withhold from me all my money if he so chose; and he is rich, and
we are but poor people. We could not find any redress. So do thou take
care and treat him as if thou hadst never heard aught against him from
me. It will lie with thee, child, to see that he goes not away angered;
for thy grandfather is in a mood when the saints themselves could not
hold his tongue if he have a mind to speak. Keep thou out of his sight
till supper be ready. I stay here till all is done."

Between the kitchen and the common living-room, which was also the
dining-room, was a long dark passage-way, at one end of which was a
small storeroom. Here Victorine took refuge, to wait till her aunt
should call her to serve the supper. The window of this storeroom was
wide open. The shutter had fallen off the hinges several days before,
and Benoit had forgotten to put it up. Victorine seated herself on a
cider cask close to the window, and leaning her head against the wall
began to sing again in a low tone. She had a habit of singing at all
times, and often hardly knew that she sang at all. The Provençal melody
was still running in her head.

"Ah! luck for the bees,