the death of her two boys--you should hear my father tell it! I
make a hash of it; when _he_ tells it people cry. Madame 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