than that y'll be, darlin', and y're eyes like purty brown topazzes and
y're cheeks like roses-shure, is there anny lether for Mary Flynn,
darlin'?" she hastily added as she saw the Seigneur standing in the
doorway. He had evidently been listening.

"Ye didn't hear what y're ould fool of a cook was sayin'," she added to
the Seigneur, as Rosalie shook her head and answered: "No letters,
Madame--dear." Rosalie timidly added the dear, for there was something
so great-hearted in Mrs. Flynn that she longed to clasp her round the
neck, longed as she had never done in her life to lay her head upon some
motherly breast and pour out her heart. But it was not to be now.
Secrecy was her duty still.

"Can't ye speak to y're ould fool of a cook, sir?" Mrs. Flynn said
again, as the Seigneur made way for her to leave the shop.

"How did you guess?" he said to her in a low voice, his sharp eyes
peering into hers.

"By the looks in y're face these past weeks, and the look in hers," she
whispered, and went on her way rejoicing.

"I'll wind thim both round me finger like a wisp o' straw," she said,
going up the road with a light step, despite her weight, till she was
stopped by the malicious grocer-man of the village, whose tongue had been
wagging for hours upon an unwholesome theme.

Meanwhile, in the post-office, the Seigneur and Rosalie were face to
face.