"
"You don't know who that is?" she asked him.
"No, I don't know."
"Why, yes, you do. My maid--my French maid--don't you remember?
She married Hector, the cooper, at St. Genevieve. Now, see, Jeanne
is writing to me again. Don't you see, there's a baby, and it is
named for me--who has none. Good-by, that money!"--she kissed hand
to the air--"Good-by, that idea, that dream of mine! That's of no
consequence. In fact, nothing is of consequence. See, this is the
baby of Jeanne! She has asked me to come. Why, then, should I
delay?"
Whether it were tears or smiles which he saw upon her face Carlisle
never could determine. Whether it were physical unrest or mental
emotion, he did not know, but certainly it was that the letter of
the agent remained upon the table untouched between them while
Josephine St. Auban pressed to her lips the letter from Jeanne, her
maid.
"Why, I have not failed at all!" said she. "Have I not cared for
and brought up this Jeanne, and is there not a baby of Jeanne, a
baby whom she has named for me?"
Carlisle, mute and unnoticed, indeed, as he felt almost forgotten,
was relieved when there came a knock at the door.
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