“No,” replied Sappho hastily; “no more deception.”
“I am glad to see that you are ready to bear all things in meekness for His sake. But you are not called upon to make too many sacrifices. God sees your heart and will reward you in his own good time. I have a place for you that I think will just suit you. Monsieur Louis of Opelousas is in want of a governess for his two granddaughters. He is a man of color, and has lost all of his family but these two children. He is an old man with a competency, and he will pay you well for your services. Alphonse can stay with us; you can pay a stipulated sum for his board and be able to see him every week. What do you think of it, my daughter?”
“I will do as you advise, Mother; you are only too kind. When shall I go?”
“Monsieur Louis will be here tomorrow to see you. If everything is satisfactory, you can go next week.”
The morrow came, and with it Monsieur Louis. He was a tall, aristocratic-looking man of dignified bearing, though one soon perceived that age had bent his once firm shoulders. His hair, now entirely white, added to his venerable appearance. His face was gentle and kindly, and immediately won Sappho’s heart. He, in his turn, was much impressed by her youth and beauty. He thought of the days of his own youth, when such a face as hers would have robbed him of his sleep. He thought, too, of the wife and daughter who had been taken from him, leaving his life but a succession of lonely days. “Let the past die,” he murmured impatiently to himself; “I feel this beautiful girl-widow will bring peace and joy to my poor motherless girls.”
In another week Sappho had accepted the liberal terms Monsieur Louis offered her, had taken a tearful farewell of Alphonse and the Sisters, and was ensconced in her new home.
The house was pleasant; it stood in its own grounds; an old-fashioned, typical Southern residence, with wide gardens and a carriage-drive winding around a smoothly cut lawn. The interior was well furnished, comfortable, and every want abundantly supplied. She combined the duties of housekeeping with those of teaching, and soon became the moving spirit of the home, warmly loved by her little charges, and enthusiastically admired by the servants. It was a happy, restful life; it suited her. Its retirement, its quiet interior, recalled her childhood’s happy home. Monsieur Louis, although much older, reminded her of her father, and attracted her by his gentleness. Traveling in a desert, as it were, she had come suddenly and unexpectedly upon an oasis of grass, cool shadows and running streams. Here, indeed, was peace. Had her lot been always cast in these pleasant, peaceful shades, how different her life might have been. But the iron of suffering had seared her heart. Her life now bade fair to be tranquil and monotonous enough. Why could she not be happy? she asked herself. She tried not to allow herself to think upon the past; but when night came she lay awake hungering for the sight of a face, the touch of a hand, the glance of an eye. Sometimes the craving grew almost too powerful to be resisted, and once she started to dress, resolved to return to Boston, find Will, and trust all to his love. But she remembered. “His scorn I could not bear. I should die at his feet.” She told herself that life was done and nothing remained but patience. So she sat dumb and submissive beneath her martyrdom.
Monsieur Louis was puzzled by the beautiful girl-widow, but he asked no inconvenient questions. He was content to accept the goods which the gods had provided him in the person of his governess, deeming himself very fortunate to have a woman of her refinement to take charge of the education of his granddaughters. He did not believe her to be a widow. He had strange thoughts when he looked at the pretty child Alphonse, who came so frequently to the house to visit his mother. The child was always made welcome for his own sake as well as for his mother’s. He shook his head and sighed as he watched the two together. Such cases were only too common in the South. Like a wise man he accepted the inevitable, and tried to do the best with it that he could. “Let me bring as much good as possible out of evil,” was his thought in self-communion. So he smiled on the two forlorn ones; encouraged the mother and respected her secret. One year glided slowly by; another followed. Sappho had grown accustomed to her new duties and resigned to her life.
Monsieur Louis’s great hobby was his rose-garden. There he worked, assisted by the children. Alphonse spent a great part of his time with his mother, sharing the instruction of the two girls. No one would have recognized in the gay lad the quiet, melancholy child of three years before. Sappho would often sit on a garden seat watching the three children. For a time she would forget her troubles in the joy of gazing upon the animated, happy face of her child. Yes, there lay consolation for all her sufferings. Alphonse was expanding like a flower beneath the influence of his mother’s love and devotion. He was her consolation.
Late one afternoon she sat on the terrace, a book in her lap, her thoughts far away. Alphonse brought her a bunch of roses. The child looked at her earnestly a moment, and then said:
“Mamma, why are you always so sad when you sit on the terrace alone?”
“I am not sad, Alphonse,” she replied, kissing him on his forehead.
“Oh, yes, you are. When I am a big man I shall find the tall, handsome gentleman who gave you flowers at the fair.”
“Why, Alphonse!”
“Have I said anything wrong, mamma?” he asked anxiously.
“Not wrong, my child,
