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What he had in life he gave to us, and in death he leaves to our church all that he has not left to a woman he loved to Rosalie Evanturel." There was a gasping murmur among the people, but they stilled again, and strained to hear. "He leaves her a little fortune, and to us all else he had. Let us pray for his soul, and let us comfort her who, loving deeply, reaped no harvest of love.
"She did it," said the grocer stubbornly. "She can't deny it." "Answer, Rosalie," said the Cure firmly. "Excuse me; I will answer," said a voice at the door. The tailor of Chaudiere made his way into the shop, through the fast-gathering crowd. "What right have you to answer for mademoiselle?" said the Seigneur, with a sudden rush of jealousy. Was not he alone the protector of Rosalie Evanturel?
Then from the other end of the church came a cry: "The little cross the little iron cross!" Then another cry: "Rosalie Evanturel! Rosalie Evanturel!" Some one came running to the Cure. "Rosalie Evanturel has gone inside for the little cross on the pillar. She is in the flames; the door has fallen in. She can't get out again." With a hoarse cry, Charley darted back inside the vestry door.
He had found conscience at last and more. The months went by and still M. Evanturel lingered on, and Rosalie did not come. The strain became too great at last. In the week preceding Easter, when all the parish was busy at Four Mountains, making costumes, rehearsing, building, putting up seats, cutting down trees, and erecting crosses and calvaries, Charley disclosed to Jo a new intention.
Oh no, you wouldn't kill me, Jo," she added quickly, in a changed voice. "You've had enough of that kind of thing. If I'd been you, I'd rather have hung ah, sure!" She suddenly came close to him. "Do you hate me so bad, Jo?" she said anxiously. "It's eight years do you hate me so bad as then?" "You keep your tongue off Rosalie Evanturel," he said, and turned on his heel. She caught his arm.
She had not seen a figure in the shadow of a tree near by as she came from the tailor's door. She had not heard a smothered cry behind her. She was not aware that in unspeakable agony another woman knocked softly at the door of the tailor's house, and, not waiting for an answer, opened it and entered. It was Rosalie Evanturel.
I've never kept the mail-stage waiting; I've never left the mailbag unlocked; I've never been late in opening the wicket; I've never been careless, and no one's ever complained of a lost letter." The Seigneur saw her agitation, and was sorry for her. He came to the point as she had done: "We will have you made postmistress you alone, Rosalie Evanturel. I've made up my mind to that.
The tailor over the way heard it, and lifted his head with a smile; Rosalie Evanturel, behind the postal wicket, heard it, and her face swam with colour. Rosalie busied herself with the letters and papers for a moment before she answered Mrs. Flynn's greeting, for there were ringing in her ears the words she herself had said a few days before: "It is good to live, isn't it?"
Rosalie Evanturel saw him, but she has no tongue in her head this morning," added Madame. The Seigneur moved away. "Good-bye to you I am obliged to you, Madame. Good-bye, Lacasse. Come and fiddle to me some night, Cour." He bowed to the obsequious three, and then bent his steps towards the post-office. They seemed about to follow him, but he stopped them with a look.
She had the rarest sense and an unfailing spring of good-nature life bubbled round her. It was she that had suggested the crippled M. Evanturel to the Seigneur when the office of postmaster became vacant, and the Seigneur had acted on her suggestion, henceforth taking greater interest in Rosalie. It was Mrs.
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