The fourth week of Athénaïse’s stay in the city was drawing to a close. Keeping in view the intention which she had of finding some suitable and agreeable employment, she had made a few tentatives in that direction. But with the exception of two little girls who had promised to take piano lessons at a price that would be embarrassing to mention, these attempts had been fruitless. Moreover, the homesickness kept coming back, and Gouvernail was not always there to drive it away.  
She spent much of her time weeding and pottering among the flowers down in the courtyard. She tried to take an interest in the black cat, and a mockingbird that hung in a cage outside the kitchen door, and a disreputable parrot that belonged to the cook next door, and swore all day long in bad French.
 
96Beside, she was not well; she was not herself, as she told Sylvie. The climate of New Orleans did not agree with her. Sylvie was to learn this, as she felt in some measure responsible for the health and of Monsieur Miché’s sister; and she made it her duty to inquire closely into the nature and character of Athénaïse’s malaise.
 
Sylvie was very wise, and Athénaïse was very ignorant. The extent of her ignorance and the depth of her subsequent enlightenment were bewildering. She stayed a long, long time quite still, quite , after her interview with Sylvie, except for the short, breathing that her . Her whole being was steeped in a wave of . When she finally arose from the chair in which she had been seated, and looked at herself in the mirror, a face met hers which she seemed to see for the first time, so transfigured was it with wonder and .
 
One mood quickly followed another, in this new of her senses, and the need of action became uppermost. Her mother must know at once, and her mother must tell Montéclin. And Cazeau must know. As she 97thought of him, the first of her life swept over her. She half whispered his name, and the sound of it brought red into her cheeks. She it over and over, as if it were some new, sweet sound born out of darkness and confusion, and reaching her for the first time. She was impatient to be with him. Her whole nature was aroused as if by a miracle.
 
She seated herself to write to her husband. The letter he would get in the morning, and she would be with him at night. What would he say? How would he act? She knew that he would forgive her, for had he not written a letter?—and a of toward Montéclin shot through her. What did he mean by that letter? How dared he not have sent it?
 
Athénaïse herself for the street, and went out to post the letter which she had penned with a single thought, a spontaneous impulse. It would have seemed incoherent to most people, but Cazeau would understand.
 
She walked along the street as if she had fallen heir to some magnificent inheritance. On her face was a look of pride and satisfaction 98that passers-by noticed and admired. She wanted to talk to some one, to tell some person; and she stopped at the corner and told the oyster-woman, who was Irish, and who God-blessed her, and wished prosperity to the race of Cazeaus for generations to come. She held the oyster-woman’s fat, dirty little baby in her arms and scanned it and observingly, as if a baby were a phenomenon that she encountered for the first time in life. She even kissed it!
 
Then what a relief it was to Athénaïse to walk the streets without of being seen and recognized by some chance acquaintance from Red river! No one could have said now that she did not know her own mind.
 
She went directly from the oyster-woman’s to............