"No, that's not all. My father went to his inn for the night. Early
in the morning he was hastily summoned; he must come at once to the
house of the Rossignols; something was wrong. He went, and there, in
her bed, lay the little woman, just as if asleep, and a smile on her
face--but she was dead."
Piers had a lump in his throat; he straightened himself, and tried
to command his features. Irene, smiling, looked steadily at him.
"From that day," she added, "Thibaut has been my father's servant.
He wouldn't be anything else. This, he always says, would best have
pleased his mother. He will never leave Dr. Derwent. The good
Thibaut!"
All were silent for a minute; then Piers pushed back his chair.
"Work?" said Mrs. Hannaford, with a little note of allusion to last
evening.
"Work!" Piers replied grimly, his eyes down.
"Well, now," exclaimed Irene, turning to her cousin, "what shall we
do this splendid morning? Where can we go?"
Piers left the room as the words were spoken. He went upstairs with
slower step than usual, head bent. On entering his room (it was
always made ready for him while he was at breakfast), he walked to
the window, and stared out at the fleecy clouds in the summer blue,
at the trees and the lawn. He was thinking of the story of Thibaut.
What a fine fellow Dr. Derwent must be! He would like to know him.
To work! He meant to give an hour or two to his Russian, with which
he had already made fair progress.
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