ted; of knowing for the first time in his life that
he was not alone in the world. Out of the grey dawn of life a woman's
voice had called to him; the look of her face had said to him: "Viens
ici! Viens ici!"--"Come to me! Come to me!"

But with that call there was the answer of his soul, the desolating cry
of the dispossessed Lear--"--never--never--never--never!"

He had not questioned himself concerning Rosalie--had dared not to do
so. But now, as he stood under the great tree, within hand-touch of the
old life, in imminent danger of being thrust back into it, the question
of Rosalie came upon him with all the force of months of feeling behind
it. Thus did he argue with himself:

"Do I love her? And if I love her, what is to be done? Marry her, with
a wife living? Marry her while charged with a wretched crime? Would that
be love? But suppose I never were discovered, and we might live here for
ever, I as 'Monsieur Mallard,' in peace and quiet all the days of our
life? Would that be love?... Could there be love with a vital secret,
like, a cloud between, out of which, at any hour, might spring
discovery? Could I build our life upon a silence which must be a lie?
Would I not have to face the question, Does any one know cause or
just impediment why this woman should not be married to this man? Tell
Rosalie all, and let the law separate myself and Kathleen? That would
mean Billy's ruin and imprisonment, and Kathleen's shame, and it might
not bring Rosalir. She is a Catholic, and her Church would not listen to
it. Would I have the right to bring trouble into her life? To wrong one
woman should seem enough for one lifetime!"

At that instant Rosalie, who had been on the outskirts of the crowd,
moved into his line of vision. The glare from the lights fell on her
face as she stood by her father's chair, looking curiously at the
quack-doctor who, having sold many bottles of his medicines, noy picked
up a guitar and began singing an old dialect chanson of Saintonge:

"Voici, the day has come
When Rosette leaves her home!
With fear she walks in the sun,
For Raoul is ninety year,
And she not twenty-one.
La petit' Rosette,
She is not twenty-one.

"He takes her by the hand,
And to the church they go;
By parents 'twas well meant,
But is Rosette content?
'Tis gold and ninety year
She walks in the