n the
river-path down from Vadrome Mountain, where she had gone to see Jo
Portugais, who had not yet returned from Quebec. Paulette's face was
agitated, her manner nervous. For nights she had not slept, and her
approaching meeting with the tailor had made her tremble all day.
Excited as she was, there was a wild sort of beauty in her face, and her
figure was lithe and supple. She dressed always a little garishly, but
now there was only that band of colour round the throat, worn last night
in the talk with Charley.

To both women this meeting was as a personal misfortune, a mutual
affront. Each had a natural antipathy. To Rosalie the invasion of
her beloved retreat was as hateful as though the woman had purposely
intruded.

For a moment they confronted each other without speaking, then Rosalie's
natural courtesy, her instinctive good-heartedness, overcame her
irritation, and she said quietly:

"Good-evening, Madame."

"I am not Madame, and you know it," answered the woman harshly.

"I am sorry. Good-evening, Mademoiselle," rejoined Rosalie evenly.

"You wanted to insult me. You knew I wasn't Madame."

Rosalie shook her head. "How should I know? You have not always lived
in Chaudiere, you have lived in Montreal, and people often call you
Madame."

"You know better. You know that letters come to me from Montreal
addressed Mademoiselle."

Rosalie turned as if to go. "I do not recall what letters pass through
the post-office. I have a good memory for forgetting. Good-evening," she
added, with an excess of courtesy. Paulette read the placid scorn in the
girl's face; she did not see and would not understand that Rosalie did
not scorn her for what she had ever done, but for something that she
was.

"You think I am the dirt under your feet," she said, now white, now red,
and mad with anger. "I'm not fit to speak with you--I'm a rag for the
dust pile!"

"I have never thought so," answered Rosalie. "I have not liked you, but
I am sorry for you, and I never thought those things."

"You lie!" was the rejoinder; and Rosalie, turning away quickly with
trouble in her face, put her hands to her ears, and, hastening down the
hillside, did not hear the words the woman called after her.

"To-morrow every one shall know you are a thief. Run, run, run! You
can hear what I say, white-face! They shall know about the little cross
to-morrow."

She followed Rosalie at a distance, her eyes blazing. As fate would have
it, she me