e.

D'Arcambal's face lighted up suddenly.

"Ah, I had forgotten," he exclaimed. "Pardon me, Philip. Dinner has
been awaiting us this last half-hour; and besides--"

He reached out and touched a tiny button, which Philip had not observed
before.

"I am selfish."

He had hardly ceased speaking when footsteps sounded in the hall, and
in spite of every resolution he had made to guard himself against any
betrayal of the emotions burning in his breast, Philip sprang to his
feet. Jeanne had come in under the glow of the lamps and stood now a
dozen feet from him, a vision so exquisitely lovely that he saw nothing
of those who entered behind her, nor heard D'Arcambal's low, happy
laugh at his side. It seemed to him for a moment as if there had
suddenly appeared before him the face of the picture that was turned
against the wall, only more beautiful now, radiant with the glow of
living flesh and blood. But there was something even more startling
than this resemblance. In this moment Jeanne was the fulfilment of his
dream; she had come to him from out of another world. She was dressed
in an old-fashioned gown of pure white, a fabric so delicate that it
seemed to float about her slender form, responsive to every breath she
drew. Her white shoulders revealed themselves above masses of filmy
lace that fell upon her bosom; her slender arms, girlish rather than
womanly in their beauty, were bare. Her hair was bound up in shining
coils about her head, with a single flower nestling amid a little
cluster of curls that fell upon her neck. After his first movement,
Philip recovered himself by a strong effort. He bowed low to conceal
the flush in his face. Jeanne swept him a little courtesy, and then ran
past him, with the eagerness of any modern child, into the outstretched
arms of her father.

Laughter and joy rumbled in the beard of the master of Fort o' God as
he looked over Jeanne's head at Philip.

"And this is what you have saved for me," he said.

Then he looked beyond, and for the first time Philip realized there
were others in the room. One was Pierre; the other a pretty, dark-faced
girl, with hair that glistened like a raven's wing in the lamp-glow.

Jeanne left her father's arms and gave her hand to Philip.

"M'sieur Philip, this is my sister, Mademoiselle Couchee," she cried.

Pierre's sister gave Philip her hand, and behind them D'Arcambal
laughed softly in his beard again, and said:

"To-morrow, in D'Arcambal H