her was intimate as a friend, each rock and cave
familiar as her hearthstone; and the ungoverned ocean spoke in terms
intelligible. So heavy was the surf that now and then the spray of some
foiled wave broke on the roof, but she only nodded at that, as though
the sea were calling her to come forth, tapping on her rooftree in
joyous greeting.

But suddenly she started and bent her head. It seemed as if her whole
body were hearkening. Now she rose quickly to her feet, dropped her work
upon the table near by, and rested herself against it, still listening.
She was sure she heard a horse's hoofs. Turning swiftly, she drew the
curtain of the bed before her sleeping child, and then stood quiet
waiting--waiting. Her hand went to her heart once as though its fierce
throbbing hurt her. Plainly as though she could look through these stone
walls into clear sunlight, she saw some one dismount, and she heard a
voice.

The door of the but was unlocked and unbarred. If she feared, it was
easy to shoot the bolt and lock the door, to drop the bar across the
little window, and be safe and secure. But no bodily fear possessed
her--only that terror of the spirit when its great trial comes suddenly
and it shrinks back, though the mind be of faultless courage.

She waited. There came a knocking at the door. She did not move from
where she stood.

"Come in," she said. She was composed and resolute now.

The latch clicked, the door opened, and a cloaked figure entered, the
shriek of the storm behind. The door closed again. The intruder took a
step forward, his hat came off, the cloak was loosed and dropped upon
the floor. Guida's premonition had been right: It was Philip.

She did not speak. A stone could have been no colder as she stood in
the light of the fire, her face still and strong, the eyes darkling,
luminous. There was on her the dignity of the fearless, the pure in
heart.

"Guida!" Philip said, and took a step nearer, and paused.

He was haggard, he had the look of one who had come upon a desperate
errand. When she did not answer he said pleadingly:

"Guida, won't you speak to me?"

"The Duc de Bercy chooses a strange hour for his visit," she said
quietly.

"But see," he answered hurriedly; "what I have to say to you--" he
paused, as though to choose the thing he should say first.

"You can say nothing I need hear," she answered, looking him steadily in
the eyes.

"Ah, Guida," he cried, disconcerted by her cold comp