country training of his ancestors. But his
son, when the war was over, seemed likely to vie with any seigneur of
them all. In the meanwhile, this young man's leave was shortened by an
express from the army--a fact which seemed at first unlikely to have any
influence on the fate of his cousin Angelot--but life has turns and
twists that baffle the wisest calculations. Neither Georges nor his
mother had been displeased at the arrest of Angelot; though they had the
decency to keep their congratulations for each other. As for Helene, the
news had been allowed to reach her through the servants and Mademoiselle
Moineau. She dared not cry any more; her mother had scolded her enough
for spoiling her eyes and complexion. Pale and silent, she took this new
trouble as one more proof that she was never meant to be happy. Her
fairy prince was a dream; yet, whatever the poets may say, she found a
little joy and comfort, warmth and peace, in dreaming her dream again,
and even in this worst time, by some strange instinct of love, Angelot
seemed never far away from her.

One evening, when it was blowing and raining outside, a wood fire was
flaming in the salon at La Mariniere. For herself, Anne would not have
cared for it; but the old Cure sat and warmed his hands after dining
with her and playing a game of tric-trac. Not indeed to please and
distract her, but himself; for he had long been accustomed to depend on
her for comfort in all his troubles. After the game was over he had told
her a piece of news; nothing that mattered very much, or that was very
surprising, characters and circumstances considered; but Anne took it
hardly.

"I cannot believe it," she said at first. "Who told you, do you say?"

"My brother at Lancilly told me," said the Cure. "You do not think him
worthy of much confidence, madame--and it may not be true--he had heard
the report in the village."

She shrugged her shoulders, with a little contempt for the Cure of
Lancilly. Her old friend watched her face, pathetically changed since
all this new sorrow came upon her; thinner, paler, its delicate beauty
hardened, purple shadows under the still lovely eyes, and a look of
bitter resentment that hurt him to see. He gazed at her imploringly.

"But, madame," he murmured--"it is nothing--Monsieur de la Mariniere
would say it was nothing--"

"I hope, Monsieur le Cure," Anne said, "that after such cruel hardness
of heart he will waste his affection there no longer. Ah!